Wosirye I

"What do you see, master?" Tabari inquired softly, careful not to disturb the tomb-like silence that shrouded the Inner Temple, of which they were the sole occupants. Dead men and dark words, Wosirye thought, and snuffed out the incense stick with his bare fingers.

He'd been in meditation for hours now, in a three-day streak of fasting and consuming nothing but water and ajja root.

Eshkil was dead. Of that, he was certain.

He'd warned the man of daggers drawn in the dark, of the Doomsman's shadow lingering after his steps. Anywhere but the South, he'd told him, for His Divine Majesty - blessed be His Name - had yet to gain standing ground in Jabba or Vo. But Eshkil had shrugged it off, almost carelessly. It's where I must go, he'd said. He'd neither elaborated nor given the tiniest hint as to why it was so important to him to participate in the southern campaign, and Wosirye had let him be. After all, a deaf ear heeded no cure.

"My lord?" Tabari said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Let us withdraw to my quarters," he told his apprentice, who nodded his shaved head and promptly set out to put out the torches and braziers.

The rain that had plagued the countryside nonstop for a full sennight had thankfully abated, though the ground underneath his shoes seemed to give away just a little as he made his way down the winding path that led to the little house he called home for six moons now. And standing by the door was a familiar figure, flanked by another he did not know.

"Eshab," he said when he had reached an appropriate distance. Tabari did the same while bowing low.

"Eshab," the Third Commander of Yaurim said in his iron voice then turned to his young companion, a bodyguard no doubt - though Wosirye doubted Imruz zo Quen needed one - to whisper something in his ear.

"It has been a long time since we last saw each other, has it not?"

"A long time indeed," Wosirye agreed as Imruz bent down to kiss both his cheeks, as was custom.

"Come, walk with me for a while. I know you are exhausted from your long stay in the embrace of the gods-"

"Say no more, my lord." Wosirye assured him, and the commander looped their arms.

"I shall prepare food for your return, master. My lord." Tabari bowed once again and disappeared into the house.

For a while they walked in silence, the young man following them at a safe distance. Wosirye had been born in this little town resting on the eastern shores of the Long Sea, had been raised in the same temple alongside forty-nine other foundlings that he now sought answers - and comfort - in. He knew all there was to know about this place.

But now, thick clouds of distant and unknown origin seemed intent on clouding his vision regarding vital matters. He had come here to recuperate, and Imruz's presence worried him. Surely, an important man like him - of House Quen no less - did not come to a backwater settlement just for a social call.

"Archmage, I have come to ask for your blessings - and advice."

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"Let us sit," Wosirye led him to an old but sturdy bench that boasted a fantastic view of the Long Sea, dark and grey as it was. "Now, speak."

"Things are bad in the capital. Very bad." The man said without preamble.

"The Qadiya, well, the Left faction really, is quite… dissatisfied with ah, his Divine Majesty's recent demands, as he is discontent with the slow progress of the campaigns." He huffed, "Wars like these takes time."

"And money."

"Yes, money. And men." Imruz's eyes briefly flicked to his companion. "That is my nephew, Imzil. My sister all but begged me to take him off her hands yester-year. Argued he'd learn more under my wing. Her only son."

Ah, Wosirye thought. Dodging conscriptions had never been so easy as long as you had a powerful relative.

He did not have it in his heart to scold his former acolyte for the deed. Priest to the war god or not, he did not seek the unnecessary shedding of blood, and oh, Beyish blood descended from the elder families had positively been shed. He did not like to think how many had actually perished in what many now called the Century of Sorrows.

Contrary to popular opinion, Hoshnu was not as bloodthirsty and merciless as the Emperor who bore his will on earth made him to be. Wosirye was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself, though. He had lived too long to die so foolishly.

He took in a deep breath. "And what are these demands that have left the court in a pickle?"

Imruz's face suddenly aged a decade, and Wosirye knew that his days of hiding away in a nondescript town had ended.

*****

For all intents and purposes, the Qadiya was the only law-making body in the nation, and theirs was the only power that had the legal right to govern the affairs of Beys. Only the Emperor was above their will, but an astute ruler would be wise to heed their advice - and listen well to their grievances.

Blasphemous as it was, His Divine Majesty did not care for such courtesies, necessary as they were. Aye, he did not care and so he had carefully - and bloodily - weeded out opposition since the time he was still Crown Prince, then Regent. Sycophants and bootlickers filled the court nowadays, Wosirye had heard, but the Emperor was wise enough to keep them at arm's length.

Wosirye had seen Hirzaqho zo Hirzad VII, Pashe of Nubîr-Thalib, Hammer of Hoshnu and Emperor of Beys an exact three times. The first encounter had left no impression on him save for the fact that the then boy prince would have a hard time in the capital, born of a common woman as he was and under the eye of a jealous and spiteful Empress Haliyma. The second time had left him suspicious - what with Qiztael zo Hirzad's failing health and his eldest son's disappearance - and the third meeting had him disquieted.

For a man who was violently insane, he was also frighteningly clever and above all, cunning beyond earthly knowledge. Not to mention, extremely skilled in the way of the mages. No, he did not think it was only cowardice that held back the Qadiya's tongues. As much as they would grumble, his Divine Majesty would have his way yet again as he had in the past and the matter would not be mentioned again. The gods had fashioned men to have self-preservation, and it would do naught for an ant to challenge an elephant. Not for the time being.

But then again, the Emperor was of elder blood and it was Wosirye's duty to give him his due, and so he did. But that night, long after Imruz had taken his leave, he was tormented by dark thoughts that would not let him be unless he gave in to them.

As was custom for every free man who lived under the twin suns of the Beyish banner, Wosirye had given up his eldest son to the blade - Abed had not been one for books, unfortunately, or he would've made an excellent wadja. He had not been cruel enough though to subject his son to a lifetime of celibacy, so to war Abed had gone, hopeful he would return to wed and bed some Qurayni maiden he was besotted with. Two others had followed in their older brother's footsteps, and all three had returned as dust and bones. There was no shame in serving one's country but...

His Divine Majesty demanded more.

Wosirye wondered what it would take to defy the God-King.

In his dreams, Eshkil said to him a name, black and ancient, and the old priest screamed.

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Qadiya: basically a council of lords.

Wadja: a royal court scribe whose patroness is the goddess Tefri, deity of knowldege and healing. Wadja are exempt from military service and it is quite difficult to be one. They take a vow of eternal secrecy, chastity and celibacy. Their many duty is to record absolutely everything happening in court, good or bad.

Qurayni: an ethnicity in Beys, known for predominantly having green eyes.