The land of Predestined Cities was what they called it. A strange name to be sure to any would be visitors. Most of the under-educated variety would rather dub it ‘the land of slavers and too much sand’. The scholar yawned as she creaked open the cabin door open. There was much hustle that morn, and more so than usual. She tried to stop one of the deckhands to prod him for answers, but the sight of the blinding dawn stopped her instead.
“Land ho! Land ho!” cried the watchman.
She practiced a walk, careful to avoid unneeded contact, until she came upon the first open view of the ship’s portside.
It had been thirty ones days of nothing but fish and oranges and at last her destination stretched in front of her. This was a garden amidst a sea of white sand. Lamanori, the free city of the south and the east, the first of the king’s stars. She wondered just how many lived there based on the spattering of sandstone houses that made the city’s heart. Even their ship, the Blue Bass, proved to be just one out of a hundred now parked against the splintering docks.
The gulls screeched and the ship creaked forwards. The bells rang distant and the sails ruffled. Finally, the Blue Bass managed past the last few clouds and there it was. The hubbub of deckhands seized, the last ‘land ho’ uttered.
The scholar nearly strained her neck looking up. The garden was built around a pole, a pole which made the sprawling metropolis no more than weeds growing out the base of a lamp post. It was monumental, taller than the highest house in Galokin, wider than the fattest hill. Lamanori was said to be one the first cities built around the black towers of Ilivanmar, as were all Ilivanmari cities built thereafter.
The scholar whipped out her notebook and started scribbling.
Today I arrived in the land of Predestined Cities.
The city itself reeked of fish and alcohol. The scholar pinched her nose as she sped to her contact. It reminded her of Syrindor and even Nesdiat to some extent, if Nesdiat were blistering hot.
Unlike Nesdiat, however, the streets were straight and simple, not heavily inclined and snaking. It made her trip shorter to be sure, but she did not dare let down her guard. If even half the rumors were true, Lamanori was no more a den of thieves than a city.
On the first road leading out of the docks she spotted a few shady figures looking her way, by the fourth a few more of those figures appeared to be following her. She reached in her cloak as she walked and produced an amulet. Two more turns later and the shady figures were gone. She sighed as she checked over her shoulder. Gone. It was emptier there, so perhaps the goons had nowhere to hide.
“Oh, you must be the scholar girl.”
The scholar flinched, nearly dropping her amulet while she turned to whoever called her.
“Hm no mistake, I’m usually right about these things.” The man wore a single piece jean blue robe and held a surprisingly dull face. Even in the land of Illivanmar where people wore robes upon robes, this man turned heads, and not in a good way. Stranger yet he was still a ways away from her when he called.
“Yes, and who might you be?” she trailed off. By now, a few denizens had been watching her with a simple shared expression of ‘who are these people?’. The scholar smiled dumbly at the onlookers and quickly paced to the man in question.
“You may call me Sir Marvus!” bellowed the man before she even got there.
Again she smiled at the strangers who batted them eyes and snapped back to the man.
She felt her own voice dim in volume as she neared him, “Um Sir Marvus, was it? Could you perhaps be a little quieter?”
Marvus cocked his head, his eyes completely avoiding hers, “OH whatever do you mean, my girl?”
The scholar pressed one hand against her brow for a quick second and motioned Marvus to follow her to a not so public alleyway.
Once there, she fixed her cloak and made sure most of the onlookers had dispersed, “I assume you are expecting me? From the association?”
“Quite right.” Nodded Marvus, still keeping to the same volume.
The scholar eyed him for several seconds. She had sailed the seas for nearly a month with men who could not speak without swearing, undergone strict tutelage from one of Galokin’s most esteemed and irrationally traditional instructors, and lived among the worst of the egotistical noble houses, yet this man in just moments of contact proved to the most inane.
She let her head fall and sighed heavily.
“What a sigh! You must have had quite the inner monologue.”
“SIR Marvus.” Started the scholar, hand outstretched, “As I’m sure you’ve been told, I’ve come to continue you my term studying the Aragossin lore of this region. For king and country” she finished, waving her hands in gesture, “You may call me Catherine.”
“Oh I knew all that.”
“Well yes, it’s formality.”
“If all formalities are done.” He started, tossing his eyes to the end of the alley, “We best go before those unsightly fellows down there rob us.”
“Unsightly? Oh.” A band of brigands, mostly hidden by the shade were giving them looks, which would glue most decent people to their shoes.
Despite their gaudy audience, Marvus seemed un-phased, cheery even. “Come along now, I shall show you to my abode and where you shall be staying for the remainder of your term.”
“Please.” Nodded Catherine.
Luckily, their escape was a stone’s toss. Marvus owned a small corner shop at the end of the street. Unlike most of the shops houses around it, Marvus’s shop reflected his Galokinian speech and was made entirely of wood, well fashioned and sturdy. It reminded her of home. Catherine stopped before the entrance to read the sign above it.
“Marvus’s Magical Hats?” she questioned aloud.
“Come inside, come inside.” Urged Marvus.
Catherine followed through. Hats everywhere. Pointed hats, flat hats, tall hats, round hats and hats she never imagine could be hats lined the overflowing rows all along the walls and cabinets. She picked up the first hat she saw and examined it from stitching to folds.
“Where did you place the enchantment?” she quandered.
Marvus stared her way, but not at her, and blinked, “Why would I enchant a hat?”
“Your sign?” remarked Catherine, pointing behind her.
“Come now, less talk about hats and the matter. You must be tired. Grod!” He screeched.
There was a bump from above them, followed by a series of heavy steps, and at last a large man dressed in the same robe as Marvus came into view. Catherine’s brows dropped, but she tried to hide her expression under a weak smile. But now it was impossible. He had the face of a beast and the eyes of a killer. Though upon seeing Catherine, he meekly rose his hands and tapped his fingers together.
“Yes master?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Marvus replied in his same ear bending fashion, “This is Miss Catherine from the association, show her to the guest room.”
“But master, the boy is there.”
“Boy?” questioned Catherine.
“Worry not. He is a guest as much as you are. Grod, show her to the other guest room then.”
“Yes master.” Nodded Grod. Grod then turned to Catherine and bowed in practiced formality, “It is a mess right now, but I’ll clean it up right away. If you’d follow me.”
“Ofcourse.”
Catherine matched Grod’s pace as he trudged in through the first door and into a hallway that hosted two doors on the same wall and a stairway at the end.
“Your room is the first right from the stairs.”
“Thank you.” Spurted Catherine as she made for the room. The moment she passed the first door, it clicked and swung open, making her flinch for the second time that day.
There were two steps and the figure of a boy with curly black hair came into view.
“A pleasure.” Nodded Catherine. Though she had never been fond of sudden changes to her routine.
“I don’t know ya.” Spouted the boy, “But if ya be from da palace.” The boy stepped forwards looking up to meet her eye from behind his dangling hair. She held her breath as his eyes came into view. They were inhumanly red. The boy frowned, “I’ll kill ya.”.
“Now now, master Cirin. She bears no connection to the palace and she’s a guest from now on. Master Marvus’s orders.”
“Cirin, was it? A pleasure to meet you. My name’s Catherine, I hope we’ll get along.”
“Still don’t like ya.” Put the boy bluntly before shutting the door.
Grod and Catherine stood there in silence.
Grod rubbed his hands together and put on his best smile, “He’s just at that age, you see.”
Catherine nodded slowly, moving towards her room, “I see.” She said slowly before entering the open abode.
The days after passed without much commotion. Catherine proceeded with her studies, often days spending long hours writing her papers in her room and sometimes by the front counter while she had to watch over the shop as per agreement.
The hat shop proved quite pleasant. It had walls of dark oak and a floor stained to look even darker. The shelves the hats sat on stretched out so far that one could even sit on them if need be. But it wasn’t that hats that entertained her thoughts when she was free to have. No, it couldn’t be. It was the boy with rubies for eyes.
While her first encounter with the boy revealed his reluctance to strangers, it became immediately apparent that he was still willing to venture outside. On every day she was assigned to watch the front, she would notice him pass at least twice in the day, once leaving early in the morning, and once returning late at night.
She had learned from an early age about the dangers of questioning the habits of others, yet the red-eyed boy stole her fascination. According to Grod, the boy trained everyday, just as he had when he lived in the palace. As to why he was allowed to stay as a guest or what he did to stay in the royal Lamanori palace was not something Grod was willing to reveal, or rather Marvus forbade it.
Marvus, despite his peculiarities happened to be a valuable font of ancient knowledge. He knew the old kingdom’s edicts by heart and could name the seven star constellations on Lamanori’s horizon without delay. Catherine needed three days just to transcribe all of what Marvus knew on the subject of the black towers. On top of that he loved Galokinian gossip, a matter with which Catherine was a master of herself.
“Yes yes, the courts were all a stir when the princess decided Ala’hir to be her visit destination.”
“The same as the emperor?” gawked Marvus with glee.
“The very same!” squealed Catherine like a school girl. Catherine caught the telling stare of Grod as he made into the room and placed Marvus’s morning tea in front of him. Grod, though normally the type to shyly agree with things, was very much the parental type when it came to subject matters that deviated from what Catherine and Marvus were supposed to be discussing.
Catherine cleared her throat and tossed her eyes to a scroll she was clutching, “So, in short.” Started Catherine, sitting on one shelf and tapping a quil to her chin, “we know much about the nature of the black towers and their effect on the surroundings, yet know nothing about what lies inside of them?”
“Quite right.” Bellowed Marvus from behind the counter.
Catherine threw the man an uneasy smile. Though she had grown accustomed to his lone and troublesome volume, she hadn’t the courage to tell him its unfortunate effect on hat sales. She stared out the sole shop window that hugged the left corner of the store. It was raining outside. She wondered if Cirin would train even then. Spurred by the though she tossed her eyes to back door for the briefest of moments. As if he knew she would, the boy was there.
His eyes were glued to the dripping window. His face revealed a myriad of emotions, clear and unfretted by the unruly hair, which covered half his face. Catherine read him as easily as a starchart. He didn’t train because he had to, he wanted to, and now he couldn’t.
Then the boy turned to Catherine, taking her by surprise. They stared at each in near silence amidst the relentless melodies of rain.
“Why.” Began the boy, “Why do ya talk like dat?”
Catherine lowered her brows, “My speech you mean? Is it so strange to bear a Galokinian accent? You’re from the palace, you shoul-” Catherine stopped herself from speaking more. She wasn’t supposed to know that.
The boy cocked his head, “I know Marvus an da northerners ought ta speak dat way, but ya be one of us.”
Catherine found herself smiling at that comment. She pushed back some of her black hair covering her ear and leaned on her other hand. She had traveled to Illivanmar not just to study the Aragossins and their towers, but also to reunite with her own heritage. Still she had not once expected to be considered one of the locals. She dressed differently, she wore her hair differently, even the way she walked differed from the locals.
“I was raised in Galokin.” She answered at last, “My parents left the northern city of Al’Hatoki when I was just an infant and struck a deal with some nesdition nobles for safe haven. When I proved to posses certain…” Catherine looked away for a second, “affinities, those same nobles insisted I’d train properly with them and offered me both tutelage and a future.”
Marvus stopped what he was doing and promptly joined in, “You’re still under that Tutelage, young lady.”
Cirin stepped out from under the door way and jumped up for a seat on the nearest shelf. He peered at Catherine curiously, “How old ya be, lady?”
Catherine snapped back, “How old are you?”
Cirin produced a smug mouth and pointed at himself, “Tirteen dis sorrow.”
“Then I am four years your senior.”
“Four!” Cirin nearly fell off, “Ya ought ta stop acting so old, mon.”
“Old? I’m merely practising the manors any lady of a proud house of Galokin would.”
Marvus scratched his head, “But… you’re not a noble?”
Catherine pouted and looked away from the scholar, “I’m simply fond of that polished behaviour. Anyways, since I shared my background would you indulge us in yours, Cirin?”
Cirin was quiet for a while after that, taking to kicking the air in front of him instead, “I lived in da palace befa here. Around noble types, same as ya.”
“That’s it?” squandered Catherine.
The boy tossed his eyes to the girl, “There be nothing to add.”
Catherine could not help staring back. In that moment she knew that he hid much more than his eyes and his motive. She pressed her brows down and sighed briefly before speaking, “And what about your parents?”
Cirin did not answer, instead he fixated on the window beside Catherine. She turned to face it, but her ears noticed it first. Silence. The rain had given up.
Cirin leapt off the shelf and ran straight for the door, clearly not one to waste even a second. Once there he paused briefly, and eyed Catherine over his shoulder, “Maybe ya be alright, miss.” He said before rushing out.
Catherine took to her feet and paced to the window to watch him depart.
“I’m not sure what happened, but I think I made some progress.” She muttered.
“Wonderful.” Shouted Marvus in his usual gate, “He’s quite the odd one, I know.”
Catherine wondered how she’d respond to that, considering Marvus was the very embodiment of ‘odd’, “Odd people come in all shapes.” She managed.
“Quite right. Such as yourself, young lady.”
“What do you mean, such as myself?”
Before Marvus could answer, the store door creaked open and a man dressed in a dark cloak slid in. Catherine looked from Marvus to the man and tried her best not to stare. The man who had walked in was the spitting image of Cirin only older. He possessed curly black hair which covered his face, even the sharp cheek bones and dark charcoal skin Cirin had. The man nodded at her curtly and made straight to Marvus.
He spoke in hushed tones, “I saw him leave just now.”
“Indeed indeed, are you here for the payment?”
“Ya mon, I have it here.” The cloaked man reached inside his mantle and withdrew a linen wrapped package, “This should cover da rent for da next two months.” He added before handing Marvus the cash.
“You’re always ahead of me, Azhar.” Laughed Marvus.
“And he’s still unaware to all dis?”
The cross eyed knight straightened his wrinkled robe as best as he could and nodded with zeal, “I am a knight good sir, and therefore I keep my word. He most assuredly still thinks he has run into an old acquaintance of his mother.”
“In some ways he be not wrong,” Azhar turned and smiled as he walked away, “I need ta return to da palace. Remember, tell me first if dat boy does anyting stupid. When he does someting stupid.” Corrected Azhar.
“Noted.”
The door opened and closed, leaving Catherine alone with Marvus once more.
She paced back and forth and finally summoned the courage to ask him, “Is he Cirin’s..?”
“I know what you’re thinking, and you are quite right.”
“So that’s why he pays for Cirin.”
Marvus shrugged, “I would do the same for Grod.”
Catherine found it inexplicably difficult to imagine any kind of blood relation between the giant Grod and whatever Marvus was, but she had seen stranger so she merely smiled and nodded back, “Right.” She laughed.
Still, she wondered about Cirin. Perhaps it was the norm to train so young in Illivanmar, or to live without one’s parents.
The days continued to pass by with little word from Cirin. He’d greet her once in a while, but that was it. Until one day it rained again.
Just as she predicted, Cirin arrived in the shop and waited there. Unlike before, Catherine noticed the boy acting aloof. Every now and then she’d peak at him in between reading a book that she had borrowed from Grod. When the rain seized Catherine sighed and dug her head into the book, it seemed she had lost all progress with him. Minutes passed and she lowered her book. Strangely, Cirin was still there, sitting on the shelf as if he never left. No, the door hadn’t moved, she would have noticed. He really had stayed. She couldn’t help wonder why until he answered.
“Catherine.” He started off cautiously, “I was wondering if ya could give me… advice.”
Catherine was taken aback by this unusual gesture. She smiled to Cirin and flashed a thumb’s up to Marvus who for some reason waved back.
“Of course I’ll help you.” Answered Catherine.
Cirin looked down then up at Catherine, “Maybe its best if I show ya.” His eyes snapped to the door as he said that. Catherine followed that sight and understood.
The rain had stopped and he intended her to follow him.
Her movements spoke for her. She sped to the door and waved to Cirin, “Alright.” Conceded Catherine. Cirin was quick to his feet and managed to be at Catherine’s back just as she turned the door knob.
She opened the door and paused. Her eyes went wide and snapped to Cirin. He was gritting his teeth.
“Cirin?” said Azhar
“Why are ya here old mon?” said the boy stepping back.
Azhar shifted from shock to calm in a mere instant, “Saying I came for a hat won’t work, eh?”
Cirin shoved his hands in his pockets and stared the man with intent, “I am not going back to da palace.”
“I see.” Noted Azhar carefully, “Den dis shouldn’t worry ya.” He lowered his head till his curly locks hung to his face and his dark brown eyes revealed themselves, “We tried ta cover it up as best we could, but It seems we need ta branch out our search. Prince Sol be missing.”
Cirin stood his ground, “It seems ya esteemed guards be failin at ya jobs. So why ya bother askin’ me, eh? I hated him more dan da udders.”
“Den ya truly don’t get it. Sol had a connection ta ya.”
“but not I ta him. Now buy a hat or leave.”
Azhar stayed silent. It seemed to Catherine that the man was vetted in dealing with Cirin. He was the boy’s father after all. Then after what seemed to be an all too long of a silence, Azhar laughed.
That put Cirin in unease, anyone could see it the way he bit his lip.
Azhar’s smile turned cruel and twisted as he spoke, “A shame den, I had been hearing a few sandrats had learned of his location and were going ta collect da hit. Ta bad we cannot protect him.” Azhar swept back the left side of his bangs to reveal his angled brow, “Eh, Mouse?”
Catherine reared her head to Cirin, but the time she did, Cirin had already bolted past Azahr and through the door. In that moment her instincts took over and she too managed out the door. Her borrowed book hit the floor only after she had left.
Cirin was fast for his age, yet she knew how to follow people more scrupulous than he. The boy ran through several streets and corners, and the girl hardly kept up. The flat roads she saw from the ship were simply a façade. The moment Cirin cut into the western quarters, she slowed. Her feet felt it first. The ground had turned dry and burnt, the air ashy. She pinched her nose and tried desperately for the boy until she caught him in the corner of her eye, trailing yet another corner.
She followed, unswayed by the distance, faster and faster without thinking. The houses were abandoned here. The stalls closed. Besides Cirin and herself, only the ashes remained. Yet by the abundance of it all she could tell there was once life here, as if Lamanori had lost a limb sometime ago.
Cirin mad pace finally gave way in front of an abandoned palisade where he caught his breath, and ran inside. Catherine made to him, but surrenedered her chase.
She had not realised until she stopped. Her head twisted slowly.
If only graveyards were so beautiful. She had been running beside the walls to a palace the entire time. It was a burnt palace and no doubt once a castle of corpses.Left black to its foundations yet still bespoken of its former glory. It harped of a structure so wide it could have been the black tower’s base. The air was thick with ash here and unto it various spear of light pierced above from the heavons. Lastly, her eyes fell upon the gates the size of giants porched and scorched and curled in some exquisite fashion. She could not fathom it at the time, yet for some inexplicable reason she found it mesmerizing.
She shook her head and found it trailing back to the palisade. Her feet broke back into rhythym. This was no time to sight see.
Catherine nearly collapsed from the run the moment she made it close to the pallisade. Her heart drummed like a tap dancer. She had only been in the city for nearly a month, so she felt unfamiliar with its layout. Though she knew exactly where they were now. This was just one of many palisades littered among the outskirt of the city visible quite prominently from the sea.
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She wandered close to the shambling tower, careful not to step any of the debris spread around it. She froze the moment she heard voices.
“We need ta go.”
Catherine balled her hands into fists. That was Cirin. Yet just she attempted to turn the corner, another voice tuned in.
“To somewhere safe?”
“Ya mon. Safest dere is.”
The second voice was a soft one, it almost sounded like a girl’s but it could have also been a younger boy’s. Catherine shook her head and finally turned the corner.
Two figures stared back at her. The familiar of the two spoke up, “Ya followed me?”
Catherine glanced at Cirin and then the owner of that second voice. He was a young Felian boy, dressed in a mess of tattered silk and commoner’s clothes.
Her eyes went wide for the second time that day. “It’s you isn’t it? You’re Prince Sol.” She gasped.
The young boy smiled meekly. Before he could open his mouth Cirin stretched his arm infront of him, “Sol, don’t answer that.”
Catherine stifled a laugh and even Sol giggled to it.
“Cirin, you blockhead!” teased Sol.
Cirin looked dumbfounded for a moment then pressed his free hand against his forehead as he realised his blunder.
Catherine got a good look at the prince as he continued to laugh at Cirin. He was the model felian. He had black hair and vibrant emerald eyes. Yet unlike the other noble children she had run into, Sol was a twig in human form. At first she thought it was due to the current circumstance, but by the way the his old silks fit him, it was clear he always bore that physique.
“Who else knows about this?” asked Catherine briskly.
Cirin glanced down as he spoke, “No-one. I couldn’t risk it. I thought ya be da most unreliable cause of da way ya speak and where ya be from, but well.”
Catherine smiled, “You decided to trust me?”
Cirin bit his lip and stamped his hand on Sol’s messy head, “I be not ta type ta trust people, but dis imp convinced me uddawise.”
Sol shook off Cirin’s heavy hand, walked over to Catherine, and held his hand up to hers.
“If you’ll have me as an acquaintance, my name is Sol Gel’Rave.”
Catherine shook his hand, “You may call me Catherine- hold on, did you say Gel’Rave?”
Cirin watched her, with his arms crossed, “Ya undastand now, miss?” he said with some attitude.
She looked from Cirin to Sol and back. “This is bad.” She started, “Very very bad. Indescribably horrid!”
Cirin lifted a finger in expression, “You just described it, didn’t you?”
“Ah, I remember now. There was scandal about some failed assassination attempts on a boy no less! One who was sent to a gods forsaken city far south in Ilivanmar as far as you could go.”
“Yes, and dis be dat city.”
Catherine began pacing, one hand placed below her chin and her lowered in contemplation, “and the Ilivanamari lords have always been easily corruptible, it would only be a matter of time before they would be paid out.” Her speech became as flurried as her pace, “And if they succeeded, well the whole murder could be used as an excuse to invade the northern most cities of Ilivanmar. And… and if that were to happen, the people would support the invasion as a justified reaction! The seas would turn red. The sands into bloodstone. This could be the end of us all!”
Catherine stopped pacing to catch her breath. More and more implications flooded into her head as she realised she too would be involved. So much so she had almost begun to pace again, if Cirin hadn’t grabbed her arm. She looked to the boy. He held a calmness to him, much like his father.
“Dat won’t happen.” He said sternly. He turned to Sol, who had been equally scared by Catherine’s outburst, “As long as I be here, no one will eva hurt Sol. Da prince be da same as you and I. He be breathing, he be feelin’. Ain’t no one deserve ta be treated like a device.”
“Cirin…” trailed Catherine.
“But we need ta move. Now.”
Catherine looked at both boys and nodded. There were those who looked upon danger and fled. Catherine always knew that to be the way. But there were also those who made danger seem something to defeat as if it were merely an obstacle. That living life meant nothing if those obstacles never existed.
“So ya finally get it, mouse.”
All three of them turned to the man watching them from above. Azhar was squatting on one of the many beams supporting the palisade roof.
Cirin gripped Catherine hard and moved with her to Sol. He then pulled the boy by his hand and all three of them ran through the exit.
“No time to argue.” Spat Cirin as he turned through passageway.
Catherine wanted look back, but she knew that she was a part of this now. For a moment she swallowed her doubts and ran.
Just as they reached the exit, Cirin released the two and stepped behind them. There he withdrew a hidden dagger from his shoe and turned to the hallway where they came. He held the dagger with both hands, and spoke with his back to Catherine and Sol, “Run to da hat shop. Tell Marvus everything. I’ll hold da old mon here.”
Catherine started, “Cir-”
“Cirin!” cut in Sol.
“Go.” Shouted Cirin.
Catherine stood her ground and placed a hand on Sol’s shoulder. She gave him a smile then moved that hand to Cirin’s shoulder.
“You go.” She whispered.
“What?” said Cirin over his shoulder.
Catherine held her free hand in front of her as if in prayer, “I’ll keep him off. If you trust me, trust my ability.”
Cirin lowered his dagger, nodded, and grabbed Sol’s hand.
Catherine took his place and took a breath. She was ready. Azhar appeared on the other side of the hallway.
Time seemed to freeze as the man ran towards her. She lowered her forehead and focussed on his position. Her dark brown eyes shined gold for all but a second, for a second was all she needed. Magic was an unorthodox thing, something people dared not whisper in the darkest of alleys. She did not why it was so, just that it was and that a few nobles coveted it. Light shimmered at her fingertips and in a flash it was over.
Where were Cirin and sol now? Had they left in those impossible seconds? She wondered and wondered as time stood still until reality took hold again.
Catherine’s eyes snapped open. Azhar’s hand had pushed hers back, preventing her spell. He was close enough now that she could catch his faint breathing, even see the dark in his eyes directed at hers.
Then, as abruptly as their encounter, the man sighed, “Dat was close.”
“Catherine?”
A horrible shock shot through her and she barely managed to turn her head. They were still there.
Her speech was broken, “W-why?! Why are you still he-”
Azhar lowered her hand and passed by her and the two boys coolly, not so much as flinching as he brazed the tip of cirin’s dagger and drew blood on his arm.
When he was a few steps in front of the trio, he withdrew just one of his two blades on his back and held it with one hand in front of him.
“Sandrats, eh?”
Catherine reached for sol and pulled him behind her. There were at least a dozen of them.
The scoundrels of Nesdiat did not compare to their southern neighbours. These men all had the eyes of killers. Some of their weapons, ranging from mauls to saw blades were stained with the dark rust of blood. Catherine lowered her brows a she realised some of those men were the same bandits she had seen her first day there.
They had been following her since then.
Finally, a short man with a blading cap swaggered to the front of the pack. Unlike the others, he held a pair of brass knuckles and a demeanour suited for a typical boss man.
“Da boy’s dog wanders outta da pretty palace. Ya went ta fetch ya masta? How loyal.” For an imp of a man, he had a menacingly deep voice, “Da red eyed kid and da girl be no part of da deal. Ya give up with fighting and we’ll spare dem. But you. I wasn’t dere dat ngiht, but I be knowing what ya did. For Jafna’s sake, I’ll kill ya myself. ”
Azhar whipped his sword to the ground and laughed in their faces, “When I’m done, you will surrender. Besides, should I believe a word of liar, Toftof?”
“Toftof?” whispered Catherine to Cirin.
Cirin shot her an unimpressed look, “One of da four lieutenants of da sandrats.”
Toftof smiled from ear to ear, “I only lie when I roll da die. If it be even I keep my word, if otherwise I go against it.”
“And what if I kill ya instead.” Taunted Azhar.
Toftof motioned around him, “I doubt even da dog himself could best me, but if da odds be in ya favour my men will finish tings off.”
Azhar stepped forwards, making a few of the sandrats shift and whisper.
“How bouts we make a wager, Toftof?” began Azhar, “You roll da die. If even you keep ya word, if odd ya do what ya will.”
“What be dis wager?”
Azhar pointed his blade at the half man, “Fight me. One on one. If I win ya men back off, If I lose, Sol be yours and da witch behind me won’t kill ya.”
“Witch?!” cried one man.
One by one, the men began to back off, merely at the mention of ‘witch’.
Catherine rose a brow and pointed at herself in confusion, “Witch?”
Azhar shot her look, and Catherine understood.
She placed her hands on her hips, “Weeheehe Weeheehe,” she laughed as wickedly as she could, sending one man down, and another struggling to get up.
“Witch!” yelped one of the sandrats.
Catherine smiled as confidently as she could. She had a prominence in spellcraft, yet whether it could take out twelve men whom she knew nothing about was another concern.
Yet Toftof seemed un-phased. He narrowed his brows and motioned for the nearest sand rat to approach him.
As that man gave Toftof a pair of die, Toftof lifted his other hand to calm is subordinates. “Wager accepted.” Bellowed the lieutenant.
In a movement worthy of any practiced gambler, Toftof the liar threw one dice to Azhar and tossed the other directly above him.
Azhar caught it with ease and studied it intently at the same time Toftof caught his.
“Five.” Echoed Azhar.
Toftof snarled under his breath and crumbled the other dice with his fist.
“One.” He spat as the dust hit the ground.
One by one the surrounding sandrats backed away from Toftof. The combatants walked towards each other till they were a mere twenty paces apart. The battle had already begun.
Toftof was the first to take up a stance. He held his left fist in front of his face while he kept his right fist in front of him. Azhar followed second, he held his lone sabre with his right hand till the center of the blade kept level with the center of his chest. Azhar then lowered his legs and kept them apart.
While she knew nothing of either man’s fighting style, there was no doubt who would attack first.
Cirin peered at her over his shoulder, “Catherine, if dis goes badly.”
“I know.” Catherine raised one hand in preparation, her eyes quick to study each and every one of the distant sandrats. If there were any bowman, she’d have to take them out first. After a minute’s glance she sighed when she realised that no bowman were present, only to reel to the deafening battle cry of Toftof the liar.
Toftof was quick. Closing the distance in seconds, Toftof began with two quick punches and a kick. Azhar dodged the first, deflected the second with his hand and defended the kick with his shin.
Toftof leapt back, watching Azhar’s movements intently before relentlessly charging again. This time he tumbled forwards, caught himself on his hands into a handstand, and begun a flurry of spinning kicks.
Catherine wondered why Azhar struggled to dodge and defend against these kicks, but it became more and more apparent that Toftof was a master at using his height to his advantage. Perhaps Azhar was not used to defending against kicks at that height.
Then Azhar responded with his own acrobatics, somersaulting backwards with his sabre hilt between his his teeth. Once back on his feet with his sword in his hands, Azhar turned to the offensive. First he lunged at Toftof with a mid kick. Blocked. Followed by a sweeping low kick, which Toftof jumped.
Azhar while still one the ground from the sweeping kick then thrust his sabre forwards. It was the perfect attack, quick and hard to anticipate. Even with the agility Toftof possessed, it was clear he could not dodge it in the air. So he didn’t.
Toftof clamped the blades with his fists mere inches before it pierced his throat and, having done so, he hoisted himself with incredible strength till his feet were above his fists. There, he pivoted his body forwards, and slammed Azhar’s face with his feet, sending the man sprawling backwards.
Toftof landed on his feet while his opponent managed to land on only a knee. Toftof scowled then, “I’ll avenge Jafna, ya bastard.”
For the first time that day, Azhar flinched, yielding enough time for Toftof to somersault backwards and increase the distance between them.
Azhar realised what the man was up to, and struggled to rise back to his feet, but the earlier kick left him failing back to his knee. Toftof did not waste the opportunity, instead he jolted into a full on sprint and followed up with a flying kick.
“Old mon!” cried Cirin before the impact.
The two men met in an echo of boot against metal. Azhar had managed to block the attack with his sabre. Toftof leapt back, forcing Azhar to wield the weight of the blow. Azhar rose after that, but Toftof was quicker. Earning his title, Toftof, one of the four lieutenants, disarmed Azhar with a punch to the wrist and sent him backwards with a solid smack to the chest. Rough metal against unguarded skin.
Catherine was too far to see the details, but she was sure that hit drew blood. Toftof jumped on Azhar a moment later, meeting the man with another swing to the face. Azhar tried to keep his head down, but Toftof lifted him up by his collar.
“Are ya really da man who slew Jafna!? Ya be not even worthy of his blade. Is dat why you don’t use it, eh?”
When Azhar failed to answer, Toftof punched him with his other fist.
“answer me, ya dog!” barked Toftof.
Azhar coughed a couple times and finally managed to speak between breaths, “Yea, I ain’t worthy.” He coughed, “I never will be.”
Toftof rose one fist, ready to deliver the death blow.
Catherine felt her stomach wrench by it all. Just that morning she was reading a book in a hat shop. She glanced at Cirin and knew instantly that whatever she felt was a mere fraction of his agony.
“I-I never will be.” Started Azhar. Toftof’s fist began to waver, “Because…”
“Because?” bellowed Toftof. When Azhar didn’t answer, Toftof lowered his fist and re-clasped Azhar’s collar, hoisting him up once more to pry the answer from him, “Because!?”
Catherine could tell the two shared a history deeper than their respective affiliations. It was written in Toftof’s maddened eyes.
“Because…” started Azhar.
A single heavy thud echoed across the ruins. Head against head. The on-lookers held their breaths. Even Sol peaked at the scene from Catherine’s side.
In one fated move, one man stood above the other. It was Azhar.
He looked down at the shorter man, now on his bum and clutching his head.
Azhar rubbed his own forehead, wiped his mouth, and inhaled deeply. Just as Toftof stumbled to his feet, Azhar shouted with all the energy he had left in his body, “Because it’s for his son!”
Catherine felt out of place hearing that. Surely Azhar had a reason for shouting that out, though for the life of her,she had no idea why. That was when she saw Cirin staring motionlessly at Azhar, a line of tears streaming down his cheek.
“Cirin, you ok?”
Cirin wiped his eyes, “Ah, it’s… it’s nothing.”
Finally Toftof spoke, “I really am a liar, eh?”
Azhar took a few step backwards and fell on his bum. Toftof did the same.
Azhar started to chuckle and so did Toftof, until both were laughing like fools with bruises littered across their faces.
Catherine shook Cirin’s shoulder, “What’s happening here?” she whispered.
Cirin sniffed and somehow managed to smile, “It’s over.”
Toftof’s deep voice took on a hushed quality, “Here I wagered my life, and I couldn’t even do dat.”
“Ya almost took mine.”
“Ofcourse, cause I’ve always been betta dan ya.”
The two men laughed again, much to the confusion of the crowd.
“ ‘A sandrat may refuse a job if he tinks da job forsake his principles’. You rememba dat?”
Azhar had his eyes on the sky, “I was never da idealist.”
“Well I never liked da idea of killing some kid, even if he be noble.”
“Den you know why I did Jafna in.”
“I tough dat was a rumor?”
“Ya still tink so?”
There was a long silence.
“No.” Said Toftof simply. He eyed the trio a ways behind Azhar, “We best be going den. Da mission be a failiure. Sandrats!” He bellowed loudly, “Retreat!”
There as an audible confusion amongst the watching bandits, yet it seemed as short lived as the command. The marauding Sandrats departed in packets, with two running to Toftof to help him up. A few of the brigands even threw Catherine telling glances that hinted of fear.
Azhar was still sitting when Toftof turned to him, either of the imp’s arms around the necks of his squatting assistants.
“I may have spared ya, but dun tink the udda lieutenants be sa kind. Hide da boy.” Warned Toftof.
Azhar laughed and clutched his head a moment later, “Which one?” he jested.
Toftof threw his opponent one more smile and was gone the next.
Catherine, Cirin, and Sol approached the man when all the sandrats had gone. The moment she could see his face, Catherine’s gut knotted. His cheeks had turned into apples with a glaring cut below his left eye that reminded her of raspberry jam. Catherine shook her head. In times like these she could only think of sweet things.
Cirin froze with his eyes to the ground and Catherine halted with him.
“Cirin?” she prodded, watching the boy carefully.
Both had stopped ten steps before facing the man.
“Azhar,” Began Cirin, “I get it.”
“Oi Sol. Ya mustn’t do such tings!”
Azhar struggled to his feet, but fell back on his bum, still clutching the reddened patch on his head. Catherine saw the prince then. While the two of them struggled to approach the man who had saved them Sol wasted no time to help him.
“Sol!”
Sol bid the man no response, only treatment as the boy ripped the fine silk off his sleeve and proceeded to wrap it around the left side of Azhar’s head.
Cirin passed Catherine then, and at last came face to face with Azhar.
“Ya have many questions, I’m sure.” Admitted the man, now ruffling the head of Sol and staring at Cirin, “Ya been thru enough, but I can’t ansah dose questions.”
Cirin shook his head, “No. I told you. I get it.”
Azhar smiled at the boy, “I know.”
Catherine noticed the sky dimming by the horizon, “I’m sorry to hinder your father-son reunion, but didn’t that brigand say to hide Sol?”
A moment passed as both Cirin and Azhar stared at Catherine in complete silence.
“Catherine was it?” started Azhar, “Dis mouse ain’t my son.”
“And dis bruised up fool could neva be my father.” Asserted Cirin.
“Oi oi, enough wit dat. I’m bruised cause of you, mouse.” Pushed Azhar.
Catherine ogled at them. She had become the only fool there, “But back at the shop, when I asked Marvus, he confirmed it.”
Azhar stood up with Cirin’s aide. “Are you sure he confirmed dat? Or his own assumption of what ya said?” he quandered.
Catherine slumped her head low, “His assumption.” She sighed, “But you two look so much alike. I couldn’t fathom a complete lack of family ties.”
Cirin laughed to that, yet Azhar froze up.
Sol nodded, “They do look alike!” he giggled.
Azhar laughed awkwardly, “Coincidence. Really. But you be right about hidin’ da prince. Come, I know just da place.”
Catherine couldn’t help feeling that he had shaken off her remark. Yet it had been a longer arduous day then she had been accustomed to. Wherever he had in mind, it would offer her some rest.
“Here!?” echoed Catherine.
“Not so loud, girl.” Hushed Azhar.
Catherine took a few steps then slumped against a shelf, causing a few of the hats to stumble off of it. To think the place she’d have to stay in for the foreseeable future would become the refugee of royalty. It was unfathomable. Unthinkable! A definite risk if she’d ever be so brave again.
Then Marvus walked in and Azhar promptly shut the door before the man made any sense of it.
“Is that Sol!” he practically shouted.
“Marvus, please.” Responded Azhar.
It took him a few moments, but even the cross-eyed hat salesmen knew it better to stay silent in these matters.
Azhar eyed out the window cautiously and continued his instruction, “I’ll have a few of my men guardin’ da outside tonight. Inconspicuous and da like. If all goes well, I’ll be here tommora’.”
“Can we atleast treat your wounds?” offered Catherine.
Azhar smiled for a moment, “Da prince did just enough for dat. I’ll have da palace medicine men take care of da rest. For now, I best be off.”
“Azhar?” started Cirin. The whole room hushed when he spoke up. Cirin was not often the type to ask question especially not in the docile tone he had just employed.
“Yes, mouse?”
Cirin puffed out his nose, pressed his eyes, and looked down then up, “If dey come here, I’ll knock em out myself.”
Azhar pushed open the door and stood still a moment before he left, “Den dey betta not come.”
The door shut close after that, prompting a universal sigh amoungst three of the four residents.
Marvus glanced in confusion, “Why’re you all so relieved?”
Catherine half smiled and rose a finger, “Actually-”
“We were about ta leave da hiding spot.” Cut in Cirin.
“And then mister Azhar appeared above us!” jolted Sol.
“We ran away from him tinking he was da enemy-”
“But sandrats surrounded us right at the exit.”
“Just when da day seemed lost. Azhar ran in front of us and challenged dere head commander.”
“It was horrible fight.” Entered Sol.
Cirin leapt in front of sol and started shadowboxing as he spoke, “But Azhar stood his ground, punch for parry. It was amazing til da sandrat got him low and almost did him in and then..and then…”
Cirin trailed off at the last part while his enthusiastic shadowboxing died down to a few drunken swings.
Marvus cared not however, now clapping at the duo’s performance, “Splendid! Splendid! And now we bear the presence of his majesty Solesio Gel’Rave.” Marvus bowed in exaggerated fashion.
“Just Sol is fine.” Shied the prince.
Marvus glanced from Sol to Cirin, “Stay with Cirin then, I imagine after all you’ve been through a pleasant rest is what you most desire.”
As daylight faded the shock the trio had felt faded with it. Just as dim moon lit up the sand kissed city of Lamanori, a strange exhaustion took a hold of all three children alike. In a matter of hours they fell to the calling of slumber.
When morning came Azhar kept his promise. Catherine, Sol, and Cirin lined up infront of him. Catherine wore a faded frown the moment Azhar cleared his throat to speak. This time he wore a proper bandage across his face, over his nose, and above his right eye. There lacked a trace of his previous reassuring demeanour as he bid them a constant frown and downdraught eyes.
“A week.” He started, addressing the three, “Cirin, Sol, you two will leave wit me in a week’s time.”
Catherine felt the urge to speak up. She was a part of the trio and deserved just as much reason to leave with them. But the moment she shifted, Marvus’s hand weighed down on her shoulder. She looked to him and caught him shaking his head.
“Before ya protest.” Continued Azhar, “Dis be a matta of our kingdom’s safety. Ofcourse, da prince may decline.”
“I will not.” Reassured Sol.
Azhar nodded, “Den Cirin ya have no choice.”
Cirin cocked his head, “Not dat I would leave Sol alone, but I still tink I be a free man.”
Azhar pointed at the boy accusingly, “Ya owe da palace for ya rent here. Even da amount ya haven’t stayed for.”
“Rent?”
Azhar scoffed, “What ya tink, eh? Dey let ya sleep and eat here fa free?”
“But Marvus said he’d take me in cause his knew my mudda’”
“Cirin, your mudda was a women of fine breeding wit a head as big as ya. She’d never associate wit a man like Marvus.” Azhar glanced awkwardly at the man in question, “Er, no offense Marvus.”
Marvus shrugged, “None taken.”
Cirin narrowed his eyes at Azhar. Catherine noticed a difference in the boy. The moment Azhar had mentioned his mother he had changed somehow.
“I’ll go.” Said Cirin.
“Den it be settled. Now about da trip itself. Have any of ya read da newsprint today?”
There was a shuffle before at last Marvus produced a crumpled yellow print from the first drawrer of his business table.
“Open it.” Instructed Azhar.
Marvus did just that, yet the moment he did Azhar directed his hand at the first headline of the second page.
“Oh my.” Trailed Marvus.
“Aye.” Said Azhar.
Catherine followed their example as she read the heading. She tossed her eyes to Sol a moment later.
“Prince Sol is dead?” she read aloud, “But it’s obviously not true. I mean, he’s right here.”
“And dat is da problem. When da sandrats found out about Sol’s hiding place yestaday, a few of da idiots mistook da information as confirmation of his death. Da sandrats are many in Lamaonori so dat rumor spread.”
“So then we just need to correct it.”
Azhar nodded, “Dat’s why I need a week. Give me a week, and I’ll correct it here. But afta dat, we need ta leave dis city and stop da rumor from spreading more. Da nobles dat need be convinced are stubborn folk, so dey’ll need ta see da boy ta believe it.”
“That’s too dangerous!” warned Catherine, “The moment anyone finds out that prince Sol is alive, they’ll hunt him again. You were able to defend him because you knew the sandrats you fought here, but If you leave this city whatever may threaten Sol you might not be able to beat.”
“Dat is why I won’t be alone.” Rebutted Azhar, “Not just Cirin. In da weeks’ time, I’ll have a small yet suitable crew ready for da escort. Dey be tough reliable men.”
“No!” spouted Catherine, “I won’t accept this. This is just…just rash!”
“Then why not help them, Catherine?”
Catherine turned to her mentor. This time it was Marvus who spoke up.
“You have a week as well if you think about it. Teach them all you know about the practices and policies of other cities. Even about the gangs associated with those cities. We have plenty of books on that, rather nasty, subject in the library.”
“But I won’t be able to cover all that in a week.”
“Den write ta us.” Offered Cirin.
“We’ll read them all, promise!” entered Sol.
“Sol, Cirin…” Catherine shut her eyes and then finally pried the open and sighed simultaneously, “Fine. But whatever you do, don’t die.”
“Promise.” Nodded Cirin.
When Azhar left, Catherine began researching immediately. They had a week.
Cirin had just awoken the day after, careful not to stir the fast asleep Sol. Though it was the first day, Catherine had not contacted him once. Cirin straddled into the hat shop with his arms above his head and a yawn drawn out from his lips.
Catherine’s quick stiff footsteps greeted him the moment he passed Marvus’s table and the hefty slam of some heavy object followed. Cirin pried his tired eyes abruptly to the table and Catherine patted the heavy pile of books she placed there.
“This is for you.” She said smiling.
Cirin pointed at himself in disbelief, “Ya can’t be serious, mon. Dis be more dan I read in my entire life.”
“Oh don’t worry.” She assured him, waving one hand in front of her, “I highlighted the parts you need to know the most. It should take you.” She tapped her chin as she worked out the numbers, “Six maybe eight hours if you study dutifully.”
Cirin nearly fell back, “I rather be training dan dis.”
Catherine sighed, “I knew you’d say that.” With a flick of her finger, Cirin’s feet gave way and he fell back first on the ground. As he tried to stand up, the books Catherine had picked up started flapping and flying around.
Cirin swung his arms about , “Witchcraft!” he scorned the scholar.
In the back, Marvus scoffed a laugh.
Finally, Catherine snapped her fingers and one after the other the book neatly piled atop of each other. Cirin blinked to the maddened display, he was breathing hard.
“Read the one on the top first.” Instructed the scholar.
Before Cirin cold protest, the book flipped open in front of him.
“Dis be da work of scholars and magic men, why do I need ta take part in it?”
“You agreed yourself. Now read.”
Cirin felt his eyes twitching. He was powerless in front of her. Wearily, he eyed the door. It wasn’t far, if he could just bolt to it while Catherine was unawares, maybe just maybe…
“Wow! Can you do that again?”
Both Catherine and Cirin turned to Prince Sol standing at the hallway entrance. His face was a blush with awe, his mouth agape in wonder.
“Only if you study everything I need you to.”
“Deal!” agreed the boy happily.
Cirin let loose a heavy sigh. Sol had fallen into Catherine’s trap. Being a man of honor, he could not abandon his young charge. “I guess I my choice be gone now.” He lauded.
Catherine smiled, “I’m glad you see it that way.”
With their course decided, the day trudged on and one day of reading soon became three. By then, even the big-headed Cirin had gotten used to Catherine’s tutelage.
“And dis Rentrala’far of Ezmir work unda three leaders?”
Catherine nodded, “From what was written about them five years ago, yes. They’re a strong hierchal bunch with strict discipline as far as city-gangs go. If you ever run into them, the best way to scare them is with a simple trick.”
“A trick!?” beamed Sol.
Catherine patted the prince on the head, “Not the kind a prankster may pull. Rather a simple magical incantation.”
Cirin looked to the scholar with a drawn out stare, “Ya know we dun know any magic.”
“And you’ll never be able to.” Said Catherine smiling.
Even it were for a moment, Cirin felt just at the slightest bit insulted.
Catherine reached into her belt pocket, speaking as she pulled a locket out a glinting locket, “Considering Ezmir is your first stop, I prepared an enchanted locket in advance.” She handed it to Sol who sat across from her.
Sol latched onto it and immediately started prodding it eying it from every angle.
“Flip it open and tap the bottom twice.”
Just as Sol did that, the locket flared up and flash brightly, blinding Cirin momentarily. When his vision came to, he stared at the strange device in distain.
“Close your eyes when you use it by the way.” Informed Catherine, though notably a bit late, “If you employ it against the Rentrala’far, they’ll think it a magical spell and hopefully not dare to fight you.”
“I see.” Nodded Cirin.
“This may also work against the Tanin gang of Gara and the Al’zahar cultists of the Seventh Star. But from what I read, you mustn’t rely on it against it the Black Necks.”
Cirin glanced at his book entitled ‘The Beginners Guide to the Seventh Star’. He had not read anything on the Black Necks as of yet.
“I hope we don’t see them.” Confessed Sol. Cirin pressed his brows together. Sol, though younger than his body guard, was adept in the scholarly arts. His piddling strength paled before his unnatural intellect.
“They- they scare me.” Sol looked down. Still, he was a timid boy.
“As they should!” retorted Catherine. She turned to Cirin, “Listen, Cirin, as far as the city-gangs, the Black Necks are the one gang you must fear the most. They are ruthless. Yes, they are quite far from Lamonori in their city of Ibule, but if you must go there stray away from the Black Necks as much as possible. If they go after Sol, they will not hesitate in…” Catherine trailed as she avoided the prince’s eyes, “you know.”
Cirin shut his eyes hard, “I know.” He said slowly.
“Don’t worry, Cirin will protect me.” Again the young prince caught them both by surprise.
Tears swelled to her eyes, but she rubbed them away as she noted the young prince. His unwavering faith was a thing of wonder, considering what Grod told her he’d been through.
“Sol is a remarkable boy. He’s been abandoned by his country, his family, all since he was just an infant.” Said Grod, “but he never seemed to be bothered by it. Just the contrary, he appears to be a normal healthy child.”
“Maybe he was too young to understand it?” questioned Catherine.
“Maybe so, but understand that he has always been more appreciative of others than those his age. He’s a genius that boy. Even Master Marvus thinks so.”
Then she remembered the second part of what Grod told her. She turned to Cirin this time.
“Grod told me about you two and how you’d always taunt Sol back at the palace. He said out of all the guards who hated guarding him, you were the one who openly expressed your distain. Why then? Why did you protect him so?”
Cirin pushed Sol playfully then wrapped one arm around the prince, “To tell ya da truth, I did hate him long ago. Always shying away from tings royalty should neva shy from. Making us guard him while da udders laughed at us fa doing so’. Den one day when I was nine, two years after being assigned ta Sol, we were runnin’ low on food, and being who we were, da feeble guards of an infant, dey decided ta feed us da least. Dey gave us so little, dat at nights I thought I be betta of eating da scarabs in da palace grounds. My gut growled like a lion every day, it became a pain I could not suppress. So when I had enough, I decided ta get back at da bastards who kept da food away from me.”
Cirin let go of Sol, made his hands fists, and pressed them against the ground, “So I stole from da storehouse.” Cirin looked away from them both, “It was just one piece of bread, but as soon as dey found out, I was beaten and thrown in a holding cell for a day without food.”
“Cirin…” reached Catherine, but stopped short. She thought her tutelage had been rough.
“Dat stupid old mon, Azhar, was off on some mission dat week. Can ya imagine? When I need him most. I though dey were goinna kill me. No nine year old should have ta tink like dat. It was dark, cold, noting but rats scurrying in da distance. And den, dat night when I could barely move, my cell door creeped open.” Cirin smiled at Sol, “And dere he was, dis imp, with butta’d bread in hand. He was skinnier dan me, yet he told me ta have it. Azhar came back da next day, scolded da guards real good, but if it wasn’t for Sol, I’d be dead.”
“So that’s why.” Said Catherine.
“Well, dat’s what started it. It was from dere dat I started paying attention to what da prince did. I need ta decide if he was worth protecting.”
“And your answer?”
Cirin smiled, “Da same reason you be helping us now.”
Catherine lowered her head. If even a little, she understood their bond. With little delay she rose her hand and signaled the beginning of a quiet reading session. Now, more than ever, she felt a deep desire to help those two succeed. Not just this week, from there on in she’d put all of herself into researching the dangers of Illivanmar. She gripped her book hard, Cirin and Sol would come back alive, she would make sure of that.
They days past without much respite until Catherine finally let up on the day before the last. With the last day they had before their departure, Sol and Cirin would prepare by resting.
“All ready?” prompted Azhar.
Both the boys nodded.
“Den we’ll leave immediately. Say ya goodbyes.”
Sol ran up and hugged Catherine by the waist tightly, leaving her to awkwardly pat him on the head, “I’ll miss you to.” She laughed.
When Cirin approached her, she eyed him and extended her hand to meet his hand held out.
“A pleasure, Miss Catherine.” Shook Cirin.
“A pleasure.” She responded.
It was barely dawn when the three of them left. The streets were still empty. Marvus, Grod, and Catherine watched them go, silent all the while.
In a way, Cirin would accomplish something Catherine had hoped to do herself. He’d see more of them, the towers. Catherine eyed the one lumbering behind her. For nearly a month she had been in Lamonori, yet this seemed to be her second time truly admiring the monolith. She wondered just what it was and whether there truly existed thirteen of them. She looked onto the dawn Cirin had disappeared into. Maybe Cirin would find out.