the Path Travelled - part 5

part 4
Part 5 - the Holy City of Mern

The city was large, and its limestone towers and blue domes glinted wonderfully in the afternoon sun. Though they were still some miles away, Chronicler could see nothing to suggest any unrest or attacks. Good, he thought.

There was something about an approach to a new settlement that always filled Chronicler with excitement. It was like a new book, he realised, the promise of mysteries and new stories that lay beyond its walls. Anything was possible and through his explorations whatever was possible would become manifest.

They moved slowly through empty fields and hollow farmsteads that surrounded the walls. Though it was early afternoon and the sun was out, there was no one to be seen: no farmer, nor herdsmen, no beasts of any kind. In the distance to the North West, Chronicler saw another patrol.

He spied the gibbets and carrion birds circling above before he saw the purple paraments hanging from the walls flanking the gatehouse. There was no smell, only the unsightly dark shapes crumpled inside the cages that hung from tall poles, swinging lifelessly in the breeze. Behind the city, low overhead, was the waning Ivory Moon.

“Bandits,” said Izian, seeing the others grimacing.

Chronicler’s eyes followed the bodies as they passed beneath them, hollow eyes staring down at him, rictus grins mocking him from beyond the pall of death. There must have been two dozen in all, just sticking out of the earth, flanking the road leading into the city. They were in a severe state of decay, blackened and dried by a sun that had grown relentless over the past days. The ground beneath the gibbets was littered with charnel and scavenging hounds remained in the peripheries, hoping for more morsels.

We are the lucky ones, Chronicler imagined them whispering at him, bony fingers gripping their cages. He shook his head and looked ahead.

They were allowed through the gate without question, by grace of Izian’s aegis.

Suddenly they were walking down a steep slope in darkness, the enormity of the fortress enveloping them. Behind them the gate was dragged shut and a portcullis lowered. They were met by a pair of men, unarmoured, wearing purple tabards whose frayed edges licked the ground. One moved to Izian and whispered something to him.

Izian replied, his voice clearly audible. “Tell him yourself,” he gestured towards Sallan.

The man regarded the merchant for a nervous moment and retreated.

“What was that about,” said Sallan, barging his way in front of Izian.

“It has been spoken about for days, though nothing official was made of it until now.”

“What?”

“The doors are to be closed to entry and  exit until our outriders can confirm the area is clear. Those bodies you saw before entering the city are not the only remnants of the raiders.”

“How long are they to remain closed? I am a merchant, I cannot stay here for ever. I make a living from trading wares between settlements.”

“Calm down man,” said Izian. “You will likely be here for days before you even need to think of leaving. Gods-willing, everything will be fine by then.”

“And if not fine, will you compensate me for my losses?”

“Does it look like I can give you an answer, one way or another? Take your petition before the Zenarchs, maybe they will relent.”

Izian bowed and left, the remainder of his men going with him, leaving the caravan at the doorstep of the city. Sallan turned to one of his advisors, Szigall; a wiry man of scarred pale skin, and began speaking rapidly in a tongue Chronicler did not understand.

Szigall shouted commands at the guards and porters in a smattering of languages and they scrambled. If Chronicler was right, they were headed towards the mercantile district in search of a caravanserai.

It was dark by the time they had settled down within the caravanserai and by the time Sallan had washed and changed into clothes more fitting for an audience with the government, it was too late. He busied himself with his own matters while the others slept and the next morning he threw himself into his work, going to the wholesalers with his goods.

But no one was in a buying mood. Local merchants had been denied the right to leave the city and exports had drawn to a standstill. The city was accumulating exportable items and was receiving none of its normal imports in return, wracking havoc with prices.

While Sallan was swearing about his goods, he had sent representatives to the Civic Palaces to obtain an audience with the rulers. But they were turned away with the same message that had greeted all other petitioners in the past few days: The doors are closed to safeguard the city. And they had been the last to enter.

Sallan returned to the caravanserai a worn man. He sat down in his chair and took a crystal decanter, pouring out a dark honey-coloured liquid into a tin cup. He sat quietly for some time.

The silence hung pregnant in the air and those who looked upon him feared to talk. The porters moved to their quarters, which though cramped and close to the stables, presented a far more desirable alternative to the suite their employer had chosen.

When Szigall broke the news of his reception at the Civic Palaces, Sallan nodded silently. Already dark eyes darkened beneath a brow that had grown heavy.

The next day brought little change. More patrols left the city and chronicler lingered around the market lapping up any rumours he could find. Word was the returning guards had found signs of a large group of travellers, though their tracks were obscured. The Zenarchs remained cautious, and kept the gates stayed closed.

Sallan continued to try and sell his wares to make room for new goods, but there was simply no desire amongst the local merchants to buy luxury items. What they needed was food and water, neither of which he had enough of to make the profit he required. The frankincense, he sold, as it was vital to local rituals. But that was about it.

Chronicler and Assathan spent their days together wandering around the city. It was different-enough from Ras to keep Chronicler’s interests piqued, though not so different as to require him to study its culture anew.

The Surrach was odd, in that its settlements had never consolidated in the way those in the north ever had. Where elsewhere cities and regions had coalesced to form nations, those of the Surrach were somehow immiscible. There was an independence, fierce and hard-fought, that permeated the blood of the Surrachi people, and cultural identity was very important to its people.

Chronicler hadn’t seen enough of Mern yet to know what was unique about it, but he was getting an idea. There were plenty of shrines scattered throughout the city and most street corners had mounted in their first floor a niched statue depicting a cowled figure. The few people who’d understood his questions had told him there were three figures, the founders of Mern, and each was a patron of certain districts and vocations. Some streets, seemingly those with a more prestigious history, were overseen by all three figures.

It was only later, when he and Assathan stumbled upon a temple of the city’s faith that he learnt that those three figures were the Zenarchs. The temple was open, with five corners, behind each of which stood a guard. The corners supported a large blue dome on top of which was a marble statue of the three Zenarchs, their backs to each other.

Beneath the dome was an amphitheatre, with stairs leading down to a circular stage in which a naked man was rushing about, placing things on a circular altar. Assathan had laughed, causing the man to look up at them, though that was about the only acknowledgement they got before he returned to his work. Chronicler reasoned he must have been some form of acolyte, perhaps in penance or castigation. By that time others had started to enter the temple, curious of the man loitering outside. They sat down on the steps and waited.

Assathan grew bored and left for the market after a while, leaving Chronicler alone observing the man as he worked. He was bald and of russet skin, though his back was covered in a thick black patchwork of tattoos. His penis bounced around as he moved. Any oddity in the scenario was completely lost upon the guards and the men and women who were slowly arriving.

The man had replaced a lace cover on the altar, and was placing an alabaster cup down. Next to that he placed two large burners. He opened them, revealing piles of frankincense, which he lit up. Soon the pungent odour was filling the temple. Chronicler hated the smell.

It must have been around noon by the time the temple filled up and the naked man began what was clearly a mass. The man raised his hands in welcome and spoke in a calm voice, turning almost continuously so that the audience had his full attention. When he spoke it was in a language that Chronicler could not make out. And it wasn’t just a regional variant: not a single word could he identify. It was odd, with harsh glottals and long vowels.

Chronicler was astonished. He had never seen such a ritual, and the nonchalance of the congregation only meant the priests nakedness was a part of the ritual or local custom. Perhaps holy men had vowed to walk the world naked, in some form of symbolic gesture. It was amazing and something unique, and for that, as always, he was glad.

The priest became more animated, gesticulating wildly with his hands. The crowd remained silent, though many were nodding their heads or raising their hands in what Chronicler assumed was agreement.

The priest moved to the altar and picked up the cup, raising it above his head. The crowd repeated the gesture, raising their hands together. He lowered the vessel and removed from it a chunk of red wax. He replaced the cup on the table though held on to the wax, kneading it in his hands until it was warm and pliable. He broke it in half and spoke purposefully to the crowd. He placed half in the cup and broke the remaining piece in half and repeated the gesture until there were 3 different-sized pieces of wax in the cup and one small piece in his hand. He rolled it into a ball and pressed it onto his head and knelt. The congregation followed as one and they chanted together for some time before standing up. There was a short prayer and then, just like that, they began pouring out of the temple.

Chronicler remained there until he was alone, watching the priest continue in his solitary ritual. He mashed the piece of wax together and replaced it into the white cup.

Then he looked up and beckoned Chronicler onwards. Unsure, Chronicler walked down to the stage. The man spoke to him in a pidgin tongue. His words were simple, perfunctory, as mishmash languages so often were. Chronicler could just about understand him. “Not from here, you.”

This close, Chronicler could see that the man couldn’t be older than thirty. His face was a wasteland of pock marks and one of his eyes was grey and clouded. He stunk of stale sweat.

Chronicler nodded, tried to smile. “It’s that obvious?”

The priest grinned childishly and bowed. “You understand ritual?”

“No.”

“Bad. Ritual is good, cleans spirit and body.”

“Why are you naked?”

“Religion brings us close to otherworld,” he gestured to the ceiling. “In the otherworld, there are no things. No clothes. No bodies. This frees me to better know meaning of otherworld.”

Chronicler nodded. “And the wax?”

“We all come from One,” he said, making an expansive gesture with his hands. He then reversed it, “and we all return to One. You may think you are alone, but you must not despair, for you are part of One – you come from greatness and will return to greatness. Therefore you are great. Those are the teachings of the Zenarchs.”

“The Zenarchs,” repeated Chronicler. “I gather church and state are one here?”

The priest did not seem to understand the question.”

“The Zenarchs are religious leaders?”

The priest smiled, nodded.

“They are also government leaders?”

“Of course.”

Chronicler nodded, though his smile faded. That was rarely a good sign. “And they are elected?”

The priest cocked his head to one side, his brow furrowing.

“Never mind,” said Chronicler, “Thank you.”

***

Sallan was spending less time at the market and more in his suite. What money he had he was forced to spend on their keep – which included, apparently, alcohol for himself and those closest to him.

The mood was slowly deteriorating. They all knew that every day they lingered there meant lost profits and the increased likelihood of Sallan exploding, metaphorically, of course, though Chronicler could swear his complexion had grown steadily redder.

He grinned at his desk, and raised his hands to his face to mask the expression.

But it was inevitable. He had to blow at some point.

Chronicler was sitting on the terrace when it happened, watching the sky darken. Above, the Blood Moon was a day away from full, with the Ivory moon a waning sliver far away.

He heard the sound of smashing glass and winced.

He stood, went through the arched doorway into the suite where he saw Sallan pacing around and Szigall and Mahr standing nervously to one side.

“Gods be damned. It’s been almost a week and those cowards have refused to open the doors. What difference is it to them if I leave? They are not my masters. They are not! I am my own lord and I want to leave this gods-forsaken place. I must talk with them.”

“It would it be best if you waited until tomorrow,” said Mahr.

Beside him Szigall nodded. “The guide is right, Sallan. You are angry and it is unlikely that the Zenarchs will receive visitors at this hour.”

“They will receive me,” he roared.

“Then go” said Szigall, “The sooner we can leave this place, the better.”

Sallan, nodded and left, taking a pair of his guards with him.

Chronicler plunked down into a sofa. “He always like this?”

Szigall nodded. “He is used to getting his way. He does not like to admit defeat, even against such forces of nature he cannot possibly have any control over.”

“I gather he was once a captain?”

“Yes, in the Bakhran states. Place isn’t very stable. A few years ago it fell to a Potentate who’d been playing the whole region like a game. Arranged marriages. Business arrangements. Bribes. Assassinations maybe. Well, he got what he wanted, and unified the place. Most saw it as a good thing, and under his control the region prospered. Under his leadership the region became expansionist and began attacking settlements to the west. He decimated what resistance he met, taking those not killed as slaves. Many within Potentate Khagan’s council opposed the attacks. Well, they were made examples of to other would-be traitors.

“Sallan was a centurion in command of a thousand men and… well, he was one of the good men. There was a time when he was loyal to Khagan, but he didn’t like the changes his ascendancy had wrought. He defected, fled east. Fled… that’s not the word for it.”

“He is a man without a home,” said Chronicler.

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Szigall, “all merchants are without a home.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t not know much about the Zenarchs but I doubt Sallan is the only one petitioning them to leave, but I doubt anything will make them change their minds.”

“I meant Bakhran,” said Chronicler.

“Not our concern, Chronicler,” said Szigall.

“So, we just wait?” said Mahr.

Szigall nodded slowly, picking up pieces of glass from the floor.

“Church and state are one here, and the Zenarchs are leaders of both,” said Chronicler.

“Probably means they’re arrogant pricks who wield total power amongst the people.”

They were silent for a while.

“Perhaps we should stop Sallan from doing anything foolish.”

“Let him go. Sometimes he needs to hit a stone wall to know he has to stop.”

“Is that wise?” asked Mahr. “The Zenarchs may not suffer fools.”

“Do not let him hear you say that,” said Szigall.

“So we just wait here for them to decide his fate?”

“His fate is in their hands as much as it is in any one else’s. What needs to happen will happen. I have authority to continue should he become indisposed.”

“Gods, how cold can you be? The man is your friend.”

Szigall laughed hollowly. “Sallan is many things, but he is not a friend. I do not know where you come from, though clearly things out here are done differently. This is business, nothing more, or less.”

“What if they kill him,” said Chronicler.

Mahr rolled his eyes.

“By-the-Fountain, why would they kill him?” asked Szigall.

Chronicler shrugged. “And the raiders? Maybe they’ve had to make allowances due to them.”

“They are being overprotective. The walls surrounding this city are not a coincidence. This is a different land to Ras. We are heading deeper into Saviud. Contact between settlements is not as frequent. People do not tend to travel much. Merchants are as much traders of information as they are sellers of goods. The people here cannot rely on aid – they must face any obstacles alone. They have every right to close their doors.”

“Well I’m getting bored here.”

“Why are you even here,” asked Szigall.

Chronicler didn’t know what to say. “I am a traveller. An explorer. A cataloguer of human experiences.”

Szigall scoffed. “Where are you going?”

“Wherever my travels take me.”

“Is he for real,” asked Szigall, turning to Mahr. Mahr nodded.

“Do you know what Saviud means?” asked Szigall suddenly, looking up at him.

Chronicler shook his head, no.

“Of course not. It means conflict. It is something that characterises this whole region. We are hard-headed, of strong wills. We do not bow down easily. It is why we do not have empires like the north. Some say that is good. The foundations of all our settlements are set on conflict. Mern was taken through siege. Ras was built in a waterless wasteland and yet it survives. Zaffre was built by slaves and later ruled by their descendants. Nothing comes easy here. You may want to learn that.”

“You think I am a fool.”

Szigall made no effort to contradict him.

“You think I am an idiot, melodramatic. But you do not travel as far as I have without learning about the world. I have been to places your merchant friends have never heard of. I have spoken to halfbloods and supped with mulls and chitins. I have been greeted by kings and held audiences with pontiffs. I have seen my fair share of death and destruction. I have seen the Atramenta and travelled with Shapers, both light and dark. Do not assume to know who I am, because you are wrong.”

“Well you certainly are melodramatic.”

“I will get us out of here.”

***

Chronicler left the stifling confines of the caravanserai. Increasingly he had begun to look upon the place as a prison. Unable to leave the city, he had to content himself with the relative freedom he was allowed within its walls.

He’d already made himself familiar with the various districts and quarters and had conjured what he hoped was an informed opinion of the city, though of course his experiences had been tainted by the threat of raiders. Everyone he spoke to was preoccupied with the closed gates, so it had been difficult to get an unbiased impression of the city. People were either worried about their abandoned fields, or thinking of impending food shortages. Already some items that relied on imported foods and spices had increased in price if not disappeared entirely. Meat was beginning to run low even though there were apparently great reserves of grain and water beneath the city, so though the luxury of choice might be dwindling, the threat of outright starvation was nowhere in sight.

He was in a drinking hall, where many people, particularly those locked inside the city – either farmers and herdsmen from without the walls, as well as foreigners and other merchants – had started frequenting. It was a good place to learn of the common sentiment as well as what was happening in the city.

He sat down and bought a mild drink and simple stew and sat, listening to those around him.

“They have all the cities surrounded. It’s only a matter of time until the food runs out.”

“They’re preying on the caravans and sacrificing their victims to old gods.”

“I met a Derren nomad, who said an otherworlder is coming, to unite Saviud.”

“They are selling their spoils at increased prices to other cities in the north.”

“It’s the thaumaturgs, you mark my words. Yeppo is trying to expand and is starting with us!”

“There’s a general, skin black as coal, eyes red, who is leading the raiders. Some say he’s an otherworlder.”

“They’re Blood Mages. And when the Blood Moon is full, they’ll attack us!”

On and on the rumours went, each less believable than the last, making it impossible to sort the truth from the chaff. It was likely there were kernels of truth in the heart of each comment, though they’d been corrupted by thoughtless retelling and embellishments until they had become fabrications.

He was about to leave when he heard something else, something that made him stop and listen. It wasn’t what he heard, so much as who he saw saying it. It was one of the riders who’d escorted them into the city. He was sitting back on a large chair, shoulders slumped back, askew.

“They’re not telling you the truth. He’s not black as coal. He’s not a demon, he’s just a man – a powerful man – from the south… The Zenarchs have known about him for a while, even had dealings with him before. Not anymore though. Name is Orkon, and his followers fear him as we fear them.”

As he spoke he paused many times, licking his lips, blinking strangely. The man was clearly drunk.

But still, his words were interesting.

***

No one saw Sallan return, but the next morning they found him passed out on the sofa, still in the same clothes he was wearing the night before.

When Chronicler entered the room, the man was gone. Szigall was on the merchant’s desk, sorting through some papers. He looked up, regarded Chronicler for a moment and returned to the papers. “We managed to get rid of the frankincense, some of the saffron and natron salt. We still have over half our goods to unload, though.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Could be better. I’ll be happier if we manage to get out of this place within a few days.”

“And Sallan?”

“Downstairs.”

“I think I’ll see how he’s doing.”

“I’d leave him alone.”

“Afraid of a bit of drama?”

Chronicler went downstairs into the common area. It was not much to look at – just a long wide room with straw-covered floors and rows of benches and stools. It’s north wall was little more than a series of arches that soaked up what natural sunlight was available, though the beaded curtains that hung from them broke the light, leaving the place in a well-natured gloom. From one end of the room Chronicler could see a stove on which was perched a large pot, behind was stood a stick-thin boy, stirring. The smell of spices and herbs was unmistakeable.

Sallan was sitting on one of the benches, head held low, fingers wrapped around a large tin cup. Immediately upon sitting down next to him Chronicler could smell the alcohol in it.

“Leave me alone.”

“If my opinion is of any relevance,” began Chronicler, but the merchant cut him off before he could continue.

“It is not, alien! Do not forget the conditions of our agreement. Stay out of my business.”

“The way I see it there is no business going on here.”

The merchant looked up, “You looking for a fight?”

“I’m looking to get you off that chair. What happened last night?”

“Doors were closed.”

“You plan on, ah, trying again?”

Sallan almost smiled at that. He sat down, took another gulp from his drink and called out to some unseen person to bring two others. A minute or-so later someone came from a small door behind the stove, carrying two glasses filled with dark liquid. “That answer your question?”

Chronicler pushed the glass away.

“Drink with me, traveller.”

Chronicler considered the request before sitting. The man was a disgraced… what had it been? Centurion. He was a merchant who’s travelled across Saviud. Surely he had a good story in him, but could he pry it from him?

He sat in silence taking meagre sips form the glass. He had never been one to drink much and he was guessing if things went well, he’d be offered more glasses soon. He waited for the man to speak, but he never did, he just sat hunched, elbows on table, hand periodically bringing the glass to his mouth.

Suddenly the man turned his head round and looked to chronicler. He nodded, as though to attract the attention of a man already intrigued. “So, you travel the world?”

Chronicler nodded, decided to play it slow. He didn’t reply.

Sallan nodded, raised his eyebrows. “Elyden showed you many of her secrets?”

“Depends what you mean by secrets. There are many things in this world that lie forgotten, though they may be open to the elements. There are other, far darker things that were purposefully hidden. Both fascinate me but I am not so foolish as to be lured in by the latter.”

Sallan smiled. “And how do you know which is which?”

“That’s the thing. Only way to really know is to dive in head first.”

Sallan laughed. “You jest, but you are right. The world is an old place, dark, and she grows darker with each passing year.”

“The darkness interests me,” said Chronicler, grinning.

“You don’t strike me as the type.”

“I’m unusual that way.”

“Tell me, why are you going to Zaffre?”

“It’s a place and I’m alive,” said Chronicler. To be honest there was no particular reason why he was going there. He let his travels dictate routes taken. So much could happen whilst on the road that there was little point in making plans. He rarely planned more than one settlement ahead, and made it up as he went along. He’d decided on Zaffre while he was still following Farad, though his obsession with the pale ones had ended that partnership. Sallan was the next person they’d found and he was heading north, also, so Chronicler had assumed he’d go north as far as the caravan and leave the rest to chance.

“And you,” said Chronicler, “any method to the path you are taking north?”

“I know the Ivory Road well, know what the cities trade in, what they need, what surpluses they have.”

“The road goes many hundreds of miles West of here. How familiar are you with those peculiar lands?”

“It’s near five-thousand miles long. Haven’t been a merchant long enough to go that far. It’s a long road, divided by many borders and troubled lands. I would admire any man who has completed the road from Ashhar to Kochab,” he paused, eying Chronicler. “How old are you? Thirty-five, fourty?

“Thirrty-three.”

Sallan nodded. “Clearly a man of the road. How far west have you been?”

Chronicler made a show of thinking, and when he replied he smiled, “Mern.”

“Uncharted waters then. How are you finding them?”

“Aside from being restrictive, accommodating enough. Their priests are somewhat interesting,”

“Damned loons. How can you follow a religion with a naked madman at its heart?”

“You need to exorcise any misconceptions of culture if you are to fully appreciate the customs of a foreign nation. What is commonplace in one region is taboo in another.”

“Still doesn’t make it normal.”

“So what is normal where you come from?”

Sallan did not reply and returned to his glass. Chronicler did not push the subject. If the man wanted to talk he would.

They sat in silence long after their drinks ended.

Finally, Chronicler spoke again. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home that I can barely remember what normal there is. Siriphagos, it is called, and it’s an old place, rich history, lots of war. Proud people who fended off the Korachani, amongst others. But I can’t remember any details. I was a child when I was taken away with my father, a merchant. Can I still call it home, over twenty years later? How many years need to pass before your home is so no longer?”

“If it truly was your home, no distance – not time or space – can sever that link. You will always remember those little things, the flowers that bloomed on the hills outside your home, or the birds that nested in trees that live nowhere else. The language, the smells, its people. Home is home.”

Chronicler was nodding. Finally, Sallan had become more than just a sulking drunkard. He’d become a human. He had a story.

Chronicler would have probed further but a fracas from outside distracted him. Sallan, also, stood up, ears pricked. And then they heard it.

“The armies are here!”

“They’re outside the walls, waiting.”

“They’re attacking.”

Only there had been no attack. Sallan and Chronicler rushed out of the caravanserai and followed the source of the panic, running up stepped streets to a bastion-garden beneath the walls. Already a crowd had gathered and riflemen had waded through the crowds, taking up positions behind the ramparts. Their view was obstructed by the people but there was no denying it – a huge group of raiders had put up camp just outside the walls, outside cannon-range.

There were a great many black banners sprouting from the mass, all sporting the same device: a white figure, arms outstretched. Pennants and flags were fluttering wildly in the wind.

“Look,” said a boy, pointing to a particular point in the horde where two figures had emerged. One was armoured, wide back draped in a dark cloak. His skin was black as coal. Both were riding leathery mantras, their ophidian gait odd and nothing at all like that of the camels and horses Chronicler was used to.

They rose white banners and rode slowly up to the city gate, though they were out of sight before Chronicler could see whether or not they’d be allowed entry.

“Why aren’t they firing on them?” asked Chronicler.

Sallan ignored him.

“We have to go down,” said Chronicler.

Sallan followed Chronicler, who remembered the way to the gate as though he had been there a dozen times before. As they approached the gate they saw that the portcullis were already raised and the gate itself was being dragged open. “They’re letting them in! We have to go to the Civic Palaces, quickly!” said Chronicler.

It was evening in Mern and the all but the tallest of buildings were shrouded in pale shadows by then. The streets were not as busy as they might be in the mornings, but there was a fair amount of traffic. They passed quickly through the wandering groups of people and individuals, making their way to the administrative quarters.

The streets widened and they were rushing along a wide thoroughfare with two wide roads separated by a central strip in which grew various pared trees. Ahead loomed their target, the Civic Palace and its myriad annexes. It was an odd building, with sloped sides and no windows. It was large, looming above most other nearby structures, with a blue dome capping it. A large stairway led up the structure to a vestibule, within which stood a copper double door. Braziers flanked it, bathing its green-stained carvings in orange light. Scattered figures were moving up and down the stairs.

Chronicler paused for breath and faced one of the guards. Behind him the door was a magnificent sight, which even his cursory look showed stylised vistas of possibly was a local legend or hero-myth in which a triad of figures featured prominently.

“There is an army outside your gates, it’s champion, Orkon seeks to parley with the Zenarchs.”

The guard’s eyes turned to Chroniclers for the first him, then flitted to his companions’. When someone addressed Chronicler it was not that guard, but the one beside him. He left his post, stepped towards Chronicler. “What do you know of this?”

“There’s a lot of them,” started Chronicler.

“Seven hundred, at least.”

“That is no army.”

Sallan replied. “Raiders do not have armies. They raid. And that is a large number of men who may lie in wait of caravans. The city will never receive a caravan again.”

“Have the Zenarchs been warned yet?” asked Sallan.

The guard looked around, as though looking for an answer in the eyes of his companions. “No. We will tell him now. Thank you for your vigilance.”

“Word is spreading through the city as we speak,” said Sallan.

The guard nodded and called for a messenger, who ran off deeper into the palace.

“I seek an audience with the Zenarchs,” said Chronicler. He looked at Sallan for moment.

“The Zenarchs are currently indisposed, and if what you say is true then I doubt they will have the time for petitioners.”

“I am a chronicler, a keeper of records, and an interpreter, I can help.”

The guard laughed. “The Zenarchs are fluent in all the tongues of Saviud and they certainly do not need a foreigner’s help. Now go back to the safety of whatever hostel has put you up.”

“Do not speak to him that way. He has warned you of the approaching army.”

“And do not speak to us that way,” spoke one of the guards from behind Sallan. He was a large man, at least the merchant’s equal in terms of height and bulk, but he was armed and armoured and carried the weight of whatever laws protected the city.

He stepped back, towards the stairs and nodded. “Chronicler, come. We have done what we can.”

Chronicler stared at him, not willing to believe what he saw. He followed him silently and the two retreated down the stairs, crossed paths with a group of guards hurrying up the stairs.

“You must choose your battles Chronicler. And this was not a battle we could have won.”

But he’d been so close to getting into the palace, to speaking with the Zenarchs. He swallowed his words, nodded, and carried on back to the caravanserai.

Their march back brought them down the thoroughfare. They were walking down the middle, and were almost at its end when they came across a large group of people heading towards them. Immediately Chronicler knew what it was.

There were perhaps a dozen local guards, some on foot, others on horseback. They were escorting a pair of figures mounted on mantras. The parley from the assembled army.

Chronicler had rarely seen anything of the kind. The dark-skinned man rode proudly, bright qaftan almost concealed beneath an encompassing black cloak on which was the white-figure emblem Chronicler had seen in the banners. He rode like a king, head high, eyes set imperiously on the approaching Civic Palace. He was their leader, Chronicler knew it, but it was the figure by his side that consumed his attentions.

The antithesis of that dark king, the other figure was a ghostly woman, tall and regal. Her skin was white, almost unnaturally so, crowned by long hair into which was woven a crown of delicate silver strands that culminated on her brow in a large purple gem that mirrored her stark eyes.

She wore a costume that echoed full-plate of northern history, though it was almost ethereal, a meld of silk dresses, pale silvery filigree and brocade that repeated her curves unashamedly.

As the group passed them Slaven could not help but follow her movements until the woman was out of sight.

“That is no raider,” he said, as though to himself.

***

That night he could not sleep. He’d been growing restless over the past few days, as he always did when tethered to one place for too long. But that wasn’t it. He kept on seeing her whenever he close his eyes: those purple eyes and alabaster skin. That dress. She’d been so regal and beautiful, yet cold, unlike anything he’d ever expected to see in the Surrach.

She’d not been human, that much was for certain, but what was she? So often that was a question that none could answer.

Chronicler woke and lit a lamp on his desk and began writing, hoping the release of words might help him sleep.

It is the forty-seventh day of our journey out of Ras. Sallan continues to act like a grounded child, sulking and drinking his days away while his apprentice does what he can to ensure the caravan remains profitable, if not now, then at least once the gates are opened.

I fill my days wandering through the wide streets of Mern, trying to learn what makes the place unique. There are many strange things that I have never seen together in other cities. It is a city of pragmatists, as harsh living so often turns people. The so-called Zenarchs, enigmatic figures who have resisted not only my attempts to seek an audience with them, but most others I have spoken with, have slowly fomented a powerful cult of personality around their legend. I see clues to their history all around the city – the doors of the Civic Palaces, in niches on street corners depicting vignettes from their history, on graffiti and murals on the walls of workshops, temple ceilings, and abandoned plots alike.

The coins here are triangular, further reinforcing the Zenarch’s legend, and are punch-marked like those in Ras. So far I have come across five different values, marked by their materials, though all depict the triptych face of the Zenarchs, which so often is shown as a singular body with three faces, each melding into the last – four eyes, three noses and a large mouth. The singular mouth, I feel, may be symbolic – though they are not of singular vision, they speak with one voice, one will. Their rule is absolute, unwavering. And I have seen nothing to oppose that view – the people here do not question their ruler’s will. Not one person I have met has shown doubt as to the legitimacy of their rule… yet, I have seen nothing to convince me of an unswerving loyalty to the cult of personality that is advertised on the surface. There isn’t the fanaticism that so characterises the people of the twin empires, just that pragmatism that characterises these people. And makes them so much warmer, in my eyes, at least.

Chronicler stopped, the tip of his pen wavering on the paper, which soaked up ink, ruining his words. He was thinking about her again, was wondering if she was still in the Civic Palace, or had she been sent away?

He tipped some fine sand onto the paper to soak up the ink and set aside his instruments.

He drunk a glass of water and changed into day clothes, though it was still dark out. He put his shoes on and left the caravanserai.

He went to the garden where he and Sallan had seen the army stationed outside. In truth the place had once been a bastion, part of the city’s defences. But the time for open warfare in Saviud had ended centuries ago, and it had been repurposed into a garden of criss-crossing paths and fruit-bearing trees suited to the dry climate – figs, carobs and apricots. There were scattered benches, some of them broken, all of them empty.

It was dark, though there was little cloud cover, and the stars provided more than enough illumination. The Blood Moon was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the Ivory Moon. A moonless night. That meant there was nobody watching over them. Or so some cultures said. He couldn’t remember which. Sometimes the information he’d accumulated on his journeys got jumbled up.

He walked over to the wall and leaned on the battlements, where the raiders’ forces had been.

They were still there, though had moved around and spread out to make camps, moving as far as a mile away from the walls. There were dozens of separate camps, each with a plethora of tents and campfires. Though it was late, he could see that many of the raiders were still up, eating or talking. He wondered who they were, where they had come from, what had driven them to such activity.

Everyone has a story, he thought, a grim smile painting his face. Everyone is the hero in his own tale. What made them heroic in their own eyes? What justified their actions against the caravans? “Is it Orkon,” he said aloud, wondering if the words would carry to the camp. Or was it the white lady?

***

It was late morning when he returned to the caravanserai.

There was an air of activity there and though the caravans were still in the yard and the goods were still locked away in storage halls, the porters and guards were moving about as though something was happening.

He saw Tsuri, who was sitting in the shade, his rifle resting on his legs.

“What’s happening?” asked Chronicler.

The guard shrugged, “Ask the men inside, they always know more.”

Chronicler found Mahr. The man was busy speaking with Sallan and Szigall.

“Have you heard the news?” said Mahr as he saw Chronicler there.

Chronicler shook his head.

“The raiders are part of a resurrectionist cult – the white symbol on their banners? It’s the otherworlder they worship, a scion of some sort. Luckily for us, the Zenarchs have proclaimed that the scion is their primogenitor’s brother – their theographers were busy tracing the bloodlines last night to confirm the ties. It’s official. The raiders, the Followers, as they call themselves, are now allied with the Zenarchs.”

“I’ve been wandering the markets and municipal quarters all morning. Why haven’t I heard of this?”

Mahr shrugged. “We received a message from the Civil Palaces not an hour ago. The guild of merchants is pressuring the Zenarchs’ offices to reopen the doors in light of the alliance. It’s just a matter of time now.”

“It was always just a matter of time. Why would they still keep the doors closed if there’s an alliance?”

Mahr passed on the message to Chronicler. It displayed the seal of the Civil Palaces and the mark of the Zenarchs and their offices and said, in great pretence, what Mahr had paraphrased. There was nothing in terms of details as to the agreement fostered between the raiders and the government. But there was a note stating that an emissary of the Followers had remained in Mern in an advisory capacity. “What’s this about,” he asked.

“You know as much as we do,” said Szigall.

“Do you think it’s the white lady?”

“Who?”

“Fallen in love, Chronicler?” said Sallan.

“Just asking.”

“I only noticed two figures yesterday, and if here say is to be believed the man-in-black was Orkon, their leader. I doubt he was the emissary. So it might just well be her.”

“Want to try storm the Palaces, Niyush?” smiled Mahr.

“I don’t like this,” said Chronicler.

Szigall nodded. “Me neither. If their uncertainties have been settled, then the gates would be open already and the army, or Followers, or whatever they’re calling themselves, would be on the move already. Something’s up.”

“It’s the bureaucracy of things,” said Sallan, “holds everything back. But the important thing is that things are moving, finally. We can get our things ready. Do you think word has reached the markets? This might spur traders to actually buy things. Send some of the porters out to spread the word.”

Sallan left Chronicler and Mahd in charge of the offices as he and Szigall left for the Merchant’s Guildhall to find out the situation.

“Soon,” said Mahr, “we will be on the move again. Even I have grown bored of this place. Time to get moving again, I’d say.”

“I have to go to the Civic Palaces,” said Chronicler suddenly, and left.

***

He was in a reception room in the Palaces. His arguing with the guards had paid off and they sent a messenger to the emissary or advisor or whatever they were calling her.

He was getting nervous waiting and was beginning to reconsider his rash decision to seek her out.

It was a large room, with a long polished cedar table in the middle. One side opened onto a wide terrace that overlooked the eastern districts. There was a southerly wind, what the locals called a black wind, possibly in reference to the Atramental wastes far to the south, and the air was stifling, filled with dust. He was glad he wasn’t on the road in such weather, but still, he was yearning for the saddle once more.

He went back into the room, sat nervously and took a drink of water form a cooled flask one of the servants had placed there. It was already getting warm.

The door opened and a servant came in, working with sliding locks to open the second door. She swung them open and moved aside.

Immediately, the white woman appeared and marched into the room. The servant disappeared behind her, closing the doors with a bang.

The woman observed him with calculating purple yes. Her face curled into a sneer.

Chronicler stood quickly, almost toppling the chair, and turned towards her.

She was no longer wearing the white costume and was in far simpler garb. Nevertheless she still made for a breath-taking figure. She was in a long purple dress of near-translucent quality, over which was a cream sari with brocaded hems. The dress complimented her eyes, which flared a livid purple, their whites large and otherworldly. Her hair was covered in a long caul of gold-and-silver thread that trailed down her back.

He was taken aback by the look and fumbled his greeting.

The woman stood, eyes squinting, awaiting the man to introduce himself.

“I am Niyush of Payaman, Chronicler of lawmakers and kings. I am humbled by your agreeing to meet with me,” he said, regaining his tongue and bowing low.

The woman remained silent, and walked forward a few paces, though she was still some distance from Chronicler. As she moved, his eyes glimpsed sandaled feet that were covered in henna.

There was an uncomfortable silence as he awaited her to address him, but she never did. She merely observed him with those alien eyes, head slightly cocked. He could not help but stare at her face, its smooth white skin, its tight jawline and cheeks. He could see a whisper of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She was older than she looked.

“What is it you want?” she said finally, with no pomp or introduction. Her words were sure, uttered with no hint of hesitation or doubt. They were strong, though there was something else hidden he could not quite tell. Something that kept him interested.

“I am a Chronicler of histories and cultures and was moving north to Zaffre when the doors to the city were closed behind my escort, locking us here. But now I can see why, the fates have intervened so that I could meet you. The world must learn of the Followers, what they represent, what their goals are.”

“You would seek an interview?”

“Please, you make it sound so formal, official. I am merely a collector of stories and when I saw you and your companion yesterday I knew you both had stories to tell. I am here, should you wish to share anything that I may share throughout the settlements that await my travels.”

“My companion is the Visyon Orkon, a great visionary and prophet, and you would do well to treat him with the respect he deserves. I am but a follower, one of many.”

Chronicler bowed in deference and took a step back. “I apologise for any affront. I am a stranger to your… group. That is why I am here, to learn.”

“If your apology is in flattery, it is misplaced. If it is genuine, it is… belittling of your sex.”

Chronicler was lost for words, but luckily she was not waiting for him to speak.

“The Visyon Orkon’s arrival here presages a great coming. Two red months ago a star fell from the empyrean dome. It is a herald to the rebirth of our Principal, a being of great significance to our faith. We travel the plains of Saviud in search of our Principal, that we may welcome him to this world. I am his priestess.”

He had not been expecting that. An otherworlder cult in search of its otherworlder. The reborn – or otherworlders as most commoners knew them – were just what the name implied, beings from the otherworld, reborn into corporeal bodies in the material plane. They were angels and demons to some, psychopomps of the mortal realm to others. And mysterious figures to all. They were rare, so rare as to be considered unreal by most. A man was as likely to become king as he was to meet an otherworlder. Chronicler had heard many third hand accounts of them, but that was it, they were always anecdotal, like so many things in that world.

Yet here was a group of people, perhaps sharing a religion, or a philosophy at least, in search of such a figure. He wondered if they would be successful.

He realised he’d been silent for a while. “Well, priestess, I am truly glad that you accepted to meet with me. This is a great tale that must be told.”

“Our cause does not seek an audience of common bodies. Only Elyden herself need bear witness to this coming.”

“Yet you share this knowledge with me, why is that?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

She took another few steps forward. She was getting closer to him. “You asked.”

Chronicler smiled. “And the Zenarchs, they are your allies now?”

“Ally is a specific word. We will no longer hinder each other’s work.”

“So the city gates are to be opened?”

“That is not my concern.”

It is mine, though, thought Chronicler. “So, what are your beliefs and tenets?”

“This is not the time or place for theosophical discussions, and I do not have the inclination to waste more time in this cesspit than I need to.”

“You have an otherworlder to find.”

She nodded faintly.

“So you will be leaving soon?”

The muscles in her neck tensed and her eyes narrowed. She lifted her hands together, the sleeves of her dress and sari trailing behind. Chronicler noticed for the first time that her hands were covered in the black patterns as her feet. Her nails were long and black. “I would leave this place, as soon as is convenient to do so.”

Chronicler found the choice of words odd. Was she a prisoner? He held his tongue before he asked anything foolish. “You have work here?”

“My work and that of the Visyon is a great work, and it takes place everywhere, wherever we may be. I am here, therefore my work is here.”

“Are you seeking followers?”

“We have followers. We are Followers, though others are free to become indoctrinated in our ways.”

“I would become a Follower.”

The woman laughed, like wind howling through an open tomb, and it echoed across the room. “You know nothing of our ways.”

Only because you won’t tell me, he thought. “I know you do not shirk from banditry to build your resources.”

Her gaze faltered for a short moment. “Our actions are justified by the outcome.”

“You work for a greater good?”

“We are here to unite the disparate, to create something greater than the sum of its parts,” she smiled. It was a lifeless smile. Beautiful, otherworldly, yet hollow.

Chronicler shivered.

She nodded and walked up to him. Gods, her eyes are huge, though Chronicler, struggling to maintain the gaze. She had to look down at him, the little man suddenly in the thrall of an enchantress. “My name is Ohrima,” she said, answering the question he had been afraid to ask.

And then she turned and stepped towards the door.

“Wait,” said Chronicler.

She turned, regarded him.

But he had nothing to say.

“Stay away from banners bearing the white man.”

And then she was gone.

Chronicler sat down, rubbed his face. He realised he’d been sweating.

***

The Merchant’s Guild announced late the next day that the city would be opened on the morrow and movement within and without the gates would flow freely.  

A ceremony proclaiming the alliance between Mern and the Followers took place in the square between the main thoroughfare and the Civic Palaces. Chronicler went to see the ceremony as the others prepared the camels.

The Zenarchs were present, as were their many ministers and advisors. Beside them was the priestess and a few other members of the Followers. There were banners to both denominations and huge crowds watching the event.

Chronicler had been looking forward to finally seeing the triad, though was disappointed by what confronted him when he finally had the chance to see the three cowled, hooded figures. Their robes were of deep purple, reminding Chronicler of the priestesses’ clothes the previous day. They never spoke, leaving such duties instead to their lessers, and they made little spectacle of their rare appearance in public. Chronicler wondered how many of the people in the crowd even knew who they were.

There was a great speech by some minister who dressed up the alliance of convenience as nicely as possible and fed it to the crowds in the form of victorious propaganda. Chronicler could see Ohrima’s expression change as she heard the words.

Apricot blossoms rained down on the crowd and everyone cheered, oblivious to what had taken place. Chronicler had seen enough, and returned to the caravanserai. He held a metal disk in his hand, a token given to him and as well as the others in the caravan by the Merchant’s Guild. The disks had been minted specifically for those travelling without the city of Mern, and bore the sigils of the Zenarchs and the Principal - a sign of the alliance between Mern and the Followers. Though Chronicler felt safer with the token in his hand, he knew it would only be of any use in the environs directly surrounding Mern and against the Principal’s followers.

He got back to the caravan as the last preparations were being made. The day before, Sallan and his men had worked ceaselessly to get rid of the remnants of his cargo, and replace them with new goods for trade in Yeppo. It was not as good as Sallan had hoped for, but was better than what he’d expected, given the situation. The camels were fully laden and awaiting their departure. Szigall had gone to the trouble of hiring a handful of new guards to bolster their defences, as well as a few horses for their scouts, which were better suited to the terrain than the camels.

Mahr was sitting on the wall, rolling a cigarette, when Chronicler returned.

“Was beginning to worry you’d had second thoughts about leaving.”

“Was at the ceremony.”

“Had to see her again didn’t you,” smiled the man.

Chronicler ignored him. “Had to learn more about this alliance.”

“Got anything useful?”

“No.”

“Who's that?” said Mahr, gesturing to a dark-skinned woman who had entered the caravanserai. She was wearing light travelling clothes, the colour of dirt, and had a canvas cloak draped over one shoulder. She wore her black hair in a thick plaited ponytail and had a coarse scarf wrapped around her neck, obscuring her face.

“Is this the Sallan caravan?” asked the woman. She spoke in a southern variant of the common trade language.

Mahr nodded, stood off the wall. “And who are you?” he could not help but look her over. Though obscured beneath loose clothing, she was attractive and had a travellers’ physique. Mahr smiled.

She did not return the gesture, or answer the question. “I need to speak with Sallan.”

“He’s over there swearing at that camel.”

She followed Mahr’s gesture, nodded her gratitude, and went over to Sallan.

“I am Hadia. I have been sent by the Followers to assist in your travels north.”

Sallan turned, saw the woman, and returned his attentions to the uncooperative animal. “Generous of them. We must be carrying something valuable to get such special treatment.”

“We wish to facilitate trade now that the doors of your city are opened again.”

“Not my city.”

“The statement still stands.”

Sallan stood. He was taller than the woman, older. “What good will you do?”

“I am a tracker and hunter, and more importantly I am intimate with the ways of the Followers. I can guarantee your safety as far as Zaffre.”

“How do you know we’re heading to Zaffre?”

“Our priestess told me.”

“Do you expect any payment?”

She shook her head.

Sallan stood back, considered. “There are men here who may be... distracted by a woman. I’m not responsible for their actions and I’m not responsible for you, though I trust you can take care of yourself.”

The woman nodded. “When do we leave?”

“When we get the reins on this beast sorted out.”

“May I?” asked Hadia.

Sallan made a gesture with his hands inviting her to try.

Within minutes she had the thing sorted out, and they were ready to leave.

Part 6