Chapter 23

November 17th, 2020

Sirpa poured over the paperwork, flipping through sheaf after sheaf of rough grain papers. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began scratching away, muttering to herself in annoyance. Zechariah sat quietly, figuring it was better to say nothing as Sirpa tended to be so short of temper. He sat in a small study or office. He had thought that the commander's office would be larger, more impressive, but then he remembered where he was. This Keep was not built for comfort, but for war. The halls were many, winding and cramped, to confuse and restrict movements. The rooms were small so that you wouldn't loose many men if one was taken or destroyed.

So he sat, in silence, after going through a rather dull and lengthy interview with Sirpa. He and the others were being registered in the draft, and he had a sinking feeling in his heart. He felt bound and tied up. Like a large chain was being placed around his ankle. It was worse than the feeling he had in Hyran. The feeling of having your destiny controlled by another. A desperate feeling, a need to escape. But he had no way out. He had thought, desperately, of a way to get out of this but he was more alone than he realized. He'd only really gotten to know Zaki and Nawfa, and he'd killed Zaki and pissed off Nawfa and Khayrat and by extension, or so he assumed, the entire Elite Squad. So here he sat, with no other recourse but to have his destiny decided by another.

“Zechariah Feldman, Arrongarson of Hyran, citizen of Umar under the King Malik. Leave your mark here.” Sirpa turned the paper around to him and dipped her pen in ink once more, handing it to him. He had barely any training in letters, but had always wanted his mark to be unique, so he drew one of his runes on the paper. Taking it back, Sirpa looked at his signature quizzically, then sanded it to dry the ink. Dripping some wax from a candle on the paper, she pressed her signet ring into the wax and blew on it. “Welcome to the army.” she said with a flat expression, “You may not be able to swing a sword with that arm of yours, but you can still get into shape. I expect you to partake in whatever physical training that Meister Asa permits. You are dismissed.”

With that, Zechariah stood, bowed and left the room. He slowly made his way back to Meister Asa, his feet feeling heavy and leaded. The desire to leave was a splinter in his foot. Every moment, every step, it stabbed him driving him to insanity. One thing was good he supposed. The nightmares seemed to have stopped. Ever since he was taken hostage actually. It'd been several ports without a single dream. Despite his rest being troubled by general fear, when he had slept, he'd slept well, and deep. Perhaps this was where he was meant to be. Regardless of how tremendously miserable it felt. Sighing, he stepped into Meister Asa's room, a very different entrance than his first.

“Yes. This is good. One last item you have? Saedl weed? I know, it is not 'common' herb, but it is very useful for my medicine.” Mudaris spoke holding a ledger in one hand, counting out drops with the other.

“Very uncommon that is. You know it's not permitted outside of the school of physicians don't you?” Meister Asa was replying, giving Mudaris his critical eye.

“For you yes, but the Ghabar Rijali were here before Umar was founded. We do not recognize your laws. Respect them, yes, but nothing more. More so, though I have not attended this 'school' of yours, among my people, I am Meister.” Mudaris said simply. Asa's eyes narrowed further, so Mudaris continued with a different avenue. “Considering that we are allies, Zaeim would appreciate it if you traded some with me.”

Meister Asa continued to measure Mudaris up. Two intelligent, critically analytic men siezing each other up. Zechariah stood quietly in the back, not wanting to disturb the silence lest that cold calculation be turned upon him. Eventually, Asa nodded and walked off with small quick shuffles, returning a short while later with a tightly wrapped bundle. Weighing it he showed a slip of paper to Mudaris, who handed over a sizable palmful of silver drops. Mudaris nodded. “Zaeim is pleased with this trade.”

Turning to leave he met Zechariah's eyes and his face brightened. “Ah Zechariah...Al'harrabu...I heard Khayrat sought to teach you a lesson. It looks like you learned it well.” He said laughing.

“My gratitude for your concern Mudaris.” Zechariah said flatly.

“You are alive no? So it is good!” But his smile faded to a somewhat sad one. “It is unfortunate timing though, that we meet here. I have much I wish to talk with you about. However, Zaeim is sending us on tomorrow's Rise, and so I must say farewell to you.”

“Sending you on?” Zechariah asked, his heart skipping a beat. “Where to? Why?”

Mudaris simply laughed softly. “I am sorry my friend, I cannot say. It is the Elites way.” He patted Zechariah on the shoulder. “But I hear the gardens are beautiful in the night lights. You should enjoy them. They will bring your heart peace.” With that, he left.

Zechariah watched him go, wondering what he had been on about, but hearing the shuffling of Meister Asa approaching him pulled his attention away. He spoke with the physician about what he could and couldn't do in training, making a mental list of the activities that the physician outlined, but it was difficult, as his thoughts only went to one place. Nawfa would be leaving, at dawn.

As soon as Asa was finished instructing him on the exercises he could partake in, Zechariah made his way up the spiraling staircases higher into the keep. Floor after floor. Pushing past soldiers carefully, through the dark and dimly lit corridors of Sumud Keep, he finally came to Nawfa's door and lifted his left hand to the latch, and hesitated. What was he going to say? What should he say? Better yet, what could he say? 'Sorry for sleeping with you but I have another woman?' That was going to go over great. 'You don't have any right to be angry with me, you have multiple partners.' It was true, but, it felt more like an accusation than anything. He gritted his teeth in frustration. He'd just have to see how it went. He grasped the latch, and opened the door, his breath catching.

Nawfa was naked. By Aleen she was beautiful. All lean muscle. All the right curves, and even her scars were beautiful. She was in the middle of changing, getting into some cheap linens for working. She jumped a little in surprise at being suddenly intruded upon, but not by being caught naked.

“By Al'harrabu Zechariah. I thought it was customary among your people to knock before entering someone's room?” She chastised.

Zechariah blushed fiercely. Even though he'd seen her naked several times, and been intimate with her, he was still caught off guard by her beauty. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be changing in the middle of the day.”

“Well?” She asked as she finished removing her clothes, “Are you going to come in or not? Despite how comfortable I am with my body, I'd rather not display for an army of lonely men.”

“Right, yes. Of course.” Zechariah said flustered, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He was keenly aware of the silence, and tried not to stare at her as she continued changing, but his obvious staring at a wall was equally as embarrassing as it simply announced his awkwardness even louder.

Nawfa smiled softly. He was such a bumbling fool. It was oddly adorable. He was a fool, and naive, but she liked his simple honest innocence. There was a genuine kindness of sorts that she admired within it. “Well?” She asked again, “Did you come here for some reason other than to gawk at my breasts and ass?”

“I'm not gawking.” Zechariah said defiantly, and leaned against the door, running a hand through his hair, thinking about what how he should start.

“If you're not gawking, then why are you here?” She pressed.

Zechariah sighed. “I'm here because I don't want our previous conversation to be our last. Mudaris told me that your squad is leaving come dawn and, I wanted to sort things out with you before you go.”

Nawfa turned back to her packing, neatly folding and rolling her clothes into tight bundles, and stuffing them into a pack. “You mean the conversation where you said, 'thanks for being a vessel to take my virginity, now see you later?” she said as she roughly stuffed some clothes into her pack.

“Nawfa. You k now that's not how I meant it.” Zechariah said lamely.

“No? Then how did you mean it Zechariah? Hmm? I humiliated myself in front of Khayrat for you, and then you tell me that you're still pursuing a woman who doesn't exist!” Nawfa turned to him, her voice rising.

“I don't understand why you are so angry Nawfa! You have multiple husbands. What if I want multiple wives?” Zechariah exclaimed in exasperation.

“Because she, if she even exists, isn't one of us. She won't want you to have multiple wives. So you'll have to loose her, and blame me or...or I have to loose you.” The last part she said with a firm sense of accusation, but it was undermined by the strain in her voice.

Zechariah slid down the door, sitting quietly, and hung his left arm over his knee. Staring at the floor, he said, “Why do you even care about me? You have husbands like Khayrat and who knows who else. Why do you care about me?”

She sat on her bed mat and crossed her legs looking at him, watching him blush as he looked between her legs. “Zechariah, I have a few husbands yes. And I love all of them, and I give them something, and they each give me something in return. Khayrat is my passion, and that will never change. But he's strong, and rough, and powerful. You're different. You give me gentleness, and grace, and compassion. Things that Khayrat and my other husbands don't.” she paused, and rubbed her arms together a bit. “The Barrens are all rough sands, and harsh temperatures. So are it's people, and it's men. We are all trained to fight, we are all born with the sword in our hands.” She looked at him somewhat sorrowfully. “One thing I've always been jealous of, in my travels in your lands...is how intimate everyone seems. I love my husbands but, no one really truly cherishes me.”

Zechariah's eyes were drawn up to hers, and he found that it was her eyes which could not look into his now. “So you hoped that I might be yours alone.” He added to her explanation, finally understanding. She nodded quietly.

“I know it's hypocritical of me. I know it's selfish.” She said quietly, avoiding his eyes and, for the first time since he'd known her, she covered herself up.

“I'm sorry Nawfa. You're beautiful, and I...I don't know. I don't know what love is, I...I don't know a lot of things.” They sat silently for a time, both considering their emotions in depth. “My whole life...I've been plagued by dreams of this woman and, of other things. I have to find answers to this. I have to find answers to my dreams, to who the woman is, to...everything. Perhaps she isn't real or, maybe if I do find her, I won't like her. I don't know. But I have to find her. I left my home, and my family for this. I can't stop now.

Nawfa sat in silence for several moments longer. She seemed to relax a little and looked back at him. “I understand. I don't like it, but I understand. Though, how are you meant to find her now? Isn't being drafted into the army like a death sentence for you?”

Zechariah drooped. “Yes. I don't know what I'm going to do about that yet...but I'll figure something out...somehow.” He fell silent, feeling depressed and trapped. Nawfa shifted, and crawled over to him, breasts swaying lightly. His breath caught in his throat as she leaned in, and kissed him.

“Al'harrabu will judge you fairly. If It sees you as worthy of being freed from these shackles, then It will see it done.” She softly, cupping his cheek in a hand.

Zechariah raised a hand to hers and held it softly. “Thank you. We have a similar belief but we call him Almaran, the Father God of Law.”

She kissed his forehead and stood up, returning to her packing, and slowly getting dressed. “I hope you find what you need Zechariah. I also hope, that your path brings you back to me.”

Zechariah stood from the floor and went over and embraced her. “Goodbye Nawfa. May Krulnac protect you.”

“I believe it is you who will need that prayer more than I.” She said hugging him back. “Now go, I have a lot of work to do.” pulling away from him, she turned her back to him, saying no more. Zechariah paused for a moment longer, then opened the door and left.

November 18th, 2020

Zechariah made his way slowly through the cold stone walls of the Keep. It was amazing to him, that in the blazing heat of the Barrens, the inner walls of the Keep always seemed to remain cool. The outer rooms could get blisteringly hot, and the lower inner rooms were a prize local that many people gambled for. Thinking of his conversation with Nawfa, his mind wandered to Mudaris and his words. Not sure what else to do with his day, he decided to make his way to the 'gardens' as they were.

He was surprised to see a number of Ghabar Rijali at work in the gardens. They were shoveling away the sands. A monstrous task as the sands were piled high. Yet on they worked, in the scorching heat of the Barrens singing away as they did. Shovel after shovel into a makeshift cart that they dragged over to a wagon, dumping the sands inside. He knew hard labor, but out here, shoveling sand? That seemed so pointlessly laborious. He watched for a time, walking around the perimeter of the gardens, until he came to a group of them sat on a small wall, drinking from water pouches.

“Al'harrabu judge you fairly.” Zechariah said, bowing slightly in a polite greeting. The Dustmen smiled at his greeting, and each stood to give their greeting in return.

“Flavorless and just may he be to all.” They replied though with difficulty pronouncing all the words. Returning to their seats they shuffled aside making room for Zechariah saying, “Sit. Sit!”

Joining the friendly Dustmen, and accepting a warm drink of water, he nodded towards the working crowd. “Why are you clearing away the sands?”

They looked to each other, and he could hear some of the words he used, being discussed in their native tongue, as they tried to parse together what he had asked them. Finally, returning one of them said with a big smile, “To reach living sand.”

“Living sand?” Zechariah inquired.

“Um...” the man said returning to his comrades. After some more conversation he turned back to Zechariah and said, “This.” as he picked up a shovel, smacked the flat of it against the sand and drew it back, repeating the action.

“Oh, you mean earth or soil or dirt. You're clearing away the sands so you can farm it.” He said nodding. The Dustman looked at him blankly and then shrugged, returning to his seat to rest. “You guys are planning to be here for quite a while aren't you?” He asked more to himself than the Dustmen, as they looked at him not understanding his words.

One of the Dustmen jostled the other saying something, the other argued back and they started bickering loudly, though neither one of them seemed angry. Zechariah looked at them quizzically, not understanding what the disagreement was about. It spread from one, to another, and eventually the whole group was arguing loudly about something. Suddenly, all at once they turned to him and the one who was doing most of the dialogue before bowed slightly to him and, pointing to Zechariah's arm asked 'How this be?”

Zechariah looked at his arm in it's sling and sighed replying with one word. “Khayrat.” He started in surprise as all the Dustmen howled with laughter hooting. A couple of them, while laughing, pulled out their drop pouches and exchanged a few copper drops with each other. Assholes Zechariah thought smiling to himself. He just couldn't hate the good-natured approach to life the Dustmen had. He supposed that what Nawfa had said was right. All these men, beneath their smiles, were tough. The women especially so. Weather worn, hard working, grim in reality. Yet, in the face of their 'meager' lives, they found humor and laughter and seemed all the better for it. They did what they had to. Damned be the consequences, and they found peace in understanding that simple rule in life. Do you what you must, and accept the consequences of your actions. That is, in the end, the meaning of Al'harrabu. Just and fair, all actions have consequences.

Zechariah stood, thanking the Dustmen for their water and company, and headed to his 'dorms'. He had been relocated to a wing of Umarians. Arriving at his dorm, he found it empty, due to everyone else being on duty, training or resting in the commons, likely gambling. Zechariah sat on the floor, and considered 'his belongings'. Currently, just a couple of changes of clothes...and nothing else. He'd lost everything. Twenty revolutions of his Father's savings, lost. Sighing to himself and tired from everything going on, he laid down upon his mat, and fell asleep.

That evening, he awoke as the soldiers came in to sleep. Removing armor, bodies all stinking from sweat and muddy sands. He lay there quietly, as one by one they bedded down to rest. Soon, he was lying on the floor surrounded by men and women. One arm tucked behind his head, he looked upon a small arrow slit that served as the only window in the room. Outside, he began to see a cool blue light begin to fill the window. It was small, barely the size of a drop, but it shone with a bright softness that dimly illuminated the room in which he lay. He gazed upon that small point of bright light, pondering how it had arrived there, and what it was. Was it the soul of a great being passing into the afterlife as many claimed? Was it the birth of some unknown God? Was it just an anomaly? Or perhaps the beginning of an entirely new world? A part of him hated to gaze upon the night lights for there were so many unanswered questions. They set a restless feeling in his heart, and he lamented the fact that he would never know the answers to what these great night lights were.

Night lights.

He sat up slowly staring into nothingness for some time. Taking a deep breath he stood and, carefully, stepped between the sleeping bodies of those around him, and began to make his way out of the Keep. Exiting the Keep, he walked past a Dustman guard who nodded to him, and watched him walk out into the city. He strolled slowly, by the dim light of the night, to the gardens and wandered around the furrows and channels that had already been excavated. The Dustmen had done an impressive job, clearing away the sands. There was still much work to be done but it was surprising how committed they were to their tasks. He could begin to see where the flower beds once were, how there would have a bush there, a tree here. It might have been beautiful once upon a time. To him, it might become beautiful again, for he found farmland to be quite serene. However, he doubted it would ever again be considered beautiful as it once had been. Also, why try to build farmland so close to the Keep? Surely it would be an ideal target for saboteurs during the siege?

He stopped once again, and looked around the quiet night. He could feel a cold breeze blowing against his skin, and he tipped his head back, enjoying the sounds of night. It was strange. Though dark, there was barely a shadow in sight, the blue light from above illuminated everything in it's cool light. He heard the soft hooting of an owl, hunting for desert mice. The scurry of something off in the distance. Even out here, there was life. A footstep upon the sands.

It took a moment for it to register, but Zechariah spun quickly at the sound of approaching feet. Out of the shadows of a house, rode a figure on a horse, in long flowing robes, obscured by the night and the veil. Zechariah was in no condition to fight, so he dropped low, ready to run.

“Be at ease Zechariah.” A man's voice came from under the veil. It was clearly a Dustman, but his speech was nearly as good as Nawfa's.

“Who are you? How do you know me?” Zechariah asked suspiciously. He didn't recognize the voice. Mudaris? No, Mudaris spoke well but not that well.

“If you would, a softer voice would be appreciated. Come into the shadows, and I will explain.” He sawed the reigns of his horse, and walked back, disappearing into the shadows.

Follow a stranger into the shadows of an alley? What was he doing? He carefully stepped forward, his eyes darting left, right, up. Looking for any sign of hostle intent, his ears straining. His heart raced, and not just for the fear of ambush, but his feet trembled as he stepped into the inky black shadows. He more heard than saw the man dismount, and the horse snorted softly in the darkness. Suddenly, there came into being, a small flame like thing, floating to dimly light the area. Barely enough to make out shapes, very dark still, but enough so you could see where the shapes of things were.

“You're a Ritualist!” Zechariah said somewhat accusitorily.

“I am The Ritualist Zechariah.” The voice said quietly.

“Zaeim?” Zechariah guessed.

“No, but it is as good a guess as any. You do not know me. Indeed, not many do. However, I have spoken with Zaeim, and per Mudaris' request, he asked that I speak to you.”

“Then what's your name? And speak to me about what?” His curiosity was indeed peaked, but he did not like this at all.

“About the marks upon your hand.” The figure said simply, though Zechariah felt cold.

“What do you know about them?”

“That as with a sword, it is not evil unless wielded in the wrong hands. May I see it?” He extended a gloved hand. Not a single patch of skin was uncovered. This individual, whomever it was, was very concerned about keeping covered up. There was a faint notion to tear off his veil and see his face but, he didn't know what a Ritualist could do, and it sounded like suicide.

Stepping forward, he placed his left had into the upturned palm of this stranger. The stranger didn't look down, but rather, brought his other hand up, and began to trace the runes with a finger, as though memorizing them by touch. He said nothing, moved nothing, just stood there, tracing the rune over and over again. Eventually, he let go of Zechariah's hand.

“Well?” Zechariah asked. “What is it?”

“Unfortunately, I'm not sure. Although I know all runes involved with Ritualism, this comes from another type of magic. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure even the Channeler's would know what rune this is.”

“What!” Zechariah asked incredulously. “They're...they're the only hope I have! What am I supposed to do if the Channeler's can't help me?”

“I did not say they wouldn't be able to help you. I said, I doubt it is a rune they know. You're hand is...like where charcoal has been removed by rubber. It seems to be more of a lacking than being.”

“Great. That's so very helpful. Why even come here to say anything if you don't' know anything?”

The man, or...being, stood quietly and Zechariah knew it was not because it was stumped. After a short pause that felt like an eternity it finally said, “I know that the rune was not carved by your hand. You do not possess the Aetherial soul. You're heart is empty. This means, that you are possessed.”

“I'm not possessed!” Zechariah cried in desperate defiance, interrupting the shrouded form. “I never invited them in...” He said gritting his teeth and running a hand through his hair.

“Regardless, you are possessed and it is from it's or their power, that this rune was created. What purpose it serves I do not know, but what I do know is Maharrani will want it. She did not know what she had before her, and that was to your fortune. But from what you told Mudaris, she should know shortly, if she has not already figured it out. The Channeler's may not know the runes, but they are the ones most experienced when it comes to dealing with demons.”

“That's great. Now I know this, when I've already been drafted into the army! If I leave now, I'll be branded a deserter, and I'll never be welcomed in Uthar, or the Channeler's school.” Zechariah said in frustration.

The form, in it's silent regality, stepped forward and handed Zechariah the reigns to his horse. Zechariah took them in his hands, and froze staring at them dumbly. The decision paralyzing him. Stay, and die a soldier's death, or flee and die a deserter's death? From the shadows, he heard one word. “Al'harrabu.”

Looking up quickly, the man was gone. Man...or...being. A chill ran down his spine. Was that...could that have been...? He shook his head. “Al'harrabu,” He said in prayer as he swung his legs up and stepped into the saddle, “Judge me justly and fairly.”