Eshkil I

When Eshkil was young, his favorite spot to play in was the long, wide colonnade that ended at the doors of his father's zhenfi. The square columns had been a rich red, with white and gold markings delicately painted atop them telling the story of their house's ancestors. The men that stood guard beside said doors were cordial enough to their lord's mischievous son, though he could never convince them to join in on his games.

His father though was of the opposite mind, and after a long day inside it was not unusual to see the High Chief of Damri playing with his child right there in the hallway. He could vividly remember the gleeful excitement that he'd patiently contained until the moment his father stepped outside the zhenfi, whereupon Eshkil would pounce on him pretending to be a monster from one of his mother's many, many tales.

But that was all that remained; memories. In the present, the walls before him held the similarities of his childhood home, but he wasn't a little boy this time waiting to play for his father. His niece was abed, unconscious since the previous afternoon. She'd had short periods of wakefulness marred by screams and incoherent ramblings, speaking words she should not know. It was too soon, too dangerous.

Finally, the door creaked open and a gaunt, wizened figure gingerly stepped out of Izhera's rooms.

"She will be fine," the old physician informed them, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"What exactly is the matter with the girl?" Asrael all but demanded of the man. It was not because he was worried for her; it was more Archmage Yisril's displeasure that he sought to avoid.

"An unbalanced qhin and extreme stress. That is all." The man said, eyes flicking to the Chosen. "It seems she has been under great strain these last few months. A little rest would do."

Asrael pursed his lips. "That would be all. You are dismissed."

Once the physician was out of earshot, the silver-eyed man scoffed. "Rest, he says. Rest, she shall have."

Eshkil said nothing.

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"When is the earliest we can move on without further… aggravating Her Grace's delicate condition?"

"Five days, at most. I suppose we shall head to Diyehu, then?"

"Obviously, my friend. The seasons have already changed - it's too late to join Yousif now, given the precious cargo we hold." Asrael all but spat.

Eshkil shrugged nonchalantly. "I prefer the road." I prefer the easiest escape possible.

"You only say that because you have no sea legs."

"Neither do you." He shot back playfully.

The shorter man chuckled, "No. I do not."

"Can I ask you a question?" Eshkil said before he could stop himself.

"Ask away."

Better late than never. Curiosity might kill the cat, but he had a niggling feeling that he'd be long gone before that. "What happened in Gora?"

It was always this question that had left him at the crossroads for the past two years. Left or right, his path with the Circle of Hoshnu from now on entirely depended on an answer he wasn't sure he would get anytime soon.

Nysaria had something to do with whatever the fuck that debacle was. She was someone he trusted with his deepest secrets and regrettably, the same could not be said for Asrael. Not anymore. Oh, he loved the man, as if they had shared the same womb and drank from the same breast. His pain was Eshkil's pain, as was his joy. But the incident in Gora... had made him rethink some things.

For a while, Asrael said nothing. Finally, he bitterly muttered, "It's not something I'm ready to talk about."

Eshkil had expected as much. It broke his heart, just a little, that this must be the way things end. Izhera was more important.

"I'm sorry, my friend." He whispered, voice sorrowful.

"There's nothing to forgive, dy'Korste. You have done me no wrong."

It is not for what I did, he thought, it is for what I'm about to do.

****

The man made quick work of the dead body, not leaving the little nook hidden away from wandering eyes until bone and flesh had dissolved to nothing but a mess resembling wet ash. He pocketed the vial - now half empty - and spread around the remains of the body with his foot. By the morrow, a servant would sweep them away, none the wiser. It was none of his concern. He had a job to do.