A warm glow emanated halfway up a rock wall on the north end of a dry canyon. Along a narrow ledge was a cave not visible from the canyon floor. Firelight flickered on the walls inside and illuminated hunting scenes and animal lords painted by tribesmen centuries ago. Many of the scenes depicted species long extinct from the region, their populations decimated by the inexorable approach of the northern desert.
Zyrella chalked her own symbols onto the walls: twisting runes that channeled the geomantic forces in her surroundings and called upon the divine powers of the great deity Kashomae, the Gentle Savior. After Zyrella finished, Ohzikar fastened a sheet of canvas over the cave entrance. Then he joined her at the back of the cave where water, shimmering like liquid fire, trickled into a small pool.
“That should mask our firelight.” He frowned at the small pile of brush, dung, and coal. “Not that we’ll be burning much.”
“I’ll conjure sunlight into a stone tomorrow.” Zyrella didn’t let on to Ohzikar that she was utterly spent. Making a sunstone would tax her, and an apprentice sorcerer could handle such a task with ease.
Ohzikar turned his gaze to a pallet set into a nook two-thirds of the way back into the cave. There, Jaska the Slayer tossed and moaned and salivated through high fevers and nightmares that kept him too exhausted to rise and eat. Zyrella had healed his wounds, but his damaged psyche kept him immobilized.
“Palymfar will come for him soon,” Ohzikar said.
Zyrella pictured Jaska’s brilliant amber eyes, and a shudder of passion spread through her body. As she mastered this strange attraction, she knew she would revisit the feeling and could never abandon this man who was supposed to be her enemy and the most evil person alive, save for his master.
“Does it really matter whether he is with us? They will come for me anyway. Hopefully by then he can help us.”
“No good will come from him.”
Zyrella stroked Ohzikar’s hand. “You heard what Elanzar and his daughters said. Jaska saved them and would not abuse them, claiming he was a true palymfar.”
“Enh. He was just lying to earn their trust. He needed their help.”
Zyrella groaned and walked over to her patient. Charay had helped her tend him during the most critical hours as Zyrella patched his wounds with magic. She didn’t know how long Jaska would be incapacitated. He might yet worsen and die, though she believed him too resilient for that.
Ohzikar sorted through supplies and checked over their gear. His foul mood had worsened since the family’s departure. Their company had distracted him from brooding about his fallen brothers. Ysemi had followed Ohzikar like a puppy, as most youths did, and he had taught her everything he could about watching for bandits and choosing safe campsites. Then he had instructed all three refugees on wielding the short swords and knives they had taken from the dead bandits.
In exchange for their help in transporting Jaska to the cave, Zyrella had blessed them and their donkeys. She also gave them the bandits’ meager rations since Ohzikar had taken food, money, and gear from the packs of their fallen comrades. He had also recovered Jaska’s pack, which they had happened upon by chance.
Suddenly, Jaska’s eyes snapped open. Firelight cast them a brilliant gold and showed the madness within. He wrenched his hands, kicked his feet, moaned and thrashed. Sweat poured from his forehead, saliva drooled from his lips. A soul-tearing scream burst through his inflamed throat. “Qaavvrraa!”
Ohzikar pinned Jaska’s hands when he began clawing at his throat. “What the hell’s happening to him?”
Zyrella stroked Jaska’s brow. “I’m not sure.”
Jaska yelled repeatedly for his qavra, writhed, and snapped his teeth together. Ohzikar leaned his weight onto him. Zyrella dipped a cloth into the spring and wiped Jaska’s brow while chanting a simple spell of calming. After half an hour, he settled and returned to sleep.
Ohzikar stalked outside to watch for enemies. After resting a bit, Zyrella joined him. “He will sleep for some time now, I think.”
“Has his evil nature returned?”
Zyrella sat back and admired the thousands of stars that twinkled in the sky above, except for a patch currently hidden behind the full disk of the shadowed moon. With her charcoal surface, Zhura gleamed only enough to stand out from the black of the sky.
“I’m afraid he craves his qavra like an addict craves opiates. And his qavra is laced with binding spells that Salahn used to control him.”
“We should destroy it.”
“A qavra can’t be destroyed with any method you and I have access to.”
“Then toss it into the river.”
“No. Its powers are benign as long as he isn’t wearing it.”
“But can we keep it from him? Do you trust him that much? Do us all a favor and throw it away.”
“No, Ohzi. We may need that qavra. He may need it. Jaska’s is the most powerful qavra I have ever seen, and it holds a link to Salahn, a link we might be able to exploit. If nothing else, once Jaska is recovered, we may be able to eliminate the bindings in the stone so that he can use it again.”
“We have little time to break him of this addiction, Ella, and we will die if we stay here too long.”
“What else is there for us to do? We can’t return to Epros and hide forever. The White Tigress thought Jaska worth our sacrifices, and if anyone could defeat Salahn, it would be a redeemed Jaska Bavadi.”
Ohzikar sat in silence for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was somber, barely audible. “Perhaps you’re right, but I cannot forgive him our brothers’ deaths or the sins he committed. And, you know, he won’t be our hope as a redeemed man. We need a man so scarred by his sins, so determined to cleanse the evil he has committed that he will breathe fire and shake the foundations of the earth if need be. Worst of all, to defeat Salahn, he will need your help.”
“And yours.”
Ohzikar threw his head into his scarred hands. “And mine.”
Zyrella put her arm around him, kissed his ear, and whispered. “You can let go.”
He nearly sobbed but then gathered his composure. “No, I can’t.”
“Our brothers would weep for you.”
“But I was their captain. I cannot mourn them.”
Zyrella well knew that templars were supposed to follow the ideals of stoicism. Still, Ohzikar was a sensitive and caring man. He needed to let go. Zyrella would have told him that it didn’t matter anymore, that none but her could see his weakness, but Ohzikar needed his self-respect.
And what of herself? She was holding in those same emotions that ate away at him. Perhaps she could help them both.
“Ohzi, may I weep for our brothers on your behalf?”
A tender half-smile curled his lips. “Yes, mourn them for the both of us. They were the best and most loyal friends. Servants of the goddess to the last.”
Ohzikar put his arm around her and cradled her head against his chest for several hours, until the cold wind dried her tears.
~~~~
Four days passed. Jaska barely drank the soup poured into his mouth. He raved and thrashed until Ohzikar bound his hands and feet to keep him from hurting himself. Zyrella, despite her exhaustion, scribed runes of silence to dampen the sounds that left the cave.
Ohzikar served as their lookout and repaired his armor and shield. Zyrella meditated and danced subtle spirit-katas to restore her internal energies. She slept long hours and ate voraciously. Otherwise, she took care of Jaska and recited to him the Codex of Kashomae the Gentle Savior, who was the spirit-mother of the White Tigress.
A mournful gust moaned through the canyon. The canvas sheet snapped taut with sharp cracks. Zyrella’s sunstone, a simple quartz rock embellished with the rune of Taal Eos the Sun King, burned at quarter-strength, the equivalent of a single candle. Ohzikar slept bundled in a blanket at the entrance. Jaska, for the first midnight yet, slept peacefully. Zyrella rested her head against the lumpy, damp wall. Though she intended only to nap, she drifted into a deep sleep.
Zyrella dreamed she flew above the prosperous land that was the only home she knew, a land quite different from arid, violent Hareez in which she hadn’t lived since the age of three. Below her, the golden, autumn-harvest fields of Epros’ valleys wound around hills topped with ancient ruins and modern citadels. Olive orchards and grape vineyards dominated by tile-roofed villas stood interspersed among the grain fields. Throughout the land, farmhouses and granaries clustered together into neat villages, each built around a central green and a communal well.
Zyrella soared above Arga, a village on the southern coast. Her heart warmed to see the familiar, quaint homes, the vineyards and fields, a score of modest fishing vessels, and herds of sheep trailed by young men with staves and dogs. On the tallest hill, the ruins of an Eirsendan shrine lay beneath a grove of sprawling oaks. There, among the vine-wrapped marble pillars and moss-covered flagstones, Zyrella’s grandmother had instructed her in the arts of being a priestess to the White Tigress. They had used the shrine with the blessing and support of the local priestesses of Yaraya, a wolf goddess also mothered to divinity by Kashomae. Yaraya had taken pity on the White Tigress’ refugees, and her magics had protected Zyrella from Salahn’s scrying as long as she remained in Arga.
Studying in Arga, Zyrella mastered before the age of twenty many sorceries a normal priestess might never know. After her grandmother passed away, she joined Ohzikar and the other templars in fighting with the resistance movement in Hareez. And after the palymfar and Hmyr Karphon’s army defeated the resistance, they returned to Arga, minus five of their brothers. That was when the Grandmaster had noted the power she wielded and divined who she was.
A whisper rushed across the fields, bending grain stalks and rustling grapevines and olive leaves. The whisper grew harsh and scoured the fields. Sheep fell as if slaughtered. Vines wilted, the sea withdrew, and oaks withered. Desert sands massed on the horizon, then the scrub of Hareez swallowed Epros.
An instant before she could scream, Zyrella woke. Yet the hellish whisper remained.
“Priestess, can you hear me?”
She scrambled to Jaska’s side. “Yes. I’m awake now.”
“Where are we?”
“Hidden in a cave, twenty leagues east of the shrine.”
“How did I get here? How did you find me?” He swept his gaze around the cave. “Where is the merchant, his daughters?” He struggled to sit up. “I blacked out and–”
“They’re fine, back on their way to Epros. I arrived soon after you collapsed and they helped me take care of you the first few days.”
While she untied his hands and feet, she explained everything that had happened.
“Why are you helping me? You have every right to kill me.”
“I must see the efforts of the White Tigress completed.”
Jaska arched his back up from the ground and grimaced with pain. “I’m thoroughly corrupt. I don’t deserve life.”
“You did evil, that’s true, but you weren’t in control of your actions, were you?”
He shook his head. “I should have been.”
Jaska began to convulse with dry coughs. Zyrella brought him water. He rose on his elbows and Zyrella held the bowl to his lips. He drank then lay back down.
“I don’t want to live.”
“Then why have you fought so hard these last few days?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never given up before. I don’t know how.”
“Then don’t make this time a first. Salahn grows in power. Help me stop him. I have no hope without you.”
“What can I do? He will exert his control over me again. I am weak against him. Through my dreams he calls to me.”
“Your nightmares and urges are resonances caused by an addiction to Salahn’s dark powers. And your body grew accustomed to sating many lusts that no longer have an outlet. But you can conquer all of that. The bindings you must fear are in your qavra.”
He winced and cringed away from her. “Tell me it is lost, for I must have it.”
Ohzikar emerged from the shadows. He knelt beside her and lifted the qavra, dangling it just out of Jaska’s reach. “Here it is, palymfar. Your legacy and power, the collar given you by your master. Come for it anytime you wish. I’ll give it to you willingly.”
Zyrella shoved him, though his bulk showed no response. “Ohzi! That’s not fair. Don’t tempt him.”
“If he wants to do what’s right, he must fight this thing. You were correct about its value, but there’s one point you overlooked. If we had thrown the qavra away, he would never have recovered. It would have always had a hold on him.”
“But even so, it’s not fair to do this to him now. I cannot–”
“No.” Jaska stared at the qavra. “He’s right. I must beat it. I can’t let it haunt me forever.”
Jaska sat up and reached out. Ohzikar didn’t move. He waited as Jaska edged closer. Zyrella almost spoke, almost took the stone away, but Ohzikar warned her off with a stern look. He didn’t set his mind against her like this often but when he did, he did so with an unshakable belief that he was doing the right thing.
Jaska reached out, his fingertips nearing the qavra. Zyrella’s heart thumped hard. She feared he would give in. But Jaska’s fingertips missed the qavra as he pushed Ohzikar’s arm away. With his other hand, he grabbed Ohzikar by the collar and pulled him close. Ohzikar’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Keep it with you, templar, so I’ll always know where it is.”
“I will. And know this, I’d kill you now if Zyrella didn’t believe that something good will come out of you yet.”
“Hers is a lost cause and I welcome any slaying that gives me what I deserve.”
The two men stared at each other until Jaska backed away. Ohzikar went to his blankets. Jaska settled back on his pallet, his breathing deep and steady.
“I’m sorry Ohzikar threatened you.”
A half-smile crept upon Jaska’s lips. “We have reached a truce.”
“I don’t understand warriors. I never will.”
“And I don’t understand priestesses or their goddesses.”
“Fair enough.”
“What you’ve done … It’s more than I deserve.”
“The first time I saw you I knew there was something else deep within you, something hidden away. That is the true Jaska Bavadi.”
“I would like to think so, but no. The true Jaska Bavadi is tainted. Nothing can change that. I am similar to what that other man might have been. That’s all.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s worthless.”
“Not to me or my goddess.”
“Oh, I’m worth something to you, but only as a killing machine, but nothing more.”
“You’re wrong. I can’t speak for the White Tigress, but you mean something to me … as a person.”
He shrugged. “As I said, I don’t understand priestesses.” Jaska’s eyes began to flutter downward. “I will fight the qavra, best as I can. And I will fight for you against Salahn. But I give no guarantees. My will is strong but the nightmares … the things I have done …”
He shook his head then drifted off into sleep.
Zyrella watched him, wishing she could take away his pain. She couldn’t imagine a more terrible fate than Jaska’s. The sun rose before she left his side.