**********
8. The Griffin and the Rose
**********
(Early Winter, 1177)
Abana the
(former) slave and Khamali Maliq Moromaya arrived in the oasis town of Iblyd
some three days after their escape from the city of Tehraq. Upon their arrival
at the city gates they were greeted by half a dozen children of various origins
– Tehraqi, Kushwari, Jamaran, Xianese, Northlander, etc – each of them baring
refreshment. Abana giggled as they gave him bread and a fresh waterskin of
ice-cold water. How long had it been since he last seen a child with a happy
smile?
"Come,"
said Maliq as he dismounted the camel. It was exhausted from its journey across
the desert sands. "Lady Yahya is waiting for us."
As Abana was soon to learn, Iblyd was
the largest oasis town in the High East. Its prehistorical foundations were
built centuries before even the Abyyabid Empire took shape. The city and all
its tenements and temples and marketplaces were constructed around acres upon
acres of mangrove and date palm forests centred around a gigantic body of water
that slaked the thirst of thousands.
The Sanguine Vigil, residence of
Governess Yahya and her predecessors, was a large yet modestly designed lodge
built from the ruins of an ancient clay and mud-brick fort. Its inner
structures were rebuilt with limestone and refurbished with marble and
lacquered wood decking to suit its lady's needs. Its outer walls guarded acres
of self-sufficient lands large enough to house and feed a staff of over 100
people.
When Maliq and Abana arrived at the lodge grounds they were received
by two of the governess' household staff and taken to her audience chamber in
the Sanguine Vigil's central cloister. They were given cups of wine to drink
and bowls of dates to eat. Abana was not hungry but he was grateful. He drank
the wine instead and marvelled at how... simplistic the audience chamber was. It
was not like the Elephant Palace's grand hall with its towering black walls,
vaulted ceiling, and roaring pit fire. The ceiling was low and barely supported
by its wooden beams. There were few decorations besides some old banners bearing
the emblem of Lady Yahya's household, the Griffin and
the Rose. Her throne was a simple cushioned stool. Abana found it hard to
believe that this was the residence of governor.
And then she appeared.
The Governess of Jawwaz was a composed
Tehraqi woman blessed with a warm smile yet cunning eyes. She showed some signs
of age – streaks of grey in her braided black hair and crow's feet fanning out
of the corners of her almond-coloured eyes – but she retained a regal beauty
befitting her station. The instant she saw Maliq, Lady Yahya up and embraced
him. Abana felt something stir inside himself when he saw that but ignored it.
"I knew it," she said softly. "I knew
you would return safely. It was just a matter of time."
"My lady," said Maliq. "You are a missed
sight, but... I do not bring good news."
"No, you've brought a guest," that was
when the governess first turned to Abana and embraced him. The boy froze,
unsure of what to say.
"What is your name?" She asked.
"A-Abana..."
"Well Abana. It is good to meet you.
Welcome to the Sanguine Vigil. Please make yourself comfortable as I fear we
have much to discuss."
There was an ewer of water and an empty
cup upon the rug beside Yahya's stool. As she took her seat the lady folded her
silken black gown beneath her legs and poured herself a cup. Abana stared at
her as if she had grown a third breast. He never once saw a noblewoman pour her
own refreshment before – not once. "Your report, Maliq."
He nodded. "...It is as we suspected.
Rahab of Mahmun is empowered by the being known as Kafnak. He has amassed a
cult of like-minded followers and performs annual human sacrifices to Kafnak
with his own slaves. I witnessed this ritual myself, as did Abana, but we were
forced to flee as a result."
Lady Yahya looked to Abana. "Were you
aware of these practices?"
"No, my lady. No. I... I was a goatherd in
Kushwar before my father sold me to slavers. I was purchased by Mast- ...by Rahab
of Mahmun at the markets of Qazyr. He made me... entertain men with whom he
sought to curry favour. I knew nothing of his... rituals and sacrifices... not
until I saw him kill my friend Qabus. Maliq found me and he saved me. I owe him
everything."
"As does the entire High East," Yahya
demurred. "I underestimated the depths of Rahab's arrogance. For him to
play god with the monsters that doomed the mighty Abyyabids is unforgivable.
Rahab of Mahmun must die."
"Understood," There was a resolute glint
in Maliq's eyes. "What is your plan? My sword is yours."
"Stay your blade. I must consult with
the other governors first."
"The governors? My lady, with all due respect, these are the same
men who conspired against you when you objected to interference with
Jamaraland. They were the ones who installed Rahab as Grand Vizier in your
stead. How can we trust them?"
Lady Yahya smiled knowingly. "Even the
humblest village idiot would know better than to trust those vipers. What I
trust is their self-interest... the governors tire of Qattullah's constant
warmongering and they know Rahab is fuelling it. They want Tehraq's gains consolidated
rather than expanded upon. And wars are expensive. If I can convince them that
killing Rahab will bring Qattullah to heel, they will listen."
Maliq nodded. "Understood."
"Enough skulduggery and politics. You two must be exhausted. Rest
easy. I will have rooms prepared for our guest."
Abana bowed his head. "My lady is too
kind."
"Not kind enough," said Yahya. "The
youth of your body does not match the age of your eyes, Abana. I cannot fathom
what you have endured to this point but as a Tehraqi citizen who abhors these
cruel practices I cannot apologize enough. No one should be another's property.
Know this. As a fugitive with no title deed I cannot legally buy and free you...
but as an occupant of my domain you are a free man. I swear that upon my
honour. You are free."
It was like some cruel dream. Every
second he spent in it, it was terrified he would wake up in his bed at the
Elephant Palace and be returned to cruel reality. But this was reality.
He pinched himself. It was true. He was free. Abana's eyes misted with tears as
he threw himself at Lady Yahya's feet and thanked her from the bottom of his
heart.
"Free men do not kneel, Abana. Stand
up."
And so, he did.
"Once upon a time I made a friend," Lady
Yahya sat her hand upon Abana's shoulder. "...Her name was Hamra lo'a Daiira. I
did not speak her tongue and she did not speak mine, but she opened my eyes to
an injustice that has surrounded me my entire life... and yet I was utterly
blinded to it... to the inhumanity of it."
"The others..." said the boy. "My friends in the Silk Court. Ishfan
and the eunuchs... can you help them?"
Abana stood silently as the still seated Lady Yahya wiped away his
tears with her henna-painted thumbs. For a moment she reminded him of his
mother Paja.
"If it were in my power, I would tear down the very walls of the
Elephant Palace to set them free... but not even I have that power. Slavery and
warfare are the backbones of Tehraqi hegemony... ending them might mean ending
Tehraq itself... who can say? All I can do is play my small part in these affairs
and pray that history rights its course. For now? Rest. Eat. Drink. Freedom is
a right that demands to be enjoyed."
**********
(Late Winter, 1179)
"What
is your answer?" Said Kafnak. "Will you join me and use my
powers to end the evil that was done to you once and for all? Or will you
refuse me and turn your back on your poor brothers and sisters in chains?"
Abana of Hafiz watched warm rivers of
crimson ooze out of Rahab's remains. As a slave... he hungered for his freedom.
As a freeman... he hungered for vengeance. Now vengeance was his. Men who used
and betrayed him (at least those that he could find) were now bloodstains in
his wake. And did the poets not sing of the bittersweet emptiness of exacted
vengeance? Yet that was not what Abana felt.
He felt relief. He felt joy. He felt
pride. But most of all he felt longing, not for war, not for more blood, not
for the overthrow of the Tehraqi regime... he longed for his beloved Maliq. All
he could think of when all was said and down was his noble, beautiful face. All
Abana wanted was to find him and ride with him to the furthest reaches of this
god-forsaken world and live out the remainder of their lives in love, peace and freedom.
To hell with Tehraq.
"My answer..." began Abana, "...is no. I
have spent my entire life playing the pawn – to my father, to my enslavers, to
Rahab, to the men that bedded me, even to Lady Yahya. No more! I chart
my own course from here on out... a course free from the whims and wants
of tyrants."
"...You mistake selfishness for virtue,"
Kafnak smiled that mouthless smile again. "Placing your happiness above the
needs of others! A commendable egotism – were it not so heinous... ABANDONING the
enslaved to their chains! HA!"
Abana frowned. "I am no chain-breaker
and it is not my responsibility to be one... that responsibility lies with the
slave masters themselves. I can only play my small part... and hope that history
corrects its own course."
Kafnak put its hand-shaped appendages
together in mocking gesture resembling a clap. It made no sound.
"Mock me all you want. My answer is no."
"COWARD!"
"Words," said Abana. "Words. What have I
to fear from words? Even if I did join you, destroy Tehraq and free all the
slaves... once my obsession is complete... what stops you from joining
forces with the next petty hegemon obsessed with restoring the old
order? You do not offer freedom. You offer chaos on a game board with pieces of
your choosing. And my answer... remains no."
There were no lungs in that blinding
golden-white mass that stood for Kafnak's breast and yet it produced a roar
like any beast from beyond the pit. The vibrations rippled out and shattered
the alembics and the aludels and the latticework windows and the formaldehyde jars,
it knocked the books from their cases and threw up a swirling torrent of
parchments. Abana yelped as the force of the roar threw him backwards until his
back slapped against the wall, but he did not fall. Kafnak's magic kept him
pinned against it like a crooked ornament.
"No human has EVER refused me,"
said Kafnak. "I could tear the head from your shoulders like a cork! DO YOU WISH
TO DIE?"
Abana chuckled. "It does not matter...
what you threaten me with. Rahab is dead and Maliq is safe... I have already won...
false god."
"...Heh. Heh, heh. How disappointing,"
said Kafnak, churlishly. "I overestimated your morality, Dancer of Hafiz.
But very well."
A chant escaped Kafnak's lip-less face
in a language Abana never heard before. The chant reverberated around the
chambers like an echo in a cave and bounced from wall to wall amidst the
whirlwind of broken glass, rustling papers, and swirling books. The Dancer of
Hafiz could not understand what the false god was doing at first... not until he
looked towards Rahab's corpse. A bright golden glow surrounded it and grew
brighter the longer Kafnak's chant continued. That glow crackled with energy,
bolts of it writhing up and down the cocoon of light... and then a cold terror
filled Abana's heart as he watched the blood puddles slowly shrink and flow
backwards into gaping wounds that slowly re-sealed themselves until that
mangled torso was whole again and the heart within it began to beat once more.
"...NO!"
Rahab's ropes snapped. The books and
papers and glass fell from the air like rain as Kafnak's chant ebbed away into
memory and the evil sorcerer of Yaghazu began to breathe again.
Kafnak lowered his `hand'.
Abana fell screaming from the wall into
a puddle of overturned books as Rahab of Mahmun staggered back onto his feet.
"Do as you please with the boy,"
said Kafnak to the sorcerer as he turned his back to both and vanished into the
air.
**********
(Late Spring, 1178)
The
flower girls woke him up. As his eyes fluttered open six of Lady Yahya's young
attendants threw handfuls of lotus petals at him and scampered off out of his
living. The Kushwari smiled, dusting them off his lap and out of his hair.
There were worse ways to wake up – last time it was with a jug of cold water!
Abana had only known freedom (once again) for three months then – waking up of
his own volition was still so surreal to him.
The boy smiled as he crawled out of his
feathered bamboo bed and padded over to his side table where fresh cloth and a
basin of scented water awaited him. Abana washed the dust from his hair (which
had grown long and unruly) and the crust from his eyes before changing into the
fresh tunic and sandals the attendants left for him. The girls also left a
basket full of refreshment for him – a warm oval of flatbread spread with curd
and two chicken eggs, boiled and peppered. Abana did not stop to eat. He took
the basket with him as he left his quarters at the central cloister for the
stables. No one questioned him or his passage, not even the spearman guards. He
asked Steedmaster Yuza for the use of a horse, but he could spare only a camel
(which Abana was less confident in riding).
The boy decided to walk.
It was late morning when Abana left the
Sanguine Vigil. He ate lightly of his bread as he followed the sloping highway
into Iblyd. Ox-driven carts passed him by as local children played stick games
in the bushes and around the termite mounds, kicking up clouds of dusty red as
they ran and giggled together. Further in town the mood was vibrant – the
markets bustled with custom for its apricots and dates, wines and beers, bread and meat, etc. A minor town guard kept order with
regular patrols – these were not the corrupt Wahdis of Tehraq but a
homegrown force of dedicated fighting men – lightly armoured by their animal hide
skirts and boiled leather gauntlets and greaves, which made them nimble and
difficult to outrun. Abana saw them chunter intimidatingly through the streets
in groups of three and four but they did little more than collar a few bread
thieves and drunkards.
Iblyd was a peaceful place.
Maliq's residence was on the other side of the city, built at the
foot of a man-made stream (one of many) funnelling waters to the wheat fields
beyond its walls. Abana found the swordsman cooling quietly in the shade of a
palm tree, dressed only in loincloth, and with a sheaf of parchment in his
hands. A soil-smeared iron pick sat abandoned by his feet.
"I did not know you could read," said Abana.
Maliq smiled at his approach. "I am out of practice. There was not
much call for it in the Elephant Palace."
`Rahab stole two years from both of our lives...' thought Abana. He lifted his basket. "May I join you?"
The brown-skinned man patted
the little patch of earth next to him. "How can I refuse when you bring food
with you?"
The food was good but compared to the pig slop permitted to them in
captivity it was magnificent. As Abana and Maliq ate together in the shade
they also read through the parchment; a dense catalogue of newly conceived
irrigation systems by the Tehraqi scholar Husma Baraqah. In eastern Jawwaz many
of the crops had failed and Lady Yahya wanted her headmen to employ these
approaches. She planned to propose them upon her next convocation of the
council.
"Will this work?" Asked Abana.
"The diagrams are promising, but the instructions are... confusing.
Why is Tehraqi so complicated a tongue? All these... q's and y's and k's."
"Is the Jafari tongue any better?"
"The Jamaran tongue," He corrected. "And yes, it is. Shalla
alha abeed – `ours is the richness'."
"Beautiful. You must teach me some."
Maliq smiled. "...If you can spare the time to learn. Does the
governess not keep her people busy at the Sanguine Vigil?"
As a speaker of two languages and one of the few in Iblyd who could
read and write, Lady Yahya was quick to employ Abana as her household
scrivener. The previous notary died of pox just a short few days before his
arrival at the Vigil, and she was in desperate need of one. And it was busy
work. Lady Yahya corresponded with headmen, merchants, and traders (as well as
her fellow governors) with daily regularity. It was busy work. It was
also boring work – but better that than dancing.
"It occupies my mind," said Abana. He looked out across the stream
to the date palm trees blanketing the reddened soils. "...Takes it away from
other things."
Maliq lowered his brow. "...Iblyd is peaceful."
"It is. And my days are busy... but my nights are restless and plagued
with nightmares. And I when I do not have nightmares, I dream of the friends I
left behind. Hamami. Zanza. Li. Pasha. Roswyn. How can I call myself free when
my friends are still in chains? And that bastard Rahab of Mahmun walks
free..."
"As does the king who slew my queen," said Maliq. "Take it from me,
Abana. Vengeance is a maw. It will consume you... unless you see something beyond
it."
Abana turned to him. "...What would I see?"
"A better life. One
where you can start afresh and pursue your happiness. We cannot mend the past,
but we can-"
It was a sudden kiss... and a sweet one. Maliq did not expect it, but
then neither did Abana. He merely saw that handsome and kind-hearted warrior
and wondered what it might feel like to press those full brown lips against his
own... finally. It was a burst of affection... and yes, it was wonderful.
Maliq pulled away... and smiled. "What was
that?"
"That was me... pursuing my happiness."
**********
(Late Winter, 1179)
The
flagstone floor was strewn with hay and rat droppings (and tiny puddles of
sweat). It was unfamiliar to Abana of Hafiz – quite different from the Elephant
Palace's native black marble floors – there was no telling where he woke up.
But as he tried to think through the blood rushing to his skull a crack of fire
surged up his back and splattered blood across the ground. The welt ran from
tailbone to slave brand. The Kushwari seethed through gritted teeth as a second
joined it, then a third, and a fourth, until Rahab's whip hand finally tired
out. The lash fell limp as the sorcerer caught his breath. Abana opened his
eyes and saw his blood ooze into the gaps between the flagstones as an enormous
pair of feet slapped into his line of sight. Rahab took Abana by the chin and
the chain suspending his shackled ankles from the ceiling chimed with shifted
weight as he spun his torso towards his face.
"Look at me, damn you."
Between the burning welts sliced into
his back, the rush of blood to his head as he swung from the ceiling by his
feet, and the encroaching fog of tears... Abana found it difficult to focus. But
he did. Slowly. He glared his former master in the face – upside-down but
defiant – and how humble that face now was. An unkempt white beard ate up his
whole chin as wrinkles set into his brown skin like cracks in clay. His lips
were dry and cracked, his black eyes cloudy with cataracts... and gone was his
dark and terrible voice.
`Just a man,' Abana reminded
himself. `Just a man...'
"My men are out searching for that
traitorous black pet of yours," said Rahab. "It is only a matter of time before
they find him. He will not save you."
Abana shut his eyes and smiled.
"Something amuses you, slave?"
The boy said nothing.
Rahab snatched Abana's chin. "Ignorant
child! I see through your petty defiance! You were a fool to turn down
Kafnak's offer... and you will regret it."
"...That creature... is not a god. It is a...
a parasite. And nothing... shy of killing you... could be so sweet... as to
watch you... the great Rahab of Mahmun...
play host... to the seeds... or your own destruction..."
"...Freedom has made you wilful," Rahab
released his jaw with a shove. The sorcerer rose from his haunches and made his
way to the cell door. "This time I will not wait for your wounds to heal. This
time it will not be noble lords filling you with their seed... it will be my
soldiers. You will be ravished and scourged one after another after another and
after that? My horses and hounds will have their turn. A whore is a whore... and
you will die like one."
The cell door opened and slammed shut
before the gaoler's keys locked it up. Abana fought through the tears and the
pain to permit himself a smile as thought of how awkward Rahab's gait was as he
walked away, how easily he was out of breath, how tired and weakened he looked.
Kafnak had healed his stab wounds... but its magic had not purged Rahab's
lumbering frame of the bitterblack. Lady Yahya's poison was a slow killer... but
a certain one.
"Just a man," Abana whispered. "...Just a man..."
**********
(Late Spring, 1178)
Maliq was
as beautiful beneath the moonlight as he was beneath the sun. Glimmers of it
caught the faint beads of sweat still clinging to his smooth umber brown skin
and burnished the traces and outlines of his muscled torso. An equally naked
Abana bit his lip and playfully traced one of his fingertips down those
contours as the swordsman slept. He had scars (as any warrior of his pedigree
would) as his was a body sculpted by war and violence.
When Abana invited Maliq back to his
quarters in the Sanguine Vigil it was not with the intention of dancing
with him (though the thought had crossed his mind many a time heretofore) it
was to properly thank him for all that he had done – freeing him from the
Elephant Palace, bringing him to Iblyd. That morning Abana footed it to the
markets for a jug of date wine and a basket of peaches. His intentions were
plain. The Jamaran man came calling soon after Abana had finished his notary
duties for the day. They embraced as soon as they returned to his rooms (with a
closeness that lasted a bit too long for mere friendship) and it all came
pouring out of his chest; how much he cared for Maliq, how much he valued his
company and protection, how he would never be able to repay the debt owed to
him but would spend every day trying. Maliq smiled that warm smile of his and
asked if they could enjoy the wine together – and Abana was happy to oblige.
And so, they sat, and they talked about
everything. They spoke of their respective homelands and their cultures and
traditions. They spoke of Tehraq (both its evil and its greatness) and wondered
if reform was possible if Lady Yahya, or someone like her, ever took power from
King Qattullah. And they spoke warmly of each other. Perhaps the wine had
gotten to his head but Abana could not help but blurt out all the things he saw
in Maliq that he liked – his kindness, his bravery, his nobility, his sense of
duty – and it was no lie to say that Abana had never met anyone quite like him
before. In breath and flesh Khamali Maliq Moromaya was the virtuous paragon he
imagined his grandfather Fouzan ibn Mushegh to be, the paragon Abana never saw
in his own life. His was a life filled with evil men too fond of rape and
slavery and slaughter.
And for Maliq?
He explained how he found himself
stunned, absolutely stunned, at how resilient Abana was. He had never known
anyone to endure so much and live on regardless. He compared it to himself and
how empty he felt after his queen's execution. He dedicated himself root and
stem to Lady Yahya's cause not merely because it was worthy but because his
whole life had been fashioned around the idea of purpose. He was a
Bloodshield and a Bloodshield's purpose was to protect his queen. Without his
queen, he had no purpose... and without purpose... his whole life felt meaningless.
`But compared to what you've been
through,' said Maliq, `my troubles were miniscule.'
They talked until the sun fell and the
moon rose. They talked until the wine jug was empty and the basket was full of
soggy peach stones. Abana was on his back, gazing up at the wooden rafters as
he spoke to Maliq of the Legend of Mut, the moon goddess of Kushwar and the
empress of the tides. It escaped him how the conversation veered into such a
direction, but it was one of his mother's favourite folktales and he wanted to
share it. But as soon as he tried to get a word out, Maliq's deep brown lips
closed against his own.
Throughout the formative year of Abana's
life human passion was a grotesquery, carnal and carnivorous, eating away at
his flesh and sanity without a shred of care for his wants and his needs and
his desires. Not until Maliq kissed him beneath the moon that night did he
understand what it felt to dance with a man by his own volition. Not until that
kiss did he feel true desire burning inside himself,
scratching, and gnashing to be acknowledged.
It could have been the wine.
It could have been the man.
Perhaps it was both.
But he felt it then beneath Mut's moon,
frank and stark, the throes of desire. Abana leaned into Maliq's kiss with a
lusty whimper as the Jamaran tore the clothes from his body, piece by piece,
and they danced together for the first of many nights to come.
*
The moon was at its peak now.
Abana gently kissed Maliq's forehead and
carefully untangled himself from the older man's embrace. He re-tied his
loincloth and stretched his limbs before padding out through the paper screen
door to the peristyle outside. The colonnades were built around a large and
well-tended garden of jasmine flowers that gave the air around it a relaxing
scent. This was but one of the four peristyles that made up the central complex
of the Sanguine Vigil and it was allocated to key household staff – the
stablemaster, the steward, and the like. In some ways it reminded him of the
Silk Court's chambers – without the lavish decorations and reflecting pool.
He wondered how the others were doing. Did
they know that Qabus was dead? Was Rahab of Mahmun punishing them for his
abscondence? Would Hamami be jealous that Abana beat her to Maliq's heart?
`Will I ever see them again?'
Thought Abana.
"Can you not sleep?"
The voice came from the boy's left as he
leaned over the wooden balustrade overlooking the jasmine flowers. It was Lady
Yahya, dressed in a thin samite nightgown dyed black and trimmed with silver. A
while veil obscured her features. The older woman strode up to Abana and stood
with him to admire the garden.
"I have not slept," said Abana.
"I see. I... heard a rumour that you
invited Maliq to your chambers today. Is this true?"
Abana blushed.
"Do not misunderstand. My staff are free
to wed or take lovers as they please but only with reference to me.
There are suitors who have requested my permission to pursue him since his
return."
That did not surprise Abana. It baffled
him why someone had not sought his heart before the mission at the
Elephant Palace. "Apologies, my lady. I did not know. It was not planned..."
The governess smiled. "...Well? How was
it?"
Abana smiled back. "...It was wonderful.
Like a glut of water in the desert."
"And yet... how restless you look."
It was troubling that his emotions wore
so plainly upon his features... or perhaps the governess was just that
perceptive. Either way, she was right. Things with Maliq were perfect. His
troubles had a different source.
Anger.
"I've been having... nightmares. Every
night I see that ivory mask staring back at me... taunting me. I think of
my friends still under his thrall. The idea that that demon of a man is
still out there...! I thought I would be afraid of him my whole life but now that
I am free... I just hate him. I HATE him. And I cannot stop thinking about how much
I hate him."
Lady Yahya folded her arms. "I
understand your feelings. When Qattullah stole Hamra from Maliq and I... I felt
that same rage. But in my experience, nothing good ever comes from it. You must
rebuild your life, Abana and to do that you must look forward, not back."
"...Maliq said the same."
"He has favoured you for some time,"
said Yahya. "I see it in his eyes. The way he looks at you when you look away.
The way he speaks of you. A future can be found in those emotions... a happy
one."
"How can I make him happy with all this
anger and hate inside me?"
Lady Yahya smiled flatly. "Speak
plainly, Abana. Tell me what you want."
"...I want to help you kill Rahab."
The governess took a deep breath and
shut her eyes. It was as if she was weighing the wisdom of her reply. "...In
Tehraq there are two kinds of politics – one of the eyes, and one of the
shadows. I cannot oppose the grand vizier openly because it would
threaten my position. But... through the back channels of correspondence you
helped to re-open, the other governors have communicated to me that they want
Rahab gone also."
"You have their backing?"
"They say that King Qattullah plans on
annexing Kushwar upon his return to the High East. He wants to use the
additional resources to fund a military expedition into Yahvat Yahva, the lost
capital of the Abyyabids, where more creatures like Kafnak are sealed and
buried. This is all Rahab's doing and the governors know it. They want him dead
before the king returns to Tehraq."
She rested a palm on Abana's shoulder.
"Abana. If you genuinely want to do
this... you risk the peace you have found here in Iblyd. You may not even
survive. Are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do?"
"I will have no peace... until Rahab of
Mahmun is dead." Abana said. "Let me help you."
Lady Yahya nodded. "...So be it. Tomorrow...
we begin."
**********