Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (50 page)

But these differences were lost on the mercenaries, who feared Bahiya as if she were the goddess Mot in the flesh and believed she could send them to her abode, the Pit of the Dead, with a simple touch.

A High Rider walked behind her.
Probably her personal guard,
thought Obyj. He glanced at the young man, shut his eyes, and nearly bit his tongue as he clamped his jaws together to prevent his teeth from clattering.

The man walking behind the priestess was as pale as a ghost. Obyj did not care to know if the young man was on his way to the Pit or if he was some otherworldly creature that came from there. He wished he was somewhere else, like that good-for-nothing Shlick who was sent to the mines to shoot down the slave.
Shlick, you dirty scum,
thought Obyj,
if I hear you brag about it, I’ll make you eat the next beer mug you touch and—

Bahiya’s voice shattered his daydream, “I have been informed by the commander of the Silent Corps that someone performed forbidden acts of magic in this tower.” Her voice was as cold as steel. At the mention of magic, the men’s courage failed them.

We’re dead,
thought Obyj.
We’re all dead.

“I have come to investigate,” continued the high priestess. “I do not wish to be disturbed. You will go back downstairs and guard the tower. Do not allow anyone to come up until I call for you. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” replied the men. They could not believe their luck.

When Bahiya spoke of magic, they thought she wanted to use them in her experiments the way the Kerta priests did with their comrades. They thought they were dead, or worse, turned into monsters. Instead, she was sending them down to guard the tower. They clambered down the stairs as quickly as their wobbling feet would take them.

“Wait for my signal,” she repeated.

Obyj and his companions stood guard around the Tower. They waited for the signal, hoping it would never come.

An eerie silence permeated the wide corridors of the royal floor, as if the living had deserted Taniir-The-Strong Castle.

“The spirits of the dead are here,” whispered one of the soldiers.

“Ghosts condemned to an everlasting winter of sorrow and pain,” added another.

Obyj’s knuckles were hurting him. He glanced around and felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw the commander of the Silent walking toward them.

“Come up quickly,” shouted Bahiya. “Come and see.”

Reluctantly, they returned up the stairs and were awed by what they saw through the Star Room’s windows.

“From their youth, the daughters of the high priests of Babylon were exposed to the wiles of that court. The Adorant wooed them to join their lot, while the priestesses of the Temple of Baal thought to win their confidence and esteem; and men of various royal houses lavished extravagant gifts on them.

“When these shenanigans are added to the merciless ploys of any high court, it produces young women whose chief vice is a refined form of selfishness.

“Soon, this egotism flowers, buds, and produces tyrannical souls bent on the merciless subjugation of others to satisfy their petty desires. Thus, Babylon, their mother, molds them in her own image.

“This city, the favored daughter of the gods, has grown conceited and pitiless. O, glittering Babylon, wonder of the gods, your downfall shall be great on the day of your visitation. Lo, these daughters of yours cry out from the Pit, and their cries reach the gate of heaven.”

–
Sayings of Jehdi, Great Priest of the Temple of Baal.

High up in the Lone Tower, Garu and Ibromaliöm were sitting on the floor of the Star Room looking dejectedly at each other. The strange door handle Master Habael and Jedarc had examined earlier lay on the floor, inside a triangular area between three black candles. Behind a veil of feigned bonhomie, the two men disliked each other intensely. They would have strangled the other had the refined mannerisms of the court not turned into a rigid cast preventing strangulation. The court considered such means of being rid of an importunate acquaintance to be uncouth. A dose of poison over a quaint supper, a discrete dagger while in Whisper Grove, or a clean kidnapping were some of the polite ways the nobility used to resolve an enduring disagreement.

Garu looked at Ibromaliöm and could not help but imagine him writhing in pain, bitten by a thousand snakes. Ibromaliöm yawned, shattering Garu’s daydream, transforming the fleeting pleasure into shame. The head judge looked away. As much as he hated Ibromaliöm, he was glad to have him around. In a twisted way, Garu had grown attached to his dislike of Ibromaliöm. It gave meaning to his existence, which he believed to be an empty void. Though he did not admit it, Garu was jealous of Ibromaliöm on account of the Queen.

Until the arrival of Queen Ramel, Garu’s existence had been peaceful. He had spent his time taking walks and studying plants and trees; subjects he loved to discuss with Master Habael. Life at the castle was pleasant, and his duties as a royal tutor were light and enjoyable. He taught history and languages, and was often involved in diplomatic missions.

The day Queen Ramel came to the castle, some years back, was etched in his mind. This indelible mark would remain there, he believed, until the day he died.

He remembered the first time he met the Queen and his mind brought him back to that very day, that very moment, and he relived it as if it were an eternal present.

He had been on his way back from one of his long walks when he first laid eyes on her, and he was awestruck. His heart became inflamed with a passion he had not known. He had believed, perhaps naively, that by serving her and fulfilling her every whim, she would, over time, develop similar feelings for him. Thus, Garu had become Ramel’s slave, living in constant torment. He dreaded seeing her, yet despaired when he did not. He watched her every move, jealous of any man whom she would look at—except for the King, whom he knew she despised. He hated being far from her and yet did not know how to approach her. His days had fallen sway to the changing seasons of her mood, and the beating of his heart was regulated by her caprices. If, during a chance encounter, the Queen bestowed on him her tender gaze, Garu would be transported to the summit of joy. But if instead, she passed him by without a glance, he would be plunged into a raging sea of despair. In short order, he had changed from a quaint scholar, to a prisoner of his inchoate love for the Queen. Led by his imagination in a frenzied gallop, he had become unable to resist her wishes, ready to go to extremes for her. In his feverish mind, there was one major obstacle between the Queen and himself: Ibromaliöm.

Garu had known Ibromaliöm was a former
Tajèr,
a money man, as they were vulgarly called by the common folk. In principle, Garu had nothing against the lesser known organization of the Tajéruun. A Zakiir was a memory man: his job was to retain faithfully whatever he was told for a hefty sum of money. Ever since Baal forbade writing, the Zakiruun became the living history of Baal’s Empire, faithfully consigning all transactions to memory. The Zakiruun were hand-picked men, chosen and trained for this task since their earliest youth. The Order of the Zakiruun became the keeper of every man’s secrets, good or evil. Mostly, the Zakiruun memorized mundane business transactions. In cases of dispute, their faithful recitation of the contract was binding. Collectively, the order knew who sold what to whom, who owed how much for how long, and at what interest rate.

Two and a half centuries ago, Tajèr, a rich Zakiir, had met with a small group of wealthy colleagues. He had told them that many of his clients were hampered by the lack of short-term loans, preventing them from completing lucrative transactions. “These merchants trust us with their secrets. We remember the details of every transaction they make. We know them better than they know themselves,” he had observed. “If we can loan them the funds for a reasonable fee, they will accept it.”

He had prevailed on six other Zakiruun, and together they pooled a portion of their sizeable wealth into a common lending fund for low interest loans. So successful had their wager been that in a short span of years, their individual fortunes tripled, then doubled, and doubled again, until it rivaled that of many priests and monarchs. To avoid attracting unnecessary attention, they had shrouded their operation in a veil of secrecy, becoming an invisible order within the already mysterious order of the Zakiruun. Tajèr’s little group had grown steadily until it numbered 144, a magical number according to Tajèr. After his passing, his followers became known as the Tajéruun. A mere one hundred years later, Sulariöm became the first Tajèr elected as overseer of the entire order of the Zakiruun, and ever since, every elected overseer has been a Tajèr. Garu was well acquainted with Galliöm, the current overseer of the Zakiruun: a mighty Tajèr, wealthy beyond imagining. Ibromaliöm, a well-to-do Tajèr in his own right, used to work with Galliöm, but left after a harsh dispute—the details of which he shared with no one.

As the niece of Sharr, the high priest of Babylon who oversaw the entire order of Baal, Ramel was of higher rank and might than Ibromaliöm. Yet, she never rebuked the former Tajèr, even when he would speak contemptuously to her. This baffled Garu and pained him profoundly.

Why would she allow Ibromaliöm to treat her so contemptuously? Was she not aware of Ibromaliöm’s sarcasm? Surely everyone in the castle must have noticed his lack of respect. Garu interpreted the Queen’s lax response as a diplomatic maneuver meant to keep peace with King Jamiir—who supposedly had bestowed his protective mantle on Ibromaliöm. Whether this protection was real or imagined, Garu never bothered to check. He needed an explanation and had found one.

Despite his loathing for the Tajèr, Garu could not help but admire the nonchalant attitude Ibromaliöm displayed before the Queen. Garu tried on several occasions to assert his authority over Ramel, but a charming smile, pout, or gentle rebuke from her would melt his resolution away. He then equated freedom from his passion for the Queen with betrayal, and smothered the slightest inkling of freedom in a pool of dark remorse. To assuage the wave of regret that would follow, he had resolved to be ever faithful to the Queen. This he found consoling, and he would often wrap his renewed faithfulness around him like a child wraps himself with a blanket to ward off the bitter cold of the night.

“Are you sure you found it?”

Ibromaliöm’s voice startled Garu.

“Yes, I told you,” he replied gruffly. “I saw the door. I saw it. I know how to get there.”

“I went down the secret stairs and followed your directions. They dead end deep into the ground. There is no passage.”

“Of course there is no passage there,” snapped Garu. “A cloak hides this passage from view; you knew that, so what did you expect? A flashing sign to point you in the right direction? Speaking of a flashing sign, Habael and a young Silent caught sight of you as you were coming up the stairs, but they could not find you. I convinced them you were not here, but it was not easy.”

Ibromaliöm ignored the remark and continued. “How will you know how to open that door and deflect the curse?”

Garu shrugged his shoulders, “We will see when we get there.”

“You had better, my friend, because I will not be falling under the curse,” shrieked Ibromaliöm. “You are the slave of that woman, not I.”

Garu sighed, put his face in his hands, and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly looked old and tired. He let his hand drop on his chest and gazed around him. The room was desolate with its burned candles and the dirty pools of dried, black wax marring the elaborate tiled floor.
Like leprosy eating away a beautiful face,
thought Garu, shuddering. He eyed Ibromaliöm, and envy surged in his soul once more. He wanted to despise this man, yet he felt only envy, and he hated himself for it. How did he get tangled with the Queen and Ibromaliöm in this machination?

Images from the past flashed before his eyes anew; a not too distant past when he had been content to take short walks up the mountain, reflecting on the natural beauty and enjoying the easy life in the castle. It had been during one of these outings that he happened to cross paths with Ramel. He had stood to the side and bowed. She had lightly touched his shoulder, and when he looked up, she smiled. Her smile had taken his breath away, and her gaze had ravished his heart. He did not remember what she had told him then, but he knew his heart had been enflamed with passion for her.