1. The Letter

Same day, Malak

Only one member of the hunting party knew that an intruder crouched in the hollow of the ancient oak behind them. But he said nothing of it, nor did he glance in that direction. His eyes, and those of his nobles, followed the flight of a falcon that floated high above them, its wings fully extended, and its talons tucked up under its downy white chest.

“A truly magnificent sight, Excellency,” breathed one noble, the whisper ruffling his moustache.

Moving in a downward spiral, the falcon circled the group, slowing its pace, before coming to rest on the emperor’s gloved hand. It flapped its wings twice as if to shake the feathers into place, before folding them away and settling. The emperor murmured softly to his bird and stroked its white throat. His eyes scanned the ameythr meadows, which covered the valley’s floor like a lush mantle.

The company stood silently in the warm breeze, waiting for the bird’s quarry to be retrieved. A moment later, a boy trudged out of the valley towards them, clutching a limp pheasant. A sea of purple grass sighed and swayed around his waist, and he brushed his spare hand along its silken tips. His face was flushed, and grubby from wiping perspiration from it with dirty hands.

The moustached noble chuckled at the sight, and called out, “Did he take the dead rat without complaining this time, Callun? To my eye, the kill seems near intact.”

“Iodis made no complaint, sir.” The boy panted up to them, and placed the pheasant into a sack that was nearly full. After a long swig from his flask, he poured a sparing amount of water into his cupped palm, removed his cap, and dribbled it over his hot head. Then he grinned up at his master, patting the sack proudly.

“There Excellency, that makes five,” he said.

“Well!” said the Emperor, smiling around at the noblemen who had hunted with him that day. He tossed his mane of glossy black ringlets from his shoulders and repositioned a slender gold circlet upon them. His face was smooth, and although he had ruled the empire of Malak for as long as anyone could remember, he appeared to have only just reached manhood.

“It seems that Iodis has taken the lead. Again! ‘Tis a shame to end our contest, but alas the approach of night dictates!”

The answering chorus of groans was light-hearted. It had been a good day. Chuckling and joking with each other, the company began to pack up their gear. Several pageboys loaded the spare goats with sacks bulging with fresh game. Others prepared the falcons to be taken to the castle. The nobles of the emperor’s court adjusted their sporting finery, and hoisted themselves up onto their splendid goats. Although they appeared to be absorbed by their task and in exchanging mocking jibes with each other, from time to time their gaze would drift across to the Emperor, to see if he was observing them. They were to be disappointed.

He stood motionless, eyes dreamy and remote from the conversation around him. His arm was still outstretched to support his majestic gyr falcon, who gripped him firmly with yellow talons.

“Excellency?” His pageboy approached him respectfully, but without fear. “Shall I take Iodis for you?”

The Emperor blinked away his thoughts, his eyes immediately alert. “I will linger awhile and savour the evening air,” he said. “Return to the castle with the others, young Callun. If you are careful, you can ride my mount, for I will walk back with Iodis.”

Callun’s eyes lit up. “Thankyou, Excellency.”

Beaming, he gathered the remaining equipment quickly, in a hurry now to leave with the others. Once the cheerful company had departed, galloping through the heart of the forest towards the castle, the clearing grew silent in the twilight. The emperor and his falcon gazed out across the valley, their profiles dark against the glowing horizon. Only the unceasing whisper of the grasses, and the occasional chirrup of a cicada rehearsing its nighttime melody, interrupted the stillness.

Suddenly the Emperor’s perfect face rippled, like a pond into which a pebble had been dropped. Pale lumps, like wet clay emerged from the disturbed surface. The emperor stiffened, eyes squeezed tightly shut as though he knew what was coming next. A tremor shuddered through his body and involuntarily his hands balled into fists. He began muttering rapidly in a dialect his subjects would have found strange and terrifying. His nose, eyes and mouth swam around in his face, writhing and convulsing, twisted almost beyond recognition. And then just as suddenly, it was over. The shapeless lumps dissolved back into his flesh. Each squirming feature firmed into its familiar shape and place. The Emperor’s skin was pale and clammy from the effort. He did not open his eyes for a time. The only hint of what had taken place was the single drop of perspiration that soaked a bright green stain onto his white tunic.

When he spoke at last, the Emperor’s eyes, deep blue as a peacock’s feather, did not leave the horizon, and he murmured under his breath, as though to himself.
“It must be important information you bring Wiggo, that you come in person to deliver it.”

A muffled reply came from behind the oak. “Yes Great One. I have news of Gorguon, your brother. From Pendelethe.”
“And that is?”
“Everything proceeds according to plan. Gorguon’s identity must be protected, so we have only spoken through the Rhian birds. He writes that his disguise is foolproof. He said you would understand his meaning.” Wiggo sounded curious, hopeful of an explanation.

The emperor closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as though the words were a fragrant bouquet. “Glorious,” he breathed, with a smile that reached his eyes. “I had no doubt that Gorguon would use great sorcery to infiltrate the Watch. What fun! Their second worst nightmare sitting right under their nose, learning all their secrets. One day soon, the Watch will no longer be useful to us. Then they will pay the price for their arrogance.”

His eyes were once again hard and bright, like chips of flint. “But tell me, what is news of their beloved Andron. Has that troublemaker been dealt with?”

“Yes, Excellency.” Wiggo had emerged from behind the tree, but still stood a safe distance from his master. In amongst the shadows of the oaks, his dumpy outline resembled a knobbly tree stump. “King Phan has had Andron imprisoned for treason,” he said with a trace of smug satisfaction.

“Indeed?” purred the emperor. “ You have been weaving a spell over the royal simpleton. So Phan is without a herbalist?”

“No longer without, Exalted Lord. He is well pleased with the remedies and medicines that I now provide him.”

“Of course he is. I trained you well. And what about the other little job you are doing for me. Have you all the ingredients you need?“

“Yes, Gracious Majesty, we are well supplied,” Wiggo assured him. “In fact, the Thelpy tablets have been prepared.”

“Ahh.“ Thorasco’s mouth curved into an unpleasant smile, as he stroked his falcon. “Then all the Aryks in Pendelethe will soon go beddy-byes. Be careful that not even one eludes capture,” he growled. “Or you will envy the Aryks their slow death when I am finished with you.

Wiggo’s head bobbed. “The capture of the Aryks is taking place as we speak, Great One. I assure you, none will escape. Once we learn where the tapestries are, it is my unworthy opinion that your conquest of Pendelethe will be even simpler than that of Malak.”

“Tell me again why that is so, Wiggo. It is music to my ears.” Thorasco gazed out across the valley, as the sun’s red orb sank below the hills on the horizon. Thick splashes of crimson and amber still stained the sky. Down in the valley, a herd of shorthaired bitarx abandoned the camouflaging safety of the nearby trees, and crept out on all fours, like rippling shadows, to graze on the ameythr grass. Squatting down on stubbly backsides, they began tearing out generous chunks of the grass with long fingers. The adult bitarx periodically rotated their great hairy heads. They peered about with beady eyes, their leathery black nostrils dilating and twitching to detect any unfamiliar scents on the wind. Purple trails of grass-stained saliva dribbled down the pale brown fur of their jowls and necks as they chewed.

“Of course.” Wiggo had ventured forward a step or two. “E..E..Excellency,” he corrected himself hastily. "The two tribes who will remain in Pendelethe, they being the Tirans and the Pascans; well they have had no contact with the Aryks for months. I doubt they will either notice or care when the Aryks vanish, so consumed are they with their own perfection and knowledge, and…”

“Well, then they will adore me.” Thorasco’s lips curled in a sneer, revealing clenched teeth. He stretched his free arm, and wriggled his shoulders. The movement was as languorous and supple as a leopard slinking towards its prey. Wiggo shuffled back, closer to the safety of the oak.

“Yes, and who could not, O Light of Wisdom.” Branches once again muffled his voice. He did not see the irritation that flickered over the emperor’s face. “What is more, they do not believe in magic, so there will be no unforseen obstacles to stand in our… your way.”

“Then you have removed the ageless magic that plagues us?” Thorasco’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “The…” There was an audible gasp, as Wiggo recognized his mistake. “Oh no! How could I have overlooked the tears of Immo! I crave forgiveness, Merciful Majesty.” There was silence for almost a full minute, then Wiggo cleared his throat. “Thus far, I have been unable to find Andron’s supply of the tears.” A mixture of fear and loathing showed in his eyes.

“Slug,” Thorasco growled. “The Watch must not unearth those accursed tears. You need to find them first, and destroy them. Surely you can pay Andron a personal visit to learn of their whereabouts.”

“It would be my pleasure to question that fool in person.” Wiggo said bitterly. “Enough talk of fools. What is news of our daily bread? Has the mining for Pendelethe’s quartz begun?” His voice was eager. Throughout their conversation, he had not glanced once in Wiggo’s direction. Instead he gazed out into the distance, where all that remained of the day was a dull glow like dying embers, which illuminated the hills on the horizon.

“The quartz, Great One?,” Wiggo queried, buying time. All his earlier confidence was gone. “Ahh,… Well as you know, the King is obsessed by his hatred of the Aryks. Although that has been to our advantage, I fear it dulls his mind to other matters. But I will continue to press him, Excellency.”

“Very good of you.” A hint of menace had crept into Thorasco’s voice. “Listen to me carefully, Wiggo,” he said, spitting his name out as though it was a foul taste in his mouth. Wiggo’s plump shape wobbled unhappily, but he knew better than to talk back. “Pendelethe must have an unimaginable supply of quartz, if the tapestries have been lying there, undiscovered all these years,” Thorasco continued. “We need to get it and soon.”

“Certainly, Excellency.”

“I cannot come to Pendelethe and fulfil my destiny without the quartz to fuel me.” “That is true, Excellency.” “And don’t forget that it is your life source as well.“

“Yes, Excellency,” Wiggo agreed, nodding. “How can I forget? But… I am concerned.”

“You?” That one word spoke volumes. “Are concerned?”

Wiggo hesitated a moment, as though unsure whether to pursue his question. Then he blurted out, “Gracious Master, the quartz protects Pendelethe from the acid rays of the Unseen Star; just as it once shielded our beloved Malak.”
He paused.
Thorasco said nothing.
Wiggo cleared his throat and went on. “Malak is now just the shell of what it used to be, and I .., I..wondered. Well, once the quartz is gone, will not the extreme weather conditions that ravage our land half the year, also begin to eat away at Pendelethe’s resources?” Wiggo cowered near the oak. His exposed flesh seemed to radiate a faint green light.

In the darkness, Thorasco’s skin also appeared to glow. His jaw was clenched, and he rested his long lashes on his cheeks for a moment, before whispering, “Cretin! You dare to question me?” Wiggo gurgled something unintelligible. “The quartz is only a temporary measure, a building block. Once we have the tapestries, our existence will not be reliant on quartz. But we must have an endless source of strength at our disposal before we can hope to crush the source of the tears.” His voice was loud now and it trembled with passion. “Pendelethe and the Aryks may have forgotten about the Emir of Roa and his son Immo, but they are very real. And dangerous opponents, for the moment at least.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Ahhh, let them guard their precious garden. The time will come for that; we deal with Pendelethe first.”

Wiggo crept towards the emperor. “O ..Omnipotent One, it is the matter of quartz that brings me here in person…,” he said in a desperate groan.

“Yes…..? Speak, Wiggo, speak! And with haste! ‘Ere a search party is sent to find me!”

“Forgive me. It...it pains me to trouble you, Excellency. But my personal supply of quartz juice…, it is nearly used up. I have begun to shimmer; mainly after dark, when I am tired,” Wiggo stammered. “No one has noticed yet. But soon I will have no control over it. We have worked too hard to risk being discovered now.” The words were tumbling from his mouth. “I hoped you might be able to spare me just…just a little more?” His voice trembled and rose slightly, pleading.

The emperor arched one slender eyebrow, his eyes narrowed. He pressed his lips into a thin white line. “Two vials remain,” he snarled. “Yet you gulp it down like it’s sugar water, you wasteful clump of dunghill scurf!”

Wiggo, once again cowering behind the oak, bleated in as aggrieved a tone as he dared. “I have been very sparing with it Excellency, I assure you”

“Oh yes?” Thorasco’s laugh was harsh and high pitched as a horse’s whinny. “How much quartz juice did it take to transport your stout form here, halfway across the world? On a whim.“ The Emperor’s voice was still low, but his teeth were bared, and his eyes thin slits. “And you call Andron the fool. Ha! Why did I afford you my last Rhian bird, do you imagine? So you could teach it tricks?”

“To send messages to you, Great One,” said Wiggo, no louder than a squeak.

“To send messages. Yes, dullard, yes!” He paused, breathing slowly and deliberately, stroking his bird while he regained his composure. Then he said in an even voice, “If the juice runs out before we find the tapestries, so do we. We must get to the source of Pendelethe’s quartz. It is of more importance at present, than finding the tapestries. But go now, for I grow weary of this patter. The vial you desire is hanging inside the tree, just above your head, wrapped in a piece of leather. Take it, and touch nothing else. And send the Rhian bird with your next message, or your welcome will not be so sweet.”

“Excellency.” There was relief and greed in the hidden man’s voice. “Thank you, Gracious Master.”

But the emperor had gone, picking his way through the gloom to the castle gates, not glancing back at Wiggo who waited for the complete cover of night to veil his more enigmatic departure.

***
Same day, Pendelethe

Blayre of Dins Hallow slithered towards the dancing feet on her belly, well camouflaged in her green cloak. Entranced by the music, the circle of dryads did not see her…

No. Tien shook her head with frustration. That’s not how it went. I described how they danced first, I think.

Tien’s toes had gone numb, so she wriggled them and stamped her sandalled feet. She puffed a warm breath up to thaw her nose, but it floated uselessly away in a soft white mist. Waiting was a tedious business. For what felt like the hundredth time, Tien peered around the honey-crisp apple tree; the only tree along the orchard’s sun-dappled avenue that concealed her and at the same time provided a good view of the farmhouse.

She knew her family was awake, she could hear them clattering about in the courtyard. But where were Eunaat and the cart? Tien absently plucked a cluster of milkweed flowers from the stalk at her feet, and inhaled the rich perfume of its star-shaped blossoms. She and Mama had methodically planted the milkweed under each tree last spring, in a ploy to lure the silent destroyers, aphids, away from the precious fruit above.

Come on, Eunaat, come on, she fretted. Soon someone will discover that I’m not in my bed, and then everything will be ruined. Tien closed her eyes and tried to still her nervous impatience. Instead she concentrated on all the details that filled her head, picturing exactly how this day was about to unfold. She bit her lip to stop from laughing in delight. It is going to be so exciting, she thought, hugging her cold arms and giggling in a whisper.

Mama and Papa would never, in their wildest imaginings, suspect that Tien would stow away on the fruit cart. Timid Tien never did things like that. Well that was all about to change, she thought, with a defiant glare. This was the only way she would be able to see Fanzine. Papa would never permit her to travel to Pojabe, although it was only an hour’s canter down the main road.

Tien shrugged her backpack from her shoulders, then sat cross-legged on the ground, with her back against the tree. Her pack was grey with age and made from thick, coarse material. Tien opened it as wide as it would allow. She ran her palm along the inner fabric, over the part which rested against her back when she wore it. Her fingers fumbled along the ridges of stitching, till she felt the hiding place. From a tiny gap between the pleat and the pack’s inner lining, she tugged out the thin folded piece of paper. A letter that she knew had been carefully placed there while she’d slept. By force of habit, she glanced cautiously around before opening it out. Then, with a smile playing around the corners of her mouth, she began to read.

Dear You, (I can’t write your name of course, for fear this letter may be intercepted)
I was overjoyed to receive your letter! And heartened to hear that your spirit is not broken;, though our tribe is backed into a corner. A bully king and his thugs cannot intimidate all Aryks.

Tien pulled a face. Not intimidated by King Phan’s special police? Has Fanzine actually seen the Raseen at work? she marvelled remembering their visit to her village not long ago. Their eerie howls still haunted her dreams; a sound that had nearly drowned out the screams of the Aryks they were marking. Long after the Raseen had galloped off, the piteous moans and sobs of broken people had continued. There had not been enough wind in the universe to banish the smell that lingered in Panzaar that day; air thick with the smell of scorched and blistered flesh.

Tien shook her head roughly, as if she could dislodge the image, but it was seared into her mind like the Raseen’s branding irons. What Aryk, in the face of such horror, could not be cowed, Fanzine? she thought. I am just as fearful as the rest.

She read on: By now, probably all the adults in Panzaar have been marked by the Raseen. ‘Marked’, what a feeble word for such cruelty. It is a small blessing that our parents were permitted to brand us themselves, after their own wounds had healed. Grandfather branded me and I never felt it till much later, thanks to that nasty Feltus draught. It put me to sleep for hours.

Tien’s hand strayed to the mark under her jaw. She rubbed it tenderly with her thumb as she read, as if it were still a raw wound.

Miss Roovil gave me some pages as well. How joyous to see words written on paper. I read them over and over. But with the Raseen swooping in at any moment, to check that we are all obediently branded and bookless, I have stashed them in our old hiding place. As you know, Miss Roovil snuck across the border into Tira and Pasco before her arrest. She told me that although we, the Aryks, are the only ones receiving the Raseen’s special attentions, Pendelethe’s other tribes are greatly changed.

What sort of changes, Tien wondered. Her lip curled. Perhaps the Tirans and Pascans found the wealth that had been heaped upon them suffocating. Or maybe there were not enough luxuries for them to spend their money on. How tragic. Oh, no she thought, clapping a hand to her mouth. I’m beginning to sound like Graic! She laughed softly, and after a quick glance towards the farmyard, she continued reading.

The Tirans now have a caste system. Three of the castes are distinguished by the bronze, silver, or gold dots on their foreheads. The highest caste of course, have the gold dots, and members of the lowest caste bear no dots. Our friendly postman is one of those, isn’t he? What a brave man! Tien smiled. Eunaat, the hired Tiran farmhand who always came to help them at harvest, was a quiet hero. If the Raseen had caught him smuggling her letter to Fanzine, the punishment would have been severe. Yet Eunaat had done it without hesitation. It is best the poor man knows nothing about today’s plan, she mused. Not even Fanzine knew. Tien’s gaze drifted back to the letter. In the capital city of Tira, Miss Roovil found everything to be perfect; a little too perfect. She never saw a single citizen with a disabled or flawed body. Miss Roovil was suspicious, and after a little sleuthing she fell over Tira’s dirty little secret: the Quarter. The Quarter is a settlement, a revolting and dangerous place to live. Defects (that is what Tirans call anyone who is less-than-physically-excellent) are snatched from their homes by cover of night, and locked away in the Quarter, away from the rest of society. It is on the outskirts of town and the Raseen keep their distance. Hence, criminals have crept in to inhabit its darkened corners. The Pascans have gone mad as well. They fancy themselves to be the scholars of Pendelethe. Their famous ziggurat is now known as the Library. (Remember that huge building we saw when we went to see Pasco with school, just before the borders closed?) It is full of books. And full of pompous Scholars who hold competitions to discover who is the smartest, who has the best memory, can learn the most languages in one year, can read backwards the fastest! Don’t laugh! I am not making this up. But for the most part, both the Pascans and Tirans seem unscathed and unconcerned by Phan’s regime. While we are fading away. Why?

“That’s what I want to know,” Tien muttered. She looked up past the tree’s leafy boughs. The morning sky was an seamless expanse of indigo, marred only by a faint cloud that drifted high above, pure white like a chunk of lamb’s wool. As Tien watched, the wind gradually stretched the cloud until it separated into pale ribbons. The strips of cloud soon melted into the atmosphere. The heavens were once again flawless. Tien sighed and read on.

Why are only Aryk books being burned? Why are we the only ones forbidden to cross our border? Why is ours the only flesh being branded? I want to know.

© 2006 by Shelly Taylor