All better now, p.41
Eyes of the Forgotten, page 41
Viqor carefully took off his bull-horned helmet then began to disrobe.
Darrea stood from her seat in protest, but nothing could be done now. The drums had started beating. No one would hear her if she tried.
Beneath Viqor’s speckled black robe, he wore nothing but a pristine white loincloth, looking much like a Paway, himself. His body held no unnecessary weight. He was wrought with lean muscle, he was tall and thin of frame, and his hair fell, untied by his golden pin. Viqor stood raw, looking strong, and yet his eyes confessed it all. She could see he was unsure, and yet he harbored a burning fury in his dark irises.
The bull nearly thrashed out of his bondage, but the many servants pulled him down quickly. Shaglem shook his head about, either refusing his next order or searching for escape.
Darrea croaked thinking of the many ways this behemoth could eviscerate and trample over her husband.
Halfway between horror and indifference, Darrea knew she had no power. As favored as she was in Valtos, these island fundamentalists worshipped Viqor like a god, or near one. Darrea brought a hand to her face, quietly biting her nails and trying not to squeeze her eyes shut.
I cannot be seen as weak.
The high priest raised a hand. “Bring the axes.”
Darrea whipped her head away from the temple toward where the priest was pointing. One of the island natives with a bright burning torch guided the way in front of two servants she recognized from her own ship, who brought forth a wooden box. Relief washed through Darrea before the eventual realization. Her husband would still be with her tomorrow, but such a bloody mess would not be avoided.
Shaglem appeared to hear them and, through his failing sedative, bucked and thrashed more. Others came to hold him still; all of them were Valtosians either from the island or the mainland. About twenty in total now held firm Shaglem, his hooves pressing firmly into the earth. His pleading eyes darted around.
Such a holocaust in this ceremonial fashion was quite common in Djowan, but she never grew fond of it. Darrea called over Siri to be by her side. Siri dug her face into Darrea’s dress, but the queen did not quit her fixed gaze.
Strong like the Phoenix.
The wooden chest now laid open at King Viqor’s feet.
“King Viqor, ruler of Valtos and descendent of the mighty King Qor, take up your axes!” the priest said. “Take up the weapons made from the gods above. Strike down this animal in the name of all Valtos. Let these relics of the Fallen One give you strength and power. Let them awaken your senses.” The priest turned to the grand audience and raised his voice even louder, “King Viqor! Legacy of the Fallen One!”
“King Viqor! King Viqor!” the rest shouted in unison.
Darrea watched hesitantly as her husband, in his most bare and vulnerable state, bent over then raised the twin black axes in the air. He crossed them above his head, matching the Valtosian standard that decorated the royal palace and many ships’ sails. Dark as shadow and yet glinting from the pyre, they looked as sharp as any other bronze blade—maybe sharper.
Shaglem reared again at these blades’ exaltation, and again he was returned to submission.
King Viqor approached cautiously down the stone steps to face Shaglem by the massive pyre, his blades now resting by his sides.
“For all bulls will be jumped!” His voice cracked. He then adjusted and softened his delivery. “For all bulls will succumb. By my hand, with blades sent from the gods above and crafted by the hands of men, Shaglem, I usher you to graze with the White Bull in peace and honor beyond this living plain.”
Viqor’s arms shook apprehensively as he placed both blades beneath the animal’s burly neck. The many servants pulled the ropes tied to his horns, exposing a larger canvas for Viqor to draw across.
He paused.
Darrea then thought of the training grounds. She thought of how her husband, daring and ferocious in the few seconds of furious sparring, hesitated to strike the final blow. The same vacant expression spread across his face.
Darrea should have known better. What made her think that even in sparring, when another man whaled and stabbed at him, that Viqor could take the final commanding stroke? Especially during something wholly unprecedented. And in front of all these waiting eyes spread wide with fanaticism. No such pressure could be surmounted; not from Viqor. Nor through the weakness that he kept hidden for only the grandest moments. From the pit of her stomach, Darrea felt his embarrassment.
She turned her glance to Siri who still had her head deep in Darrea’s dress. “Only a little longer,” she whispered. Her eyes found Alevor and Vionna, who were watching intently. Queen Darrea aimed back at the top of Siri’s head, “It will all be over soon once the priest—”
AAWWOOOAH!
His collapse could be heard across the camp. Dust lifted in the air. Darrea spun around, nearly falling off balance but clutching on to Siri for support. Siri kept her head where it was, deep in Darrea’s waist.
Shaglem’s neck sprayed continually two thin gushes of blood which projected six feet from his lifeless mass. Some small volume had been thrown into the fire, making singeing sounds. So much blood. The russet and white hide of Shaglem, the great demon from the west, was now dirtied pink and crimson red. His tongue stuck out and his massive muscles eased for the first time in death.
All of the crowd erupted in cheer and sang ancient songs. They all began to dance in circles around the fire. Darrea looked through the commotion and saw King Viqor standing above Shaglem’s body with the two axes at his side, triumphantly. From his face to his heels, he was covered in the bull’s blood.
Siri’s tears penetrated her dress, and Darrea patted her head. Her gaze returned to her Djowanese advisor who looked upon the whole thing rather stoically, as if he had seen such a thing before. Meanwhile, Vionna dropped her head toward the ground, shaking it in what looked like only pity. Whether it was pity for her own gods or for the bull, Darrea could not begin to guess.
Though rather taken aback that Viqor proved her assumption completely wrong, Darrea settled herself in her chair, bringing Siri’s soft sobs into her lap. She felt numb to it all. It did not feel right.
The husband she knew, and had grown to even admire in some ways, would have never been capable of such wanton brutality. He needed to be strong, yes, but it felt disingenuous; or at the very least, wholly different from the Viqor of the past. But was this all her fault? Did she spur such a wrathful show of strength? Such determination to prove himself?
Darrea kept quiet and contemplated this as Shaglem’s body was butchered and offered as sacrifice into the fire. None of it was to be cooked or eaten. The priest chanted all the while, and many servants came to clean the blood off King Viqor. They all bowed low to him, some even falling on their knees.
Siri eventually returned to her duties. By the time the carcass had been wholly cut up and offered to the gods above, and the severed skull set aside for remembrance, Viqor joined her at table. He looked somewhat lost and yet energized, possibly still unsure of what he had just done. Now in fresh robes, devoid of blood, Darrea could still make out the watered remains of blood sticking thickly to his hairline and around his ears. His hair untied and wet, he brushed it behind him and began to eat as if he had been starved for days. And he very well could have been, knowing how nervous he was.
Darrea fought through the smell. Fresh bull’s blood still on him, she pressed each sweet-scented fruit to her nose a while before she tore at its flesh.
Eventually, commotion passed for calmer tides. All those attended and attending could now sit and eat the many foods of the island and indulge in the other delights that came aboard the ships with them. Heart rates lowered, drumbeats gradually slowed, and shrill horn blasts were replaced with soft singing. A feast worth the fuss from before, tranquil enough where Darrea could almost forget all of what had happened in the past days. Even in the past few weeks. All of these toils felt miles away, farther than any wind could blow or any ship could sail.
But it was then, just as she had taken a draining sip of her peach wine and raised it out for more, that she peered across the expanse of the festival. Smiles, fatigued looks, and rhythmic swaying to the music was all she could see until she met eyes with the tallest man, who in the fading light of the great fire, could easily blend into the growing darkness if not for his long white beard.
Alevor sat like stone at the edge of the long contorting tables across from her view, unmoving. No evidence of indulgence upon his plate, and the very same with Vionna next to him. They looked as if the spirit of Shaglem had walked out of the fire and was staring at them with vicious intent, raking his hooves and planning his charge. And just to the left of Alevor, by the very edge of the eating space, Darrea perceived a thin absence. Alevor, if he so wished, could have spread farther down if he wanted.
Darrea dropped her empty cup and clutched at her heart.
She felt and she heard. That low rumble crept into her ears once again. Her knees and fingertips felt the vibrations from the earth. It could not be mistaken. Vibrations and humming bounded forth across her body and through her soul. She felt the ground beneath shaking. She shut her eyes and clenched her fists in fear. No saving prayer came to her. No hope or relief she sought. Darrea knew what it was. Unmistakable, and yet totally imperceptible, she knew, by all except her. She shook with terror in her individual torment, wallowing in her forced and painful darkness. Darrea’s muscles tensed with such great anticipating agony, wishing it to go away once again.
But it lingered for quite a time.
THE BOOK OF THE DELIVERED ONE
THIRTY-FIVE
Disbelief stretched across Adrian’s mind. Now that he was here, at the very spot he had dreaded for weeks upon weeks upon weeks, he still could not fathom this moment he found himself in.
One by one, each sequence of his plaguing dream had come true. The three of them made their journey south, passing the city of Qhuyak, fording rivers, crossing the plains that fed Umavos, and arriving in Valtos to a wealth of pointed scowls and stares. If it were not for Alevor’s skin, Adrian and Vionna would have been looked at as nothing but Rodakian dirt. However, their practiced alibi in the presence of newly wed king and queen of Valtos was taken up, and much of the rest then fell upon his magus guide.
Adrian just waited for the day that their lies would be found out—for the three of them to be blamed as spies or frauds. But it never came. All the while, whenever Alevor was called upon, he always returned with fresh smiles and far less grumpiness than what Adrian had grown so used to. This allowed Vionna and Adrian to lay low, bide their time, and play the part.
While Alevor played at court, Adrian and Vionna persisted in the depths of the city. With Adrian’s gold, the three of them purchased a home large enough to sleep them all and located relatively close to the palace. The locals did not find anything suspicious when the tall Djowanese man came ready with so much wealth in hand. Alevor was a spectacle in and out of the palace. Adrian and Vionna, however, were tolerated at best. With Pesh features clear as day, uncommon across this capital city, they received plenty of guarded looks, but nothing compared to the supercilious nature of the nobility found in the west. In time, they became accepted as neighbors or perceived to be servants of the well-off Alevor. Such existence was bleak, managing the house or furthering his studies with Vionna when she had the spare time, which was little. While Adrian waited, Vionna kept watch and reported anything of significance from her animal friends. Her most fruitful informant, she said, was the queen’s very own green-eyed, black cat. Without his contributions, their mission would have fallen apart.
Adrian recalled the shift in it all—when the sequences of his dreams fulfilled themselves and allowed him less torment in the night. Red stones from the beach, the gray walls of the sprawling Valtos city, and blue water which birthed the sun, and the light’s eventual submersion in the green west; they each came true and led him here, on the most unlikely of destinations for a Peshman: Starfall Isle.
Adrian did not spectate it, nor did he want to, but a part of him thanked the memory of Gwendolyn Bertilak before her eventual execution. If it were not for her counsel and the lessons he learned from her retainers, Shie and Torrance, Adrian would have never been able to sedate and handle mighty Shaglem as he did. The beast appeared to recognize him, even by the little they ever interacted with one another. Vionna’s presence helped as well. Adrian’s understanding of Vionna’s houla with animals comforted him, knowing that if Shaglem were to break free and become the raging storm he so often embodied, having Vionna nearby could make the difference between life and death. But fortunately, the opportunity never came.
When the tall advisor with the thick mustache, one which looked so queer on a pureblood Valtosian, came to watch, Adrian passed the test and Shaglem took to him. The great bull, still strong and vengeful, did obey him to a degree that none others around him received. It was noticeable enough where Adrian thought that he and Vionna could be related in this way.
He welcomed me as a long-lost brother. I could see it in his eyes. He knew me.
Adrian did recall Alevor saying that the path to his gift might come to him along this journey—that the Fallen One, which killed him every night in his sleep, might awaken his houla. “A reunion may grant you the strength to find your houla,” Alevor said. This and the prophecy rebounded constantly in his head; the glowing letters stained his mind. He could see them emanate and morph to legible Valtosian even now in the darkness of the island.
But if it were true—if his houla had been to bring animals under his company and friendship—why would it take so long? He had already served under Bertilak, but nothing extraordinary happened during his time there. And even if so, even if specific relations with bulls were what destiny called for him, his most valuable and most menacing ally had just then been slaughtered and burned. Adrian’s theory died with Shaglem, pooling blood in the dirt.
Now, in his black tunic, trudging aimlessly towards the center of the island, Adrian realized how the rest of his dreams had not come to pass. And these were the most frightening: blood spilled on stone and the black rock swallowing him with gnashing teeth. As his other visions faded from the night, he was frightened to witness them firsthand, but also eager to rid them from his existence.
Finally settle this portion of fate, he thought. Finally walk the first steps to fulfill my purpose. Reawaken the heritage lost in Myrios.
Or so the story went.
Beneath the stars, Adrian wandered, thinking himself mightily important while also cowardly.
“What savior slips off like this?” he whispered under his breath between steps. Adrian would have thought that one of his color would be closely watched as an intruder, but once Shaglem had been sacrificed, the dancing and the music started. He thought these Valtosian islanders were far more savage-like than what he had anticipated the Craiceans to be. They chanted and sang in a disorganized and fanatical fashion, beating on rudimentary drums and blowing scratchy sounds from unrefined reed and animal instruments. Such a frenzy allowed him to sneak away far less spectacularly than what he anticipated.
Nearly a year had passed since he escaped Rodak. The fear and the rush of it all felt so long ago. He counted in his head, and he could not be exact, but at the very least he was certain he had lived past the day marking his twenty-first year.
Adrian swatted at leaves that crossed his path. Shrubbery climbed ever higher and thicker as he circled to the other side of the hill where the tribe sat. He thought of the day that had started it all. He thought of the dagger, how invigorated it made him, and wondered if the stone it was supposedly cut from would grant him that same feeling. A quasi is what Alevor called it.
If this Fallen One did not grant him with the vision or ability that his knife once did, Adrian would not know what to do. If this indeed was some hoax, a lie made by King Viqor’s ancestors and carved into axes, how would he restore Myrios’s legacy? How would he redeem his people? How would he handle the Craiceans that would fall upon this land and raze it and its people?
But how could it not? I felt the dagger in my palms. I felt the power in myself, he struggled. It must work.
“It must,” he said aloud with hope and doubt.
The ground beneath his feet started to slope, and Adrian had to measure his knees to make sure he did not fall down the curved hill. He felt so close now. Adrian’s toes could feel it—they could feel it through his sandals coming from the earth. Vibrations and whispers only a little farther on, past brush of heavy green leaves and up around the hill.
Starfall Isle was so quiet, he could hear the commotion of the feast from across the island. Not a bird chirped nor anything else squeaked or rushed by him shaking the foliage in the darkness. If it were not for the drums and harsh horns, and even the vague orange light of the great fire which fought the edge of the dark western horizon, Adrian would be wholly disoriented. He marched on as the hill sloped steeper and steeper until his only choice was to turn himself up against it and climb with bracing hands in case he was to fall.
Eventually, he found the hill’s crest, which lipped and then dropped, revealing an earthen basin. Straight across the mouth was the faint silhouette of the very top of the temple, ringed with orange light. Adrian turned his head down into the crater, and despite the ink black night, with the only helpful light coming from the myriad stars above, he somehow saw it. The very it he had been hoping and dreading to find. This legend, which gave him doubt, gave him power, gave him fear, and all throughout, drove desire unlike anything he had ever experienced.
From such a distance, the Fallen One looked like a poppy seed in an open palm. Peaceful and ponderous, but Adrian knew the dagger, the only time he had ever touched this black stone, and understood that even the little poppy seed could flower fatal poisons.
And yet, it calls to me. Adrian’s heart began to beat quite fast. In its whole, it still calls to me. It is mine to take. So, I shall.
