Chapter 34

Day Sixteen – Afternoon

With the ‘click’ of a lock and the rattling of chains, all prisoners were put behind bars again. Smoke rose from the remnants of charred trees. The sweaty coachman had repaired as much of it as he could, hammered together and roped together. The captives had their arms bound above their heads, and nobody was able to sit down with ease. Sagir’s eye was swollen blue, as were many of his inmates’ eyes.

Two soldiers were killed and two unable to walk; the same two who had lost their horses. The fallen men were thrown amidst the cages to rot. Many were bruised and battered, nobody was unharmed, except the old coacher.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the soldier who was finishing up the chains. “If any of you acts up, all of you lose a finger. One after another.”

“And if more of these vermin show up for you–” Romund pulled off his helmet and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “It doesn’t stop with a finger,” he said, then marched towards the cage and reached inside. His cold gauntlets held Sagir at the chin, pulling his face closer. “I will–” He stopped, and instead smacked the foreign prisoner once more with his tinned hand.

Sagir had lost all sensation in his body. He felt neither pain nor blood loss. No spoken words reached him. Not the threats of the soldiers, or the pokes and kicks of his fellow inmates. Not the spits or murmured insults, aiming at his very nature.

“When this is over–” Beotold wiped the blood off his mouth and clenched his teeth – their perfection ruined. A tremble surged through his square chin, staring into the woods, trying to figure out the bandit’s pathing. “Two more days,” he said. “Two more days and I’ll be freed of this useless third-rate excuse for the Noble Arts.”

The knights’ gazes locked onto Genhard. The lieutenant walked over to his captain, their armors tainted by dirt and dust. As were their egos.

“My Captain, I secured–” said the patrician meek. He held his arm to rest his broken clavicle.

“What?!” Beotold snapped at Genhard. “What, cornet?! What did you secure?!” The nobleman stepped in front of the guildsman. “You let them escape. Airich’s men, the robbers, and that witch. You have accomplished nothing today. Nothing!” With each syllable, Beotold’s baritone rose and became more like a chant. It struck fear into Genhard’s eyes. “You have been granted the privilege of joining our ranks, chosen by the Stars, and this is all you can do? This is it?! These are the commonfolk the Margrave and King are wasting precious Arcanium on?!”

“Sir, I am–” Genhard tried once more, but couldn’t find the courage or volume to make himself heard.

“Nothing, I said!” Beotold became louder and louder, a distinct melody seeping into his speech that made him thunder through the whole valley. “You are nothing! You’ll do your duty, serve your time, and nothing will wait for you when you return. Everything will be in ruin.”

“Sir!” The patrician finally snapped back. “I have single-handedly made sure that no prisoner fled. From the very beginning, I have put my life on the line,” said Genhard. His posture was still far from confident, but his tenor was undeniably rhythmic. “I am an enchanter. My work provides comfort to your wives and daughter, power to our temples, and might to your arms. I have not been trained for this, yet I have killed that bogwitch and her monster. Before the days of the Kingdom and its infancy, these deeds would have granted me knighthood. I have outdone myself, if anyth–”

“Say that again.” Romund’s eyes narrowed like those of a predator, and Beotold joined him. The lieutenant put his hand on Genhard’s shoulder and slid it towards his broken collarbone. His face got closer to that of the guildsman as well, along each inch of his moving hand.

“Repeat yourself,” ordered Beotold.

“I–, what?” The enchanter swallowed, with sweat running through his sideburns. He froze like a deer, even though he wanted to retreat. “What part? That I have outdone my–”

“You think you deserve knighthood?” asked Beotold, standing right behind his second in command. Like a pillar, his face had become like stone. His hot anger had cooled down.

“No, I–” Genhard’s tenor was quenched. He ran his hand through his flowing blonde hair that stuck together from sweat.

“You think you’re like us?” While Beotold spoke, Romund’s tinned fingers tore into the broken bone. “Bred and drilled to serve our Lords?”

“Sir, I–” The patrician’s face was painfully distorted.

“You think you can take me or Sir Romund on?” Beotold grabbed the hilt of his sword. “You said it yourself.” His voice was slow and easy to follow. “You are an enchanter; a tool for those of noble birth. Do you think you can take any of us who stand above your kind?” Only the wind and wildlife dared to speak. The soldiers and prisoners had fallen silent, no whispers or even breaths. “Go on. Challenge us with your measly excuse of a voice. You think we’re as easy as an ugly hag or creature?”

“No,” replied Genhard, panting under Romund’s grip. “I–, I mean–”

Romund pulled Genhard closer, beards and foreheads touching with an intense gaze. “You. Mean. What?”

“Our forefathers might have earned knighthood with such an easy task, but their magic was infantile,” said Beotold, piercing into the patrician’s soul with his eyes. “As are you. Our Lords are chosen to be the Star’s Shepherds, and we are their Sheepdogs. Got it?”

Genhard gulped. “Got it,” he said. “Sir.”

“We’ll refurbish the Scrīptiō with Arcānium from the mines,” said Beotold. The knights inspected each other’s armor to keep track of what spells they could still amplify. “This will end before we head back to Teblen. We have overestimated this disgrace of a man. General Airich respected the King’s laws. No need to face this scum with false honor, we’ll hunt them down like the animals they are.”

The knights and soldiers mounted their steeds. Their wounded joined Genhard with the coachman. Escorting the transport had become more difficult with how many men and horses were lost or injured. But there was only one night left. This disadvantage would be compensated by harsher treatment and more beatings.

“Ya’ hear that, blackhead?” whispered an old toothless inmate at Sagir. He fell silent when a soldier looked at him grim, toning down his voice afterwards. “He!” The prisoner bumped his elbow against Sagir’s slouched head. Both their arms were bound above their heads. “I said ‘He!’ ya’ damned blackhead. Ya’ listening?” repeated the toothless man. “Ya’ dimwitted friends are done for. We trusted ya’ with your goatsshit.”

“All mercy will be forsaken,” whispered a woman from behind. “This is all your fault, heathen.”

“You–” uttered Sagir. Raising his head, his gaze wandered beyond his knees onto the moving road beneath them. He had kept his hair short enough to not be grabbed and thrown around by it for years, but it was growing out by now. Filth and blood cluttered it up, even covering the scar that ran into it from his forehead. “Nothing’s worse than before, we’ll all be worked to death,” he uttered. “He’ll come for me, not for you.”

“Shut up and fuck a goat.” The toothless man failed to spit at Sagir, as his mouth had run dry. “Why’s he even coming for a goatfucker like you? He some kind of idiot?”

“He’ll come again,” replied Sagir, determined, refusing to look at any of his inmates. “Again and again.” The shining parts of their wardens’ armor were dusted and soiled. Some were still good enough to see the Sun Maiden’s reflection in them. “He owes me; and he knows that.”

- - - - - - - - -

“This way, oğlum,” said a soft, muffled voice in her mother tongue. Çıldır opened the door of her shabby little shack, letting in the warm embrace of the Sun Maiden. Already old and worn-down, she still radiated a vigor that would brighten anyone’s mood. “You’ll live here with me and your ağabey.”

A frail boy of no more than eight stepped inside, wrapped in a burlap tunic. He looked around timidly. There was a metal stove, some half-broken furniture, two stools around a small round table, and a couple of spare garments. Two beds with woolen blankets and straw mattresses stood along the back wall. A hammock swung between them. There was only one window next to the creaking door, the wooden shutters wide open.

It was still warm enough to not waste any of their sparse firewood. The boy noticed that there were no candles around, nor woodcuts of the Prophecies or the Prophet himself. Only three old prayer rugs without any embroidery on them.

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“Three?” asked the boy, and pointed at the neatly hung carpets above the beds.

“Yes, this one is for you,” said Çıldır. Draped covered in black robes, only a few gray strands showing under her headscarf. “My sister does not need it anymore.” A warm smile flashed over her lips.

“Was she older or younger than you?” The boy had gone through too much over the last Constellation to be deceived. Time had taught him a harsh lesson. Sitting down on one of the stools, he looked at the old lady who had shown him around the city. The few streets they were allowed in, and the market he had arrived at.

Çıldır pulled the second stool next to her ward, sat down and placed a hand on his. “She was my abla. We came here together and she took good care of me,” she said. “Don’t worry oğlum, she’s with her family on the back of the bull now.”

“She was a bull?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “I’m a bull too!”

“You are?” The old woman’s face brightened too, as she embraced the boy wholeheartedly. “You are truly a Starsend.”

“Under what star were you born?” asked the boy, holding onto Çıldır. He closed his eyes and his body softened for the first time in days. “My baba was a lion,” he uttered.

“A lion you say?” The old woman leaned back, but held onto the child’s shoulders while looking into his eyes. “I am nothing strong or fierce like you and your baba. I am but a fish.” She let go for a moment to form a fin with her hand, paddling against the waves. “Swift and clean.”

“Also prosperous,” added the boy. “Baba said my anne was a hawk. They met on the Day of Flames, when baba became a yaya.” He hadn’t talked to anyone for a couple of days, as he did not understand the beyazı tongue. His group of war prisoners were shipped around Galázion. Through the Calorean Sea, up to the Cealdean Sea that made up nearly all of Albion’s coasts. From there, they made their way on land, south again, traveling through all important cities along the river that led to Teblen. He was alone by that point, as nobody wanted a thin little thing like him.

“Oooh–” Çıldır made a long face, in awe. “A yaya you say? He sounds like a great man. Where was he given land after his service?”

“We did not have land. He chose to stay with his Yayabashi and became a Çavuş before my sisters were born,” said the boy. Thinking about his family, he was filled with sadness again. “And now–” he uttered. “And now he’s–”

“Oğlum–” Once more was the boy embraced by the old woman. She patted his head and hummed into his ear. “You are with me now. Soon enough, your new ağabey will come home from work too. You are not alone, my beloved.”

Çıldır held her new ward for as long as he sobbed and sniveled. Her warm embrace was relentless. Only when the boy spoke again did she let go of him.

“Where are you from, Çıldır?”

“Me?” She smiled and spread her hands far and wide. “I am from many places,” she said. “I was born in Burçaq, but we fled when I was even smaller than you.” Her hands formed the wings of a bird that flew away. “My family was visited by Ağa Kars Ay-Din after which I served in his Ḥarīm. There I learned to read and write and many tales I can tell you. He took us on many journeys, and I slept and feasted in many cities and witnessed his many great deeds.”

The boy listened with wide eyes and an open mouth. He had seen nobility, officials and officers like his own father, but hadn’t been allowed to speak to them. His sisters had often talked about a future among them.

“You must have been beautiful,” uttered the child to the withered woman that was only growing smaller.

“She still is,” said a voice from outside. One creak later and the door stood wide open. A tall young man pulled a patterned, loose turban from his head, revealing his thick black hair. He was barely fully grown. Energetic dark eyes smiled at the boy. “You can ask anybody of age here, Nene and Teyze were sought-after treasures.”

Before Çıldır could welcome the young man, he had already embraced her, keeping her on the stool. “My beloved,” she whispered, as if he had been away forever. “This is Sagir, son of Erdek. The master has acquired him this morning, to keep the shop clean.”

“Does that old tight-arse think you cannot do it alone anymore?” asked the young man spitefully.

The way he walked and talked fascinated Sagir, reminded him of the pride of their kin. Back home. Çıldır had shown him nothing but kindness. But she and the Yesilian scribe at the market place – they called him Qārat – were tamed. There was no sign of the Prophet’s fire in them anymore. Sagir always wondered about the kāfir servants and how broken their will was. He was told they were weak, as all beyazı were. They were not descended from the Wolf, or of the Prophet’s words. But things were different now…

“Ceyhan! Keep your voice down,” said the old woman loud, knocking against the tall youngster’s head. “Say, have you eaten already?”

“I have, nene.” Ceyhan smiled and turned towards the boy. “I am happy that our empty bed will be filled,” he said and bowed. “As-salāmu ʿalaykum.”

“Wa ʿalaykumu s-salam,” responded Sagir, his eyes filling with tears as he shook the young man’s hand.

“As I told you, only do this in private,” said Çıldır. “We are forbidden from practicing our customs. The punishment can be severe.” She grabbed her own arm above the elbow, rubbing it through her clothes.

“Did you already tell the maǧlis, or will Qārat?” asked the young man, bringing his tunic and the cloth belt in order as he noticed Sagir’s eyes on him. “I can bring him over so he can be confirmed as your ward if you need to rest. I’m heading towards Kovada anyw–”

“Again?” The old woman’s voice whimpered. “I do not approve of this. You shouldn’t bother Bey Kovada further, it is disgraceful how he is treated already.”

“A bey?” Sagir stopped sniveling. “Is he–” The boy stuttered. “Is he the head of your maǧlis? What is that?” He had heard that word a couple of times today, but only understood that they were the head of their community. And not to be spoken of in public.

“No, he is too humble for that,” replied Ceyhan. He walked towards a bed and pulled the blanket to the side, revealing a sturdy quarterstaff. Inspecting the wood and carved writings under heavy sighs from his nene, he took it of and leaned onto it. “I can take him to Kovada and then the maǧlis. I’m just waiting for Hanifa.”

“Hanifa?” The old woman jumped up, raced to the window and looked out in suspicion. “I told you this woman will not step into my home. When did you stop listening to me? I don’t want her around you.”

“What is wrong with her?” asked Sagir, looking back and forth between the two older ones in the room. He also tried to peek out of the window, but didn’t want to upset his caretaker by standing up.

“She is improper and from Hūja. Women from the mountains are–” said Ceyhan mockingly at the same time as Çıldır.

Her voice rang very serious, but stopped abruptly. For the first time, Sagir saw the fire he was missing earlier, as she rushed through the room to slap the young man with a resounding ‘clap’. Ceyhan’s face bounded to the side, while he suppressed a laugh that enraged the old woman even more.

“Do not mock me! This is what I mean; she is a bad influence, and she is from Hūja!” Çıldır sounded as if nobody would believe her. “I don’t want you to be further corrupted by her. And don’t ask Bey Kovada to teach you any more. Please–” She halted her speech and grabbed Ceyhan’s hands with both of hers. “Please, she’ll be the death of you, if not all of us.”

A knock from the wooden shutters of the window intruded the following silence. Only Hanifa’s head and shoulders were visible. She knew that she would not be subject to the old woman’s hospitality. “Salām, Çıldır,” said the young woman and bowed her head. A loose black veil hid her hair, and her big brown eyes spotted Sagir like a hawk. Her face was slim, a prominent nose and a stab scar in her left cheek stood out. Sagir was immediately fascinated by her. The way she scanned the room, dead serious, until her gaze met that of Ceyhan.

“Salām, Hanifa,” returned Çıldır the bow.

“Who is the young brother?” asked Hanifa and smiled at Sagir. Her question was targeted at the woman of the house, and she was able to shut Ceyhan up with just a glimpse.

“This bright young man is Sagir ibn Kardaş.” Çıldır switched to a different dialect without effort, as she hugged the boy again – more possessive than before.

“I speak the Sultan’s tongue fluently,” replied Hanifa, her previous smile fading. “Salām, Sagir, son of Kardaş.” She bowed once more. “That is a name from Haydi, isn’t it?”

“Salām,” said Sagir coy, hiding a little in Çıldır’s arms. “It is.”

“He has yet to meet with the maǧlis,” said Ceyhan and put a hand on the boy’s head. “We gonna take him with us to Koavada and then–”

“The elders must wait, the Sun Maiden is about to rest,” interrupted the old woman, also putting a hand on Sagir’s head. The look on his face grew smothered. “He is too young for your kind of troubles.”

“Do not worry, Nene.” Ceyhan put his other hand on top of his Çıldır’s hand as well and joined the hug. “We’ll not leave the street, nor break the curfew.”

Nene’s hands were trembling. She radiated anxiety into Sagir himself, who couldn’t see any of their faces above him anymore. But between the loving knot of his new family, he saw Hanifa’s face softening.

“Do you want to come with us, Çıldır?” asked Hanifa, leaning onto the window frame. “We can visit the maǧlis first, then you take brother Sagir back. You haven’t met the elders in ages, I am sure they would be happy to see you.”

“I–” stuttered Nene. “I don’t know. They have taken Urmye into their wise circle. I love her, I really do. But–”

“Nene,” interrupted Ceyhan, as the bundle separated and left Sagir to breathe. “We need the wisest and most experienced among us to lead. Don’t be like this, you and Urmye have been here forever. We’re running out of old men.”

“What do you want, Sagir?” asked Hanifa.

“I think…” Sagir gathered his thoughts. “I think I would like to see Bey Kovada.” The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that is what I want.”

“Oğlum, please,” whispered Nene. She lost herself in Sagir’s eyes, but spoke to Ceyhan and Hanifa over his head. “Do not corrupt him. He is too innocent, too pure. You two are lost, but he isn’t.”

“Don’t worry, Nene.” Ceyhan kissed her on the forehead. “All of us are lost. I’ll do as you say; but all of us are lost.”

Hanifa knocked on the wooden shutters again and turned around. “There’s only one way out of here,” she said. “Let’s go.”