Cirin could only gawk at the monstrous roots that crept beside some of the market stalls. Besides that, he discovered Toftof’s unhealthy obsession with the various coloured birds. The food of Gin was another matter entirely. Cirin learned that every type of meal existed in Gin. Soups, kebabs, noodles, dumplings, and any meat that could be cooked, Gin had it all. Cirin especially uncovered a new found love for the north Illivanmari curries that made the finest use of raw eggs and well marinated pork. He made sure he’d have atleast one pork curry a day until at last a week had passed.
Of course, during this much indulging period of time, Azhar had the boy keep to his training, mostly in the back alley of their very inn. By the end of the week, after a particularly heavy training regimen, Cirin made straight for his room and fell into an immediate slumber. He dreamed of shadowy faces staring angrily at a barren light. The light was Sol, along amidst an ocean of black.
Little by little the black seemingly engulfed the light until the figure in the light reached out with tears in his eyes.
“Cirin..” it would trail as all went to black.
Cirin’s own hands clawed at the darkness, tearing what he could away but to no avail. The shadows started snickering, one after the other. Sol kept digging. Nothing but black.
Then the black washed over him as if it were a sea side breeze and the image of a mail-breasted creature blurred into view.
The creature stood upright upon a grassy hill. It was burly, and feathered, with a tail and a beak. Cirin stepped closer. It held a rugged sabre in each hand.
It seemed to be unawares to Cirin’s presence as it widened its stance, one blade held up high, the other held low, both facing forwards. The creature lunged forwards, turning its body on a wide arc and slicing the air. That gave Cirin pause. He gawked as the creature finished its whirlwind and entered a simultaneous slice arcing both blades outwards.
The creature stepped back then, puffing. Again he repositioned his blades. He mimicked the movement again and again.
Cirin stepped closer and at last the creature paused as well. He turned to the boy. He had eyes as red a rubies.
Cirin shook awake, feeling cold sweat on his forehead, and his right arm convulse. He steadied it with his free hand and took a breath. His body was speaking to him as the old mon had said many times before. His right arm, which had been dormant for so long, now wanted to fight.
He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted. It was still dark. He glanced out the single window. The shattered moon hovered high above. Cirin smiled and leapt off his bed, thanking the spirits for the first time in his life. He had time.
The trip out the inn was short yet dangerous. He needed to leave to leave without arousing any of his company. Thankfully, Toftof was a heavy sleeper, as was Sol, while Azhar had his days where he would sleep and others where he would lie awake.
Cirin took his time most of all by Azhar’s room, knowing that was his hardest obstacle. The moment that last step passed the door, he breathed easily and sped his way through the remaining corridor and out the hall to the lobby. From there, he stuck to the walls and brushed the door open ever so slightly, cursing at the resultant creak the door produced. He glanced back nervously, luckily, to no response, and made his way through the creaking door.
Manama was on guard that night, though he knew her habits well. Her ‘lookout’ consisted of sitting on the highest point of the camp and smoking a pipe for the entirety of the night. That made finding her quite easy due to the smoke, and it also meant there would points at which her lookout had gaps.
Fortunately, there was no mistaking the highest point here. As it happened, all the houses in Gin shared the same architectural high point. Cirin hugged the wall peaked just above him at the broken tip of the inn.
A train of smoke ushered out of it, and there, at the end of smoke trail sat the dubious figure of Manama glaring into the distance. Cirin waited till she craned her head in the opposite direction of the Inn’s entrance and he made a quick dash to the opposite side of the stable.
Again he stood his ground and split for the nearest building once Manama was looking away. Cirin breathed hard once he was out view. He thanked the spirits that the inn they stayed at happened to be in the deadest street of all of Gin. Had a concerned denizen seen an injured child wander about the city all by himself… Cirin shook his head. He had a goal to accomplish. If it could be called that.
Cirin fell back on his steps and let his back slide against the alley wall behind him. He bounced back to his feet as he realised he latched his blade to his back.
The rusted sabre sang delightfully as it slipped out of the sheathing. Cirin leaned back fully and held the blade out in front of him. It was not nearly as heavy as it was in Ezmir. He turned the brittle sabre to its side. Perhaps he had gotten used to it, or perhaps he had developed himself. The thought brought a smile to his face, as he puffed out the cold desert air.
He would become strong. No. His smile faded. The strongest.
He let the blade fall from the pervading light as the flurried beat of feet rang in the distance. He lowered his head and looked to the street side he had came from. The steps were getting closer.
He wondered if it was Azhar? The steps did seem to come from the inn. Cirin snapped his back to the wall.
Who was it? Who was it?
Then as if the moment he expected could not have lasted more than an instant, the running figure zoomed by.
He closed his eyes and sighed as he surmised it could not possibly be Azhar given its height. He was safe. Cirin even let himself stifle a laugh to think he would have been caught so easily.
Feeling the danger had passed, and the steps fading into the distance, Cirin one more drew his blade.
He stepped into the light and turned the blade to reveal his own face painted upon. He froze. His eyes were there, red as usual, but upon seeing those he remembered a peculiar detail of the runner that he had seemingly missed.
The runner had golden eyes.
Cirin tossed aside his previous agenda for this took all precedent. Golden Eyes was here? In Gin? Cirin shook his head as he ran. No, it didn’t make sense. The Oasis of Gin was an imperial city.
He stopped at the first crossroads, looked to the side and instinctively took the road up.
The steps in the distance were dim, yet present. If he suppressed all other sounds, the laughter of drunks, the chirp of crickets, even the flicker of lanterns, he could hear it.
The boy darted through the half empty streets, haphazardly dodging various night crawlers of Gin, cueing several slurs and the occasional threat. But Cirin did not care. His mind seared with the single image of the magic user in its center.
Eventually, where the crowds fell off at the entrance to the upper district he heard the steps of the runner slow and halt.
He made his way a little closer and paused himself. He crouched low, daring to peak at what he all but knew.
He bit his lip, as his eyes confirmed it. The count was there. The light of lanterns had disappeared and the dimming moon lay eclipsed by Gin’s tower. What little light remained seemingly emanated from humming pool of blue.
“The blue pool.” Gasped Cirin.
Taba turned his head in Cirin’s direction then, forcing the boy to hide himself once more.
Cirin sat there, desperately trying to quell his own breath. Again he peaked over the alley wall. Now Taba was thoroughly entranced by the pool.
Cirin narrowed his eyes. Taba was different. Unlike before when Taba was dressed in typically priest robes, he wore a single white cloak that covered his body. More so, he seemed to have a thin bed of brown hair sprouting on his head.
Cirin shifted his shoulders. He tried moving his right arm, it responded, yet still with a dull pain. No use. He had to rely on his left. He nodded to himself. This is what he trained for. For sol, for Azhar, for everything he cared for.
Cirin sheathed his blade, stood up and turned the corner. He took two steps past the light of the blue pool before Taba noticed him.
“Y-You Degenerate!” He scowled, pointing at Cirin.
Cirin flicked his arm to the side, “I dun care what ya call me, I came ta repay what ya did to me.”
Taba seemed more offended then surprised, “Did to you?” he screeched, tossing his arms to the side to reveal a leather tunic with ankle high pants, “How abouts I start repaying YOU for what ya did ta me?”
Taba aimed his right hand in front himself, his fingers about ready to snap.
Cirin did not give him the chance. He closed the distance as he had back in Ezmir, only this time, he met Taba with an immediate headbutt, then grabbed Taba by the collar and held him close by. He remembered the faces of the seeming strangers who cheered on Eli, he choked on the fact that perhaps those same people cheered for Sol’s demise. Even that possibility however slim made him want to get stronger. Not for himself, but rather to become the single avenging force that would bring an end to all those who wished Sol dead.
Cirin grimaced and threw Taba to the ground. He glared upon the caster with disgust as he leapt on him to lock him in place.
Cirin’s grasped Taba’s hands with his free hand and held it above the boy’s head. He leaned low until his hair draped over the caster’s contorted face.
“Ya sicken me to my gut.” Spat Cirin. “Sol wanted ta help ya.” His words became quick, “Help ya! He knew nothing of ya cursed plots. Nothing about ya intentions. And yet, and yet he wanted to help ya.” Cirin shook the caster’s arms, “You people. All you want is to kill him, isn’t it? So ya do as ya told. Easy enough. Do ya eva care for who ya kill? What did he do ta ya? Huh! What!”
Taba shivered below him, “L-let go of me.” He stuttered.
“So you can kill Sol?”
Taba snapped his eyes back to Cirin, the life streaming back to him as he struggled, “So I can avenge my family!” he roared.
Cirin held Taba’s arms down, “Sol is my family.”
“Fine. Fine! I won’t kill him. Happy? Now let go of me you- you Debauched Delinquent!”
Cirin hardened his grasp on Taba’s arm, making him wince. Whether Sol could forgive or trust people like him was another matter. To Cirin anyone who would dare threaten Sol, after all he’d been through, deserved only pain.
A flash of light emanated from behind the duo. Cirin reared his maddened eyes to it and was immediately taken aback.
It was a spark of life in the darkened night. The figure of a sky-skinned woman in a white dressed appeared above the pool.
It stared at them with wide black eyes and covered its mouth in gesture, “Oh my.” It said in a melodious voice, “Maybe I should appear some other time?”
“No!” cried Taba, “No…”
The specter rested her blueish head on her hand. The ends of her hair floated about her, changing from the blue of her skin to a white similar to her dress at the tips.
“You’re da spirit of da blue pool aren’t ya?” posed Cirin.
The spirit swished from side to side, twirling its dress. For a great and magical creature it wasn’t very big.
“I am. Though I must say, it has been sometime since two visitors have managed to summon me. Tell me, are you two siblings? What loss has brought me forth? Dead parents? Maybe another sibling?”
“What?” puffed Cirin.
“We’re not related.” Ebbed Taba.
Cirin pressed Taba’s hand down harder, “We be enemies mon.” he scowled.
The spirit tossed her ephemeral eyes from Cirin to Taba.
“Are you sure both of you agree on that? My kind can tell a great deal about how fleshlings think.” The spirit lifted a weightless finger to Taba, “The on the ground harbors no ill will towards you.”
Cirin glared at Taba, unconvinced. Taba had kept his gold eyes narrowed and his teeth gritting all the while.
“What about a pale skinned boy?” started Cirin. “Does da one on da ground harba ill will towards him?”
The spirit tossed her head about, “It takes a lot to want to kill, fleshling. Especially for a human of such meager age. But from what I can sense of your enemy. No, I see no ill will to kill a boy.”
Taba snapped his head to the spirit’s direction then, “What about a man?” he shouted.
The spirit smiled, “Is that your question?”
Taba closed his eyes, “No. I know da answer to dat already. You.” Taba reared his golden gaze at Cirin, “I promise I will not harm you or ya prince. Just- just let me go.”
“You honestly should.” Added the spirit, “By the looks of your arm, top fleshling, you cannot really do anything beyond that point can you?”
Cirin cursed at the observation. It bothered him more that Taba’s angry mug had turned into a smug one.
“Fine.” Said Cirin, “but I be doing dis fa Sol’s sake.”
He let go of Taba and stood up, pacing backwards but with his eyes thoroughly locked on Taba’s hands.
Taba shivered as he got up, making a show of disgust as dusted himself off.
“Excuse me as I rid myself of dis peasant dust.” He touted.
“Oi-”
“Great and venerable spirit.” Started Taba, pressing his hands together whilst bowing his head, “Where is my brudda?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The spirit craned its neck low, “I shall answer that question last.”
Tabba seemed bothered by that, but continued to ask, “Ok den, can I trust Zanzabarra?”
“Not at all.” Laughed the spirit.
Taba narrowed his eyes, “I was expecting ya ta be more abstract wit ya answers.”
“My my, fleshling, have you not met a spirit before?” By now the spirit was bending low to meet Taba’s eyes, “Well it shouldn’t surprise me with the lack of shamans in these lands. Normally, if it weren’t for this pool, you wouldn’t even see me, let alone talk to me! Listen well fleshling, my kind live longer than you can imagine. To us, your lifespans are insignificant. Even the empires you construct are little more than animal dens. You ask me about what you should already know so I say it. I could enthuse myself by leading you on so you may learn a little, but that in itself is a fruitless labor. If you ask a question when you already know the answer, why do you ask at all? Is it to find confirmation outside of yourself? If that is your reason then I shall not humor you further. You there, boy.” The spirit turned to Cirin, “Why don’t you ask me a question? Something simple along the lines of ‘What is my destiny?’ or ‘how will I die?’”
Cirin paced until he had his question.
“What did da well spirit tell da old mon?”
The lady spirit crossed her arms, “He was told to be weary of you.”
“Weary?” Cirin shook his head, “What is the name of da man inside my head?”
To that, the spirit seemed earnestly confused, “Your head?”
“Enough.” Cried Taba, “Where is my brudda?”
The spirit turned to Taba and sighed audibly, “You already found him.”
“What?”
The scrape of steps intruded their interrogation. Cirin flinched, reaching for his blade. There were several of them.
He turned his back to Taba, and unwittingly backed up towards him.
“Friends of yours?” questioned Cirin as his eyes bounced about their surroundings.
Taba’s back was against his as the caster retorted, “If dey were friends of mine, you’d be dead.”
“What do you mean by your head, mortal?” pressed the spirit.
“Not now mon.”
One by one, burly men appeared out of the shadows. The light of the well proved dim enough to reveal them. But only barely. After a concentrated effort, Cirin realised an open exit just small enough for him to crawl through. He cursed to himself, as he also realised the only way to escape was with taba’s corperation.
“I see a way out.” Whispered Cirin. “But I need ya help.”
“Only moments ago, you were assaulting me.”
“I had no choice.” Snapped Cirin, “Ya were about ta break my udda arm or worse.”
“Fine, what do ya need?”
A total of seven men surrounded them, and a variety of skinny and tall to small and fat figures filled their ranks.
“Cover us wit dose floatin rocks and follow me.” Instructed Cirin.
“If I do dat, I won’t have any more to attack!”
Cirin snapped to Taba. How hard had this had to be?
The spirit spoke the moment one man stepped closer.
“Ah I must go now.” Shrugged the spirit, “A shame. I would have loved to know about this voice of yours.”
“What?” puffed Cirin.
Before he could turn to the spirit, she vanished as quick as she appeared taking with her the light of the pool and instantly blinding the duo in the absence of light.
A moment later, their attackers charged.
Cirin swung and attempted to move, but it was too late.
Thump.
Cirin felt himself become weary, the last he heard was Taba’s desperate cry and the last he fealt was a terrible sensation at the back of his head.
“Peasant!”
Before another thud echoed into his mind and all went dark.
A figure swayed on a hill. His posture was absolute and his swings were flawless. Two blades, but with a single swing they became one.
He shook awake. A candle flickered on a table in front of him. His right arm stung.
He turned his head to see his casting torn and tossed to his side on the grey casted ground. He tired moving his hands but to no avail, they were tied to some pole behind him.
“You awake?” Mumbled a familiar voice.
“Taba?” croaked Cirin.
“Count Taba.” Corrected the caster.
Cirin shifted, until his hands brushed against warm skin.
“Stop it ya insolent peasant.” Blurted Taba. “At least our captors weren’t as rough as you.”
“Captors?”
“We’re tied you penniless dunce.”
Cirin sighed, “If we be both tied, why do ya insist on mocking me?”
“Mocking ya? I’m merely putting ya in ya place. Besides dere be noting betta ta do in dis place.”
“It’s dark. Cold. Are we undaground?”
“Seems so.” Agreed Taba.
Cirin craned his head up until the back of his head met the cold pole behind them.
“Why don’t ya cast some spell ta break out of here?” He started.
Taba didn’t answer for quite sometime.
“It doesn’t work like that.” Confessed the count, “Idiot.”
“It seemed ta be just fine when ya broke my arm.”
“Dats cause I could see it.” Taba choked abruptly on his words.
“So dats how it works, huh?”
Taba was struggling hard to leave the confines then.
“Didn’t ya just say dat wouldn’t work?” shot Cirin.
“I’d rada try den die in some hole wit you!”
Cirin sighed heavily. He considered their odds. Their captors hadn’t killed them, nor had they done anything besides tying them up. Azhar often described the various ways he got his scars to Cirin. The ones not from fights, were when he was captured. Ofcourse he left out some of the more harrowing details, but gave a young Cirin enough of an impression of how getting captured would be like.
To survive was to be lucky. To merely be captured without injury was a sign of incredible fortune. That, or the captors were using them as hostages.
“We’re probably hostages.” Said Taba, as he came to the same conclusion, “I know I am of definite value, dough why dey captured you is beyond me.”
“I’m da guard of a royal prince.”
“Please.” Puffed Taba, “You’re a child. You’re no more capable of protecting dat boy dan a Tulek.”
“I protected him from you didn’t I?”
Cirin stifled a laugh as he heard Taba choke on his own words.
“Mere luck, you boorish twat! I was simply not myself. I was recovering ya see from…” Taba paused then and his tone dropped low, almost remorseful, “from mourning.”
Cirin let the silence creep in after that. The long echo from the entrance to the room seemed to provide him with comfort.
“Listen, count. I dun care fa ya cult OR whateva ya be doin’ wit does towas, but I saw someting in Gara while I was dere.”
Taba’s gasp all but confirmed it.
“You knew da girl dere didn’t ya?” said Cirin.
“She.” Began the count, “She was my sister, Tala.”
Cirin remembered just when Uhatu said the tower had fallen. “So when we fought dat day.”
“She was still on my mind.” Said Taba slowly.
Cirin wrenched his head over his shoulder and barked, “Oi, you’re not crying now are ya?”
“C-Cry!?” sniffed Taba, his voice wavy, “I wouldn’t dare do something so lowly around rabble such as ya self.”
“You’re crying.” Said a flat face Cirin.
“I am not!” balled Taba.
“So.” Started Cirin, “Destroying da towas kill ya, huh?”
Taba wiped his cheeks on his shoulders before continuing, “You tink I let my only sister do dat if it did? It wasn’t like dat before, not wit da udda two. Gara’s towa just… Resisted”
“Da udda two?” Cirin shook his head. He was not ready to learn about two more Garas somewhere in Illivanmar, “So ya saw what happened ta Gara and ta ya sista and ya still wanted to do all dat in Ezmir? Why in da spirits would ya damn ya sel?”
“I already told ya, ya idiot.” Said Taba, “Ta avenge my family.”
“Were da killers in Gara and Ezmir?”
“No, I dun know where dey are. But Zanzabarra said he could find dem.”
Cirin spelled out his disappointment in a gasp of air. “Ya believed him?”
“Not me.” Admitted Taba, “Tala. As soon as she saw da man, she trusted him completely. I dun know what it was.” Said Taba, now talking to himself more than Cirin, “We barely knew da man, but Tala, Tala followed him ta his every word. At first I tought she was in love wit him, dough I knew Tala wasn’t like dat, it was someting else. As if she’d known him long ago, even before she knew me, and she’d known me all my life.”
“And ya neva bodda’d ta ask why?”
Taba rolled his head til his right eye met Cirin’s covered left, “Surely ya have someone in ya life who ya dun ask why?”
Cirin reared his head away from his shoulder till he had his eyes in the darkened ceiling. An image of Azhar flashed before his eyes. The man never told him anything about himself. But the more Cirin thought about it, had he ever really asked?
“Do ya have any family left, count?”
Taba puffed, “Ya tink just cause we be tied togeder, I’ll open up to ya?”
“Mo dan ya already have?”
“You-” Taba croaked, and started thrashing loudly, “Curse you and ya tricks! Ta think I, Count Taba, would be reveal anything of myself to a dirt eating slave.”
“I have no one left.” Started Cirin.
“Hmpf. What about dat prince of yours?”
Cirin narrowed his eyes, “I mean by blood.”
“You’re da same as me?”
“I’ve heard betta insults.” Declared Cirin.
“No parents, no sbilings?”
“Murdered. You?”
There was a silence.
“Same.” Said the count, “Bot my parents and one of my bruddas. When it happened, only me and my sista were left alive, while our brudda was declared missing. A single man did it. Dismantled da prestigious Ashatar family in one night.”
The silence returned once more. Off in the distance Cirin could hear the dripping of water. The air in their abyssal prison was much damper than on the outside.
“Say, why did dis prince of yours want ta save me?”
Cirin smiled. Now there was a good question. One perhaps, even the Spirit of the Blue Pool could appreciate, “He could tell dat you weren’t doing well when I couldn’t. Dat imps’ been tru a lot so he undastands does kind of tings.”
“Just for dat?” coughed Taba, “Ya telling me it wasn’t fa my powa? Nor my status?”
Cirin let out the laugh he was holding in, queing a series of echoes along the cave surface, “Sol doesn’t care about any of dat. Da boy’s as pure as dey get. All he wants is fa people ta smile.”
“Ta smile? Of all da stupid simple tings, dats why he wanted me ta travel wit him?” Taba let out a long winded sigh, “When he put himself in front of you back in Ezmir, he reminded me of my brudda.” Taba’s feet could be heard scrape against the ground as he brought them into a huddle, “Just before he died.”
“If ya tink I’m an idiot, dat imp is a hundred times dumbers dan me. He’d put himself before da very emperor if dat meant protecting a friend.”
“Hmpf. Maybe da prince isn’t as bad as dey say.” Trailed Taba.
Cirin shut his eyes after hearing that. Sol was hated. Even in a damp cave, where not even sunlight dare breach, Sol’s unfortunate circumstance was made fact. No matter how hard he tried to forget it, or bury it in the back of his mind, Cirin could never escape that.
Even now, he laid chained to the very enemy he swore to defeat in order to protect Sol. Cirin opened his eyes then and managed to feel the confines with his fingers. Rope.
“Oi, count. Can ya still make rocks like before?” asked Cirin.
“I can, but it’s of no use. I can’t move dem if I can’t see dem.”
“But can ya make a rock? Sharp if possible?” pressed Cirin.
“Ya but, my hands be too bound to pick it up afta.” Complained Taba.
“I can pick it up.”
“What? So ya can stab my hand in one last bit of spite?”
“No.” Spat Cirin, “Just listen. If ya can make a rock sharp enough by my hands, I might be able to cut our ropes.”
“How can I trust ya?”
Cirin sighed. Of all the people he had to be trapped with.
“I’ll need ya help getting out anyway.” He said.
Taba stayed silent for a while, until a good few minutes later he snapped his fingers and a sharp, cold rock fell into Cirin’s hand.
Cirin nodded, this was their chance. He started sawing at the ropes as Taba started wiggling about.
“Will you be still!” spat Cirin.
“Someone’s coming.” Hushed Taba.
Cirin seized his sawing, and listened.
It was dim at first, but soon painful noticeable. Every now and then, loud bangs erupted down from the hall way while cries of unfortunate men carried in their echoes.
“Hurry!” puffed Taba.
Cirin started sawing desperately. The bangs got closer. He freed one hand and started with the other.
He had nearly freed himself when a series of harsh metal pangs thieved his attention.
Then as if the very sun burned behind the doors, the once darkened room became engulfed in a flood of light while the hollow thuds of the doors resonated in his ears.
“Cirin!”
Cirin dropped his rock knife when he heard the voice. It was impossible.
“Form da ship?” entered Taba.
Catherine kneeled to the bottom of the pole and held one finger to the rope bindings.
“Yes. So it was you that was captured.” She said, squinting at Taba, “The girl from the ship.”
Cirin nearly fell forwards, “Girl?” he coughed.
Catherine’s extended finger began to glow bright orange and the bounds fell apart as if singed.
“Yes, the girl from the ship I was on. But Gods, Cirin! I should be the one asking questions here. Why have you been captured? Where’s Sol?”
Cirin stood up with his left hand clutching his right arm, “We got captured togeda.” He glanced at Taba then looked away almost immediately. Her forehead curved smoothly to a rounded nose and minute lips. The image of that face burned in his mind. She was obviously a girl. He met his face with his left hand.
“Wait.” Started Cirin again, lowering that hand, “Why are ya here?”
Catherine furrowed her brows, “I realized something was wrong the moment Azhar said he wanted to travel with Sol, I just couldn’t make sense of it immediately because I had been so focussed on teaching you two about the gangs of Illivanmar-” Catherine choked on her tongue as she gawked at Taba. “You’re a black neck?!” she finally managed.
“Aye, he- She’s da magic user I told ya about. Da one dat broke my arm.” Said Cirin. He glanced at Taba awkwardly, for once he was glad he let out the part about how that specific magic user almost brought down the tower. If Catherine knew that, there was no telling what she’d do.
Catherine shifted, her eyes narrowed slightly at the girl, who looked back at her with equal caution.
“Wait, she can be trusted fa now.” Assured Cirin, “We were bot caught afta all. How did ya know ta find us?”
“Oh that?” laughed Catherine, “Pure luck actually. One of the men on the ship got word that his apprentice had been captured along with a red eyed boy. You two were being held hostage, because the day prior your same captors saw that man spend a fortune betting in Gara’s fighting ring.”
Taba seemed beside herself with glee, crossing her arms and smiling smugly, “See? I told ya I was da main target.”
“Did ya say a man who had her as an apprentice?” started Cirin. If that meant what he thought it did…
A final man’s death throe resounded through the halls, and a single pair of platedg footsteps followed.
“Zanzabarra.” Confirmed Taba.
The man in question appeared through the broken down door, with little more than a bead of sweat cresting his face.
“Taba, dere you are.” Said the man briskly.
He walked towards her and grabbed her by the wrist without delay, exactly where Cirin had nearly crushed earlier.
Taba let a harrowing screech as the man dragged and yanked her arm free from his grasp, “I can walk myself.” She scorned.
“I don’t need ya little rebellious act today. Do ya know how much time ya wasted being captured? We need ta leave by da morrow if we mean ta make it to da next free city.”
“I visited da spirit of da blue pool.” Confessed Taba.
The nerves on his head became visible and throbbing, “Quit wasting time, rat.” He spat as he reached for her arms.
Taba jumped back, nearly colliding with Cirin, “Da Spirit told me not to trust ya.”
“Oh den who do ya trust ta avenge ya family? Yaself? Ya dead sista?”
“Don’t ya bring Tala into dis.” She snapped.
“Now now.” Entered Catherine, “I’m sure we can discuss this outside of a bandit hideout.”
“Be quiet, wench.” Scowled Zanzabarra, “You have da boy you came for.”
Cirin hadn’t spent enough time with Catherine to know her too well, so he had never seen her react the way she did. Her brows were angled, her imminent smile now a stretching frown.
Catherine motioned for both Cirin and Taba to stay back.
“Wench? You dare call me wench? I have been tutored by the worst of Galokins teachers, taunted by the most sinister of classmates, and been called ‘slave’ more times than I bothered to remember, BUT I saw to myself to be above all that.” She stomped up to Zanzabarra and flicked her glowing orange finger at Zanzabarra, singing the collar of his tailcoat, “So let me show you where I end that courtesy, for I am no wench.” Spit went flying at the word, “ In fact the only wench that could ever be dubbed ‘a wench’ should be your mother, considering how little she trained you on a how to address a lady.”
Zanzabarra stepped back. He withdrew his sabre in response, “Very well.” He said “You shall die her-”
His arm nearly snapped passed the elbow as his sword flung far to the side and out of his grip. He blinked at his hand, simply dumbfounded beyond words and slowly reared his eyes to Catherine.
The woman smiled back, the same glowing finger now levied towards him.
“You shall put away your weapon while addressing a lady, sir.” She spouted.
Cirin gawked at Catherine. Magic was strong indeed.
“Hold on.” Said Catherine, “You’re a black neck to? What was your name again? Lord Zanzabarra?” Catherine tossed her eyes between Taba and Zanzabarra and snapped her finger, “That’s why I thought you two looked a like!” She said balling one fist and clasping against her other palm. “You’re related aren’t you?”
Taba stepped up then, “What? No. I am da last of Ashatar family. Well me and my brudda.”
“Yes.” Nodded Catherine pointing to the man, “He’s your brother.”
“You’re insane, lady.” Puffed Taba, “I would know my own brudda.”
“Hmm, I must have mistaken another Bara Ashatar who changed his name to Zanzabarra and joined the black necks.”
“You’re lying.” Scoffed Taba. She turned to Zanzabarra who had been staring at his own hand in shock, “Tell dem how absurd dat is, Zanzabarra!”
Zanzabarra looked up, and tilted his head, “What is?”
Taba extend a hand at Catherine, “She’s tinks ya be my brudda! What nonsense is dat? I saw my brudda when I was young, he had light skin, lighta dan normal…” she spied Zanzabarra’s sandy white skin, “And he was said to be hot headed, and- and Tala! She’d always talk about how big brudda Bara knew about everyting in da world…” Taba took a step forwards and fell to her knees before she could reach Zanzabarra, “It was you all along? Why? Why didn’t ya tell me?”
“Taba was it? There is something you need to know about Bara.” Said Catherine, placing a hand on Taba’s shoulder.
Zanzabarra had his hands balled. He scarcely looked at Taba during the revelation.
“Why?” roared Taba.
Zanzabarra clutched his head then let go and tossed his hand to the side. He reared his ugly head to Taba. “Ya dun know what ya saying, rat. Dis wench be putting ideas in ya head.”
“Lady.” Corrected Catherine.
“Girl.” Conceded Zanzabarra, “To tink you’d pair me wit da likes of da Ashatar. Ya take me ta lightly. My name is Lord Zanzabarra.”
“Den.” Quivered Taba, “Why did Tala follow ya?”
Zanzabarra stumbled for an instant before fixing his stance.
Taba pressed on his silence, “Why did my sista follow a man she barely knew? Why did she die fa him? Fa you?!”
Taba shot to her feet and rocks manifested all around her. Cirin reached for his blade, weary of the caster almost immediately. This time, she hadn’t snapped.
Zanzabarra relented his feeble retreat. There were tears in his eyes, “Because I was too ashamed.” He hushed.
“Ashamed to confront ya only sista? What about Tala? Why did ya let her die? And da killer?”
Zanzabarra leaned down to his blade, wrestled it out of the ground and walked towards the broken exit. He held out one hand and snapped it, forcing Taba to gasp as she reached in her jerkin and produced a shattered locket. Her summoned rocks crumbled to ashes.
“Bara, no!” she cried.
Zanzabarra already had his locket out. Cirin made for him, but was stopped by Catherine’s hand on his shoulder.
Zanzabarra looked to Taba one last time before the sand slowly enveloped him, “I am da killer.” He confessed.
Taba remained motionless. Her eyes, which had been fixed on Zanzabarra stayed there even after he was gone.
“Dat’s a lie to, isn’t it?” she asked no one.
“Taba…” trailed Catherine, “We have to go. This thing with your brother, I’d suggest sorting out after we leave this bandit infested hovel.”
“Where are we?” Prompted Cirin.
Catherine gestured her head towards the broken door. “Follow.” She put her words to action.
Cirin started after her the moment she passed the door, while Taba stayed where she was for a few moments before trailing after them in an absentminded pace.