Ashallah’s hunger had never been more ravenous.
Her past missions had often required her to go days without food or water. Afterward, when she would return to Yasem, she would feast to replenish her body. Years of conditioning allowed her to ignore desire or pain without so much as a second thought. As such, Ashallah was no stranger to longing for food.
This was an entirely different experience though. Minutes after eating, she would feel the beast in her stomach roar for more. With each bite of a date, she craved two more. The same ache followed when she consumed the bread, honey, milk, chicken and even beef that Darya and Rahim provided. Her appetite knew no boundaries. It was as though her stomach was a bottomless crevice.
Her persistent hunger was necessary, for Ashallah could feel her energy drain through all the hours of dreamscape and instruction she endured. The sessions were relentless. They required a mental exertion on Ashallah’s part that rivaled any climb she had done or run she had completed. More rigorous than her longest battles, the successive dreamscapes all but emptied her.
Her last dreamscape was no exception, as it was perhaps the most overwhelming thus far. It involved learning the ancient script she had seen on the walls. All of it. From identification to memorization to translation.
For all the difficulty of the task, Ashallah offered no protest, for the dreamscape before last had shown her the importance of her lessons. That one had explained the role of the scribe, who Ashallah had discovered was named Yaromir.
As a youth, Yaromir had shown great promise as a warrior, due to his agility and strength. He was one of many with such aspirations. However, his region was more in need of scholars than fighters. When tested by the local imams, Yaromir demonstrated the cognitive ability necessary to both read and write, so they drafted him into the Court of the Grand Sultan.
In his apprenticeship, Yaromir excelled. He absorbed information at an incredible rate, becoming one of the courts most avid readers while developing a skilled hand at calligraphy. His success continued as a full-fledged scribe, where like most others he was tasked with copying the Scrolls of Jaha. For every scroll that his colleagues completed, Yaromir finished two, sacrificing neither quality nor accuracy for speed.
It was by his merit that Yaromir was promoted to his next challenge: translation of ancient texts. His teachers provided him with his own study, along with scrolls and books stacked high, written in script the likes of which Yaromir had never seen. The only guide he had at his disposal was a sheepskin transcribed with a few verses from Jaha in five different languages.
Yaromir studied the lone strip of sheepskin for days on end, trying to dissect the characters and reassemble them into some sort of alphabet. Days turned to weeks, but his efforts bore fruit. Within a month, he was able to translate the first seven pages of an ancient text his teachers had provided as a test. Satisfied with his progress, Yaromir’s teachers encouraged him to continue his work.
A year after rising to the rank of scribe, Yaromir was given his next and final challenge. It involved no time in rooms of study or libraries, but several visits to the catacombs under the Royal Palace. There, under the dimness of torchlight, Yaromir received parchment from an unknown source while a voice from a hidden chamber recited its words aloud.
Yaromir’s first lesson was atrocious. The stench of the parchment was unbearable, made worse by the harsh voice that repeated the written words before him. Like an echo with no end, the phrases renewed endlessly for hours. Following his initial stint in the catacombs, Yaromir found his head throbbing and his mind clouded. Two days passed before he was able to sleep and three more after that until he felt lucid enough to attempt translating again.
The next voice to recite for him was more pleasant in tone but pained. Once again, Yaromir struggled. He surprised himself when he finally recognized the similarity in certain words between the language he was hearing and an oft-forgotten language in Greater Dyli, Bersa-Hal. The consonants were relatable enough to where he was able to forge some understanding of phrases. By the end of his second session, Yaromir had pieced together a scattering of phrases.
So it continued. For days and weeks. Yaromir composed sentence fragments. Three words here. Five words there. Sayings. Anecdotes. Lastly, commands.
The latter was by far the hardest to ascertain. The words used in the commands were the most complicated Yaromir had ever heard. Thick with accents and inconsistent with the pronunciation of vowels and consonants, the commands were a collection of variables. The frustration only added to the struggle, so that Yaromir had to study harder than he ever had in order to make progress.
When he finally did start to master the commands, his teachers responded with a long flurry of requests that made no sense. At least as far as Jaha’s Law was concerned. For the directives that Yaromir had to translate were beyond regal, they put forth an air of the godly that seemed blasphemous.
“Put forth a gust of fire, one so mighty as to scorch the sands and turn their grains to glass. Let all tremble before such power.”
“Like a plague of locusts, sweep over the fields of grain. Ruin them. Hollow the stomachs of many. Drive them to hunger. May your victims ache with hunger and fear your name.”
And so on.
Yaromir shook with equal parts terror and anticipation, as he did not know the consequences of his actions. Every chance of failure filled him with dread, made all the worse by the faint screams and pleas that echoed through the catacombs from one of the palace’s many dungeons. Success in translation brought only minor relief, as his imagination soon stirred with the possibilities of what the new understanding would bring.
Weeks of such stress finally did bring forth some rewards for Yaromir. On one night, the janissary who usually accompanied him down to the catacombs spoke at last.
“You are allowed to visit the Garden Hills.”
Yaromir’s heart nearly thumped against his throat. The janissary, seeing his delight, cautioned him.
“For one hour. Under watch. It is to clear your mind. Then you must return to your duties.”
The janissary’s terse tone did little to curb Yaromir’s excitement, but he bowed his head to hide it nonetheless.
The hour following his shift, Yaromir found himself strolling through the pathways that wound through the manmade hills of the royal gardens. The Garden Hills had been a personal project of the Grand Sultan, who built them in honor of his family’s distant alpine heritage. Fed by a system of pulleys and buckets that transported water from a nearby well to the tops of five hills, the gardens were an impressive array of groves, orchards and decorative plants from the far reaches of Greater Dyli. Yaromir was able to admire the subtle shades and hues of thousands of petals and leaves, made even more brilliant by the struggling light of the early dawn.
That experience was enough to lift his spirits so that in the days and nights that immediately followed, Yaromir was able to translate and issue commands immediately. With each string of successes, more visits to the Garden Hills were approved, and with them, greater freedoms to roam and take in their infinite beauty. Other gifts followed. Jewels from the mines of Waise’ii. Finely carved instruments from the Priya region, with accompanying musicians to play them at Yaromir’s will. And women. Each concubine more beautiful – and skilled - than the last. Yaromir’s imagination had never known such pleasures were even possible.
Yaromir’s hedonism continued, seemingly never to end, up until his last night at the Royal Palace. That night started out with a string of successes, as he was able to translate a very powerful command, written by the Grand Sultan himself:
Still the water,
Calm men’s hearts,
May Nature’s silence overtake the wind
To remain the chorus of an everlasting peace.
The resulting verse, when spoken in the dead language of Bersa-Hal, was the most tranquil set of words Yaromir had ever heard. He read it aloud several times, listening to how his voice echoed off the catacomb walls. The reverberation put him at peace as if it were an affirmation of his life’s work.
So content was he at his completion that he actually continued ahead of his janissary, his stride brisk, confident. His assigned guard offered no protest and allowed him to go on unopposed. By the time Yaromir reached his alcove, where he had been translating from day one in the catacombs, he found himself all alone. Not that it was all that uncommon, for his private detail often left him to ascend to the palace above to eat or drink while Yaromir went about his work.
As he lit his candles, Yaromir recited bits of his newly translated commands to himself.
“Still the water . . . May Nature’s silence . . . everlasting peace.”
A sudden breeze extinguished the candles. Yaromir reached for his flint.
“Do not bother.”
The voice was strong and deep. Moreover, it was cold. It proved so chilling that Yaromir would have thought it came from a janissary - a man with an unforgiving demeanor who would not hesitate to kill – had he not spotted the set of eyes across the alcove, staring at him. As if opals set in obsidian, they glistened even in the pitch of dark. Stunning they were. Though disturbing, for they were set in the shallow face of a male creature nearly eight feet tall.
Yaromir fumbled with his flint as it dropped to the floor. It clattered against the stone, further scaring him as he stepped back from the set of eyes.
The two opals rose in unison. Yaromir barely made out the outline of a face as the creature moved. My Jaha, he realized. He was sitting down. The creature was sitting down.
Then he was upon Yaromir, his face before his own, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Yaromir stared into the polished irises before him, far too frightened to move or look away.
The creature was the first to act as he reached down to pick up Yaromir’s flint. He handed it to him. When Yaromir hesitated, he pressed it to his chest.
“Take it,” said the creature in his cold voice. “And follow me.”
The wall that bordered the alcove parted. Yaromir stared at it, stunned, for he had believed it was of thick, solid stone. Contradicting his assumption, it flowed like silk. Yaromir would have looked on in wonder, trying to comprehend its sudden change, had the creature not stood by, waiting.
Yaromir trailed after the creature. His pace became hurried, as the creature’s strides were long. The path they took weaved through stalagmites and loose stones, emanating soft blue light from under the feet of the creature. With each step, the stone beneath pulsed with bright veins, leading the way for the scribe.
When the creature finally stopped, the veins of light beneath him spread beyond the path and upward, illuminating the vast cavern. The stalagmites below and the stalactites above radiated, their glows flashing and burning in unison as if orchestrated by some energy. The stone shone bright - displaying its layers of deep red, soft brown and spotless black – for perhaps the first time in its existence. Yaromir looked up and around, entranced by flashes and sparks.
Amongst it all, the creature stood. Over ten feet from ankle to brow, his skin was like night, with carved script in place of stars, his lettering illuminating a soft white glow. His body reminded Yaromir of a yatagan sword: long a slender yet powerful. His face was no different, with defined angles that complimented the sharp look of his glistening eyes.
Moments upon moments passed as the creature studied the scribe. Yaromir’s fear turned to discomfort, as he felt obliged to speak first.
“Why . . . why have you brought me here?”
The creature made no show of a reply. He only continued to focus.
Yaromir looked to the ground, confused. Then it dawned on him.
“You brought me here,” he started in Bersa-Hal. “Why?”
The creature persisted in his silence.
Yaromir repeated his efforts, in every tongue he knew. With every attempt, the creature said nothing in return. He never blinked. Never nodded his head in acknowledgment. He only looked on, in quiet.
After his last try, Yaromir sat down, defeated. “What do you want from me?!”
The cave went dark.
Yaromir sprang to his feet. He felt the urge to run. That instinct to take flight tempered immediately, though, as the ground beneath him gave way. His footing, secure only moments before, struggled to find stability. Over the stone now lied a foreign layer, as loose as quicksand yet allowing Yaromir to sink only a finger length.
Panic overtook him. The pitch all around seemed to close in as the air thinned. Yaromir fell to his knees, groping through the darkness. Where stalagmites were only moments before he found nothing. Stones had turned to ghosts. He was alone. Alone.
“Help me!” he cried. Only his voice failed to echo, as he emitted no sound. “Please!” he tried to plea, knowing that at that moment he had said nothing.
Yaromir laid on his back, surrendering to his fate. He closed his eyes as if to accept the night for the remainder of his life. He wanted never to open them again. Had it not been for a spattering of dust on his eyelids, he would not have.
He opened his eyes. Overhead burned a white sphere.
“Light,” Yaromir whispered, in gratitude, as tears streamed down his face. He felt as though eons had passed since he had experienced anything other than darkness.
The sphere burned brightly still as it expanded. White gave way to blue. The sphere bent downward, stretching toward the ground. Yaromir’s eyes widened with recognition.
“Sky,” he said to himself as he rose. “Sky.”
“Yes.”
Yaromir swung around to find the creature beside him. He was no different from before in look or tone, save for the fact he was now Yaromir’s height.
“You . . .”
“Do you find my stature more acceptable?”
“I, I suppose.”
“Good.”
“Why . . . I mean to say, how . . .”
The creature motioned Yaromir to turn around. Therefore, he did.
The blue sky had grayed. The horizon, and everything that came before it, was present.
Icicles bent branches. Snow blanketed the ground. Ice covered and encased everything. Including those within the fortress.
There were hundreds before Yaromir, suspended in the midst of their motions, frozen evermore. Soldiers appeared frantic, with feet in mid-trot or weapons and shields raised. Commanders, spread throughout the grounds, pointed in all directions with mouths agape. Horses, as if they had sensed their doom, were in various states of disarray. Their legs stretched and flailed.
For all the terror those meant for battle experienced, the innocents suffered a hundredfold.
Feeble men. Unarmed women. Defenseless children. Handfuls grouped together, old huddled around the young. Every one of them with looks upon their faces reflecting fright and sadness. Tears had frozen over their eyes, creating a sheen that glistened in the mild daylight, one that Yaromir could not help but admire even as he fought the urge to turn away.
“They are Uppa-Tre,” offered the creature in answer to Yaromir’s burning curiosity. “A tribe which calls the coastal forest of Ninestan their home. Their lands border Lower Dyli and have been in the eye of the Grand Sultan for quite some time. Army after army he has sent to subdue them. Despite heavy losses, the Ninestors have managed to repel Dylian attacks time and again.”
“That is until today. On this day, they will meet this end. Thanks to your efforts.”
Yaromir swung around. The creature faced him as he did before. No change in his tone. No sadness in his eyes. No creases in his skin.
“Me?” asked Yaromir. “But, I am no commander. I did not lead these people to a frozen death.”
“This fortress is in a land that has never seen snow,” continued the creature. “Their fate – a permanent, wintry one – was sealed by the words you spoke. The same words you translated. The same that will be presented to the Grand Sultan, as a product of your success, so that he may issue his command to me or one of my brothers. By the Law of Jaha, we must obey the commands of our master when they are spoken in the ancient tongue. We cannot resist. We cannot disobey the one who commands us. Even offering a warning to one of his servants is enough to drain the power from us.”
Yes, it is true, Yaromir noted. The rows of script that lined his body appeared faded, their radiance diminished. The sinews of muscle across his body had shrunk. Even the creature’s eyes suffered, as their glow reflected precious stones that had lost their polish.
Yaromir closed his eyes. I knew all along, he told himself. The commands. The translations. I may have never seen the corpses. The carnage. But I have heard the stories. I felt the suspicion with each action I took. I knew the consequences of descending into the depths beneath the Royal Palace. I never suspected. I knew.
The guilt was too much for him to bear. “Tell me,” Yaromir started, his eyes shut tight. “What would you have me do?”
No answer came. The silence chilled Yaromir more than the touch of winter ever could.
“Please . . .”
Yaromir cracked open his eyelid. To his surprise, the white landscape had disappeared, replaced by the writing tools and candles in his alcove.
What followed was a blur, both of action and of emotion. The echo of his steps on stone. A pause to search for the janissary. A wave of relief upon realizing his guard detail was gone. The night air upon his face. Then branch tips grazing his skin. All ending in darkness.
When Yaromir awoke, another was standing above him. One tall and strong. Alongside his sister.
That was the dreamscape Darya had shared with Ashallah, one that revealed the scribe’s torment and his salvation by the grace of two turquoise. On that fateful night of Yaromir’s, Rahim and Darya had rescued him. In exchange for their act of kindness, Yaromir pledged to share all he knew of his translations. When all he had to say was told, Darya and Rahim realized that the Grand Sultan had enough knowledge of the dialects of the jinn to issue any directive to them that he wished, whether it be coercive, brutal or fatal.
By way of another dreamscape, Ashallah learned what transpired afterward. The scribe’s testimony had driven Rahim and Darya to start their current mission. At first, they swept Greater Dyli in search for the missing jinn, in hopes that they could shield their distant kin from the Sultan’s wrath. Their quest - though it involved covering a vast domain - was not too ambitious given that Darya was able to use her powers of dreamscape to trace at least some of the jinn’s trajectories and intentions. However, in most cases when she and her brother drew near, the jinn they were tracking would scatter. The two turquoise soon learned that although bound by lineage, many of the jinn had grown to distrust turquoise, for as cohorts in the sultan’s army they were hunters of their forefathers, loyal not to their kin but their commander.
Without the trust of the jinn and with so many turquoise sworn to the service of Jalal, Darya and Rahim turned their hope to men and women. That too proved difficult, but not all of their efforts were in vain. For the enemies of the Grand Sultan were numerous. From oasis to caravan to village to city, the siblings found many who had been wronged by their ruler. Former concubines and harlots, especially those well past their sexual prime, confided in Darya on how the Grand Sultan had cast them aside as soon as he had lost interest. Such women had just the clothes on their backs and no a coin to their name when the janissaries threw them into the streets of Rilah. Rahim met several men who had been soldiers and guards that told of the Sultan releasing them from service as soon as they were injured or maimed. Such veterans lost their way soon afterward, squandering what little they had on drinks and wagers that only muted the pain, but never relieved it. Similar such stories from past servants, robbed merchants and others with grievances followed.
For all that the siblings heard and saw though, none of the tales told or sights witnessed were as horrendous as those involving the few enemies that had survived the Sultan’s wrath.
Those survivors lied broken on the streets and alleyways Rahim and Darya visited. On the surface, they appeared like so many other destitute souls. They wore tattered clothing. Grime and dirt caked their skin, with a boil or festering wound here or there. They begged for coins like all the rest. Unlike their sisters and brethren of the streets though, they lacked even the bare essence of spirit. Their eyes were as carved stone that had weathered over the centuries. They emitted no joy. No hope. Those that pitied them with coin or food found their efforts inspired no hint of gratitude or even acknowledgment that other beggars showed. Such survivors were soulless shells, remnants of people broken long before.
As Ashallah’s recollection of the dreamscapes faded, she stared down at the empty plate before her. She had devoured the pita, olives, and hummus left for her, which should have been enough food for any man or woman. She hungered for more though, and still more after that, a fact that disgusted her somewhat as the thoughts of the beggars on the streets had just crossed her mind.
Ashallah put her plate aside. She turned her sight to the walls around her, those with the ancient script. She was in a different part of the cavern, one a stone’s throw away from where she first entered and started her mental training. The script here, while no different in content or tone, was less intimidating for her to study. Perhaps it was the ink, which was more faded in appearance. The lack of luster was not as bold as other walls and subtler. Or maybe it was the consistency in letters, for while the other script had clearly been written and overwritten by a number of hands, the walls now around her reflected the craft of a single master.
Such consideration of what went into the calligraphy around her put Ashallah’s mind at ease, distracting her from the hunger within. With her thoughts quieted, she extended her arms and lifted herself up off the ground. Her body straightened over the floor until she formed a plank. She shifted her weight to her left arm as she aligned her right by her side. For minutes, she remained still, lifting her head only occasionally to watch the flames of the sconces dance with trepidation as they fought off the darkness.
“Two hundred ninety-eight . . .” she counted aloud to herself. “Two hundred ninety-nine. Three hundred.”
She lowered her right arm and lifted her left. Effortlessly.
“Are you impressed?” she asked.
No answer came from the darkness.
“Are you impressed?” she inquired again, knowing that someone was there.
From the black, Rahim emerged. He was bare-chested. The sweat on his torso spoke of his training session. His turquoise lines, which previously shone boldly, appeared faded, especially in the low light of the cavern.
“You ought to save your strength,” Rahim said.
“A sharp mind does not benefit from a limp body,” Ashallah retorted. “You and your sister should know that best. Where is she?”
“Resting. Her head aches.”
At that, Ashallah perked. In the little time she had known Darya, it seemed unlike her to fall ill or show fatigue.
Ashallah’s stoic manner must have broken, for Rahim replied with assurances. “She will recover. To impart dreamscapes is almost as trying as receiving them. The transfer of thoughts is tiring, burdensome.”
“How she ever showed fatigue before?”
“Not recently, no.” The hesitation in Rahim’s voice was slight, almost enough to worry Ashallah, had Rahim not shook his head. “But our circumstances are not usual, are they? Consider the traveling we have done. The fighting. The fleeing. Along with all the dreamscapes. No wonder she tires.”
“I suppose,” Ashallah admitted, her concern fading yet still present.
“Do you hunger?”
“These days, always.”
Rahim reached back into the darkness. He retrieved a sack from the cavern floor.
“I brought this.” He withdrew an oval loaf, one with grains on its surface that glistened slightly in the light.
Ashallah spotted the peculiarity at once. “Is that sugar on it?”
“And cinnamon.”
“Both are costly. How did you . . .”
“Yaromir had been saving it for a special occasion. To celebrate a victory.” At that, Rahim’s voice lowered. “It is the last morsel of food he has.”
“Can we not afford more?”
“We can, once he barters a few of his possessions. Alas, you should eat it now all the same. For you need your strength immediately to withstand the news that waits above.”176Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvof7CmPlmg
