L. S. King

         The waves crashed far below the cliffs and birds wheeled and cried. Zaqain squinted in the sunlight and smiled at his son, Trevor. His son's hand clasped his shoulder, then abruptly he felt both hands against his back.

         "Farewell, you old goat!" 

         A shove. Disbelief. Terror. Wind sucked from his lungs. Icy water. Blackness.

         Zaqain stood outside the small cottage, his mind replaying his son's betrayal and his brush with death.

         He inhaled the tang of the sea air and listened to the soft lapping of the waves against the dock. He would miss this. And his new family.

         "I don't want you to leave!"

         Zaqain turned. Kalleen stood, their baby son in her arms, her forehead puckered with worry. He pulled his young wife to him, little Egan squirming between them.

         "I must." He kissed her pale hair. "Your father understands. He knows why."

         "But you are still weak from the winter's fever. Please—"

         "Enough, daughter. Listen to your husband."

         Zaqain turned to the wise fisherman who had rescued him and nodded. "She still follows her heart. It shreds me to think I will likely never see her or Egan again."

         Kalleen embraced him more tightly as she burst into tears.

         Hollin stepped closer and stroked his daughter's hair. "It is hard to realize one must sacrifice for a greater calling." His eyes bored into Zaqain's. "But I have faith. In the Holy One. And in you. I will be praying."

         Zaqain bowed and kissed Kalleen again. "At least you will be safe here with your father. I couldn't do this otherwise."

         She clung to him. Zaqain pried her arm from around his waist and tucked her hand into her father's. He hoisted his pack on his shoulders.

         Egan squalled, drowning out Kalleen's quiet sobs, as Zaqain walked up the rocky path.

         Two years.

         How can a man change so much in such a brief time?

         His initial reaction to the pious old man and his daughter had been scorn. When the fisherman had asked how the High Priest could sneer at piety, Zaqain had been shocked that he had been recognized. And shamed.

         The humble family had showed him through their devout lives that his priestly magic had been a cheap imitation of true holy power.

         How long had it been since the high priest of the land had actually believed in the Holy One? Or His holy tallis, which revealed truth and dispensed justice? Zaqain had been a good man by most accounts—he tried to deal fairly with all, but only for outward show. He had not done his duty to lead the people to faith. Oh, he had gone through the customary rituals, but to those close to him, he mocked religion and those who believed in it. No wonder his grown son, Trevor, had become so hardened that he would try to murder his own father.

         He gazed at the sky as he reached the crest of the hill. He would not look back. He had a calling. He must attempt to bring Trevor down, free King Davin from that young man's machinations, and bring their people to the repentance he himself had learned.

         And despite the fever that had weakened Zaqain, he could not wait. Egan must be presented at court before he reached his first natal day, or he could not be named Zaqain's successor. He would leave it to the Holy One whether he succeeded. Perhaps He had other plans. Perhaps His former high priest had sinned too greatly to be part of an awakening. Perhaps his child was not meant to carry on.

         At least if he failed, which he feared would happen, Kalleen and Egan would be anonymous and safe in her father's house.

         Squaring his thin shoulders at the thought of the long journey, Zaqain prayed for strength for the days ahead. He turned and headed south toward the castle.

         "Out of the way, old man." The noble charged his horse at Zaqain, who dove into a thorny bush by the side of the road. Dust rose and settled onto his sweaty skin.

         The horse galloped by, and Zaqain pulled himself out of the shrub, scraping his flesh on the sharp barbs. He bit back a moan and collapsed in the dirt, rubbing the bloody welts on his arm.

         Why had the Holy One allowed him to be robbed not even one day into his trek? He had no food, no money, no spare clothes. Not even a comb.

         He got to his hands and knees and pulled himself upright, squinting in the glare of the sun. He pushed his tangled hair out of his face and trudged up the incline and across the drawbridge. The guards flanking the gate lowered their spears.

         "What do you want, old man?"

         He blinked at the guard who had spoken. "The castle still hires folk, doesn't it?"

         The guards laughed.

         "Not broken-down, old long-beards like you."

         "Please." He pulled off his hat and pushed his hair back again. "A little food, and I'd have more strength than you think. I can do any work. Anything."

         The left guard shook his head but the guard on the right lifted his spear. "Let him by. Old Codgel wants help for the coming festival. If she won't take him, she'll have him thrown out on his ear."

         "She needs strong backs. Go on your way, old man. We don't need the likes of you."

         Zaqain opened his mouth to plead but closed it again at the look on the guard's face. Begging would not help. He shuffled back down the road and ambled into the woods to sit by a tree and think. He must find another way in. If he could get to the audience chamber, to the tallis. He dare not approach openly to make a petition to his friend the king; if he were recognized beforehand by any of Trevor's followers—for certainly he had many—all would be lost.

         But how to gain entry to the castle? The high walls forbade him entrance even if he could cross the moat safely. Through a postern? No, guards scrutinized those small gates and only allowed knights to pass. The main gate remained his only choice.

         Zaqain rose with a groan and headed back to the town at the bottom of the hill. Rivulets sliced deep ruts into the road, and he had to watch his step. He pitied horses and those riding in carts and wagons.

         He made his way to the well at the center of town. After a dipper of water, he sat with his back against a nearby tree. As the sun sank, casting long shadows, women with ewers gathered, and he listened to their chatter.

         "Lots of wagons heading up the hill in the last few days."

         A woman straightened and glanced up toward the castle. "Wonder if any of it will roll downhill."

         Another barked a harsh laugh. "Not likely, these days."

         "They feast, and we starve," muttered one.

         "Hard enough making it by without the new taxes. Then he uses the money to impress the lords, and don't do what he ought."

         "Careful. He has ears about."

         The women turned and saw Zaqain, and their voices quieted.

         His fists clenched, and he kept his head down to hide the grinding of his teeth. Few knew His Majesty suffered from a crippling illness, only made endurable by the potent dreamflower tincture. King Davin trusted his ministers while he sat in his rooms, his pains eased and mind fogged. Trevor, not Davin, had, no doubt, wrought these changes. For what? Money? Power? Pleasures and comforts? For which of these have you sold your soul, Trevor? Oh, how I have failed you, son!

         A loaded wagon rumbled by in the growing dusk. He watched the rickety vehicle ascend the hill toward the castle. Lots of folks would be passing in, delivering supplies for the festival. He might convince someone to let him ride along in exchange for helping unload the provisions.

         The smell of roasting meats and breads hung in the air from the nearby inn. He rose, slowly straightening his spine. His back ached not only from sitting still so long, but also from the rough bark that had dug into his back. Sharp pain shot through his stomach. He needed food. And rest. Tomorrow he could try again.

         The small inn across the road from the well would not listen to his pleas to work in exchange for food. The next fared him only a little better. The cook took pity, he supposed, as she threw him a hard crust of bread. Beyond the edge of town he found a farmer willing to let him work. He helped gather in the cows and milk them. The wife brought him a share of their simple food and gave him an old blanket to use in the stall that would be his bed.

         "Things seem worse here than they used to be." Zaqain took a bite of the sharp cheese.

         The woman crossed her arms. "We don't say such things around here. The king, he takes care of us."

         He pointed toward town. "The roads weren't even repaired after the winter snows and spring rains. And I heard he has increased taxes."

         "The king treats us right." Her lips thinned. "And if you have aught to say against him, then you can be on your way."

         Zaqain saw fear lurking behind the anger snapping in her eyes and dropped his head. "I meant no harm. I haven't been in these parts in a while. I just remember things...differently."

         The woman sniffed and left the barn. Zaqain settled into the fresh, grain-scented straw. He could not let himself be distracted by concern for these people. He must focus on gaining access to the audience chamber and the holy tallis kept there. He prayed until he fell asleep.

          Zaqain left the farm the next morning and settled by the road, hoping to interest one of the wagons in hiring him or letting him ride.

         "We don't need no help, old man."

         "Thankee, but I ain't got room for anyone."

         "You think you can get a free eyeful of castle living, don't you? Be off!"

         The sun near setting, Zaqain approached another wagon with a weary sigh, ignoring the biting hunger pangs in his stomach and the taste of dust in his mouth. He pulled his hat off. "Do you need help unloading your wares once you get into the castle?"

         A woman pulled back on the reins and squinted down at him, brushing hair out of her face with roughened hands. "What do you want?"

         "I'll trade work for food."

         "Try the town." She lifted the reins.

         Zaqain stepped closer. "I did. No one wants to hire an old man."

         "Then why should I? Go sit by the gates and beg." She snapped the lines, and the horse started forward.

         He grabbed the bridle and held up his other hand. "I want to work. I had pride once. I'd like a little back."

         Sitting up straighter, the woman stared at him through narrowed eyes. "And what work can an old man do?"

         "I'm stronger than I look."

         "You're rake-thin."

         "I've been ill." He patted the horse's nose, and it nuzzled his armpit. He had not been around horses since...since before he fell. He slapped the beast's neck affectionately then looked up.

         The woman pursed her lips. "Get on. But you better be able to lift these sacks and supplies."

         Zaqain began to climb up next to the woman, but she shook her head. "Get in the back."

         He sighed, walked to the rear, and crawled up amid the supplies. The sacks of whatever she carried were not soft. His already sore bones ached from the jouncing. He held on as the wagon shifted, going uphill toward the gate, thumping and rocking across the ruts. They slowed then stopped. He lowered his head, hoping the guards wouldn't look under the broad brim. They might not remember the old man they sent on his way yesterday, but just in case...

         "On you go," a voice said.

         The wagon began to move again. Zaqain bumped and jostled as they went through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge. How times had changed. He had passed over countless times through the years amid hails and shouts of welcome, and now he must hide his face.

         They rattled across the courtyard, and men in brown and green livery pointed to an area where sacks had been piled high. The king might not tend to the town or roads, but he spared no expense for the festival. Or rather, Trevor did.

         Zaqain jumped down and began unloading goods from the wagon. As he lifted sacks and crates, he spied the torch-lit courtyard. He recognized a few men, but none deigned to cast a glance at an old man in tatters unloading wares.

         Much later, back and arms trembling with weakness, he stared at the empty wagon.

         "Thank you," came a woman's voice from behind him.

         He spun to face the woman. She smiled. "I really didn't think you could, or would, help. If you don't have anywhere else to go, I could use a strong back since my man and boy died."

         "I...I'll think about it."

         When she turned away, Zaqain faded into the shadows. He went from one dark corner to another until he found himself inside the keep, in a servants' hallway. Now, he needed to get to the audience chamber.

         Fear gripped his insides—those who approached the tallis with any darkness in their hearts did not live. But even if his heart harbored bitterness against his son, he would still find justice. Trevor would oppose him and die as well. His evil control would be shattered. Zaqain shuddered, closing his eyes at the risk, and shook his head. He must concentrate on the present. What should he do now?

         He stroked his beard. If only he could clean up first. He grinned as he realized he could.

         Several maids gave him wide berth with a look of disgust as he hurried along the passage. Better that they recoil than recognize.

         A courtier held out a hand as they neared each other. "What are you doing here?"

         Zaqain hesitated, lowering his eyes as a servant would. "I was sent with a message from the head groomsman to Sir Stuart. I was told to use the back way up to his room."

         His nose wrinkled, the man hesitated then nodded. "Best hurry. They will be dining soon, if not already."

         Zaqain bowed, glad he had recognized the knight's crest on a horse in the courtyard. His hand slid against the cool stone as he walked through the passageways and up flights of stairs toward the royal bedchambers. Which of the ministers had his height and size? Had old Grisham been eliminated during the sweeping changes? Zaqain would soon find out.

         Nearing Grisham's room, he held his breath and glanced up and down the corridor. He opened the door, wincing as it creaked, and stepped into the room. Empty. The air still held the fragrance of scented bathwater. The bed curtains were pulled askew by discarded clothing strewn across the blue satin bedspread. The plumped feather mattress called him invitingly.

         He closed the door, stepped across the polished wood floor to a tray by the bed, and wolfed down the half-eaten meat pastry. He snagged the wine bottle and gulped its contents. As he set the vessel down, he chuckled to himself. What manners—once he would have berated someone for such behavior. But then, he had never known true hunger.

         The servants would be in soon to empty the tub that had been set by the fireplace, but likely not before eating themselves. Their master would not return for hours, and they knew they had time.

         Though murky, the water beckoned Zaqain. He tossed off his filthy clothes and climbed in. He washed quickly but hesitated before shaving. No more masquerades. He might not live long after being seen now, but he would take that chance.

         After shaving, he ran his fingers over his jaw and chin as he stared at his reflection in the water. His cheeks were sunken. The eyes staring at him belonged to a sad stranger.

         He got out of the tub and dried, then took stock of the clothing in the wardrobe. Definitely Grisham's. He hesitated, but the old lord would understand why Zaqain borrowed his clothes. The soft materials felt good against his skin although his thinness again became apparent. He had to pull the strings tight on the trews. The boots pinched his toes a bit, but at least he didn't limp. Several swords hung on pegs. Zaqain grabbed one and belted on the weapon.

         Now, how would he get to the audience chamber without being seen and stopped? Again he slipped along back hallways the servants used and made his way down toward that mystic hall. He only passed one maid, and she dutifully lowered her eyes upon seeing his noble raiment, seeming not to recognize him. Luck or providence, Zaqain could not say, but he hurried on.

         He stepped into the spacious hall across from his destination and stared at the wide, gilded doors. The guards set their spears toward him then the one's eyes widened. The other guard peered at Zaqain with a gasp. Both men knelt, heads bowed, murmuring, "Your Grace!"

         Zaqain drew his sword. "I seek the tallis. If you oppose me, you will die."

         The guards rose, faces white. The man to the left opened his door. Zaqain glared at the other, and he scrambled to comply as well.

         Zaqain strode inside and whirled to face the guards. "Go. Tell the king I am here."

         They bowed.

         Zaqain stood still until the doors thudded shut. He turned to face the dreaded holy relic, his heart hammering—whoever touched the tallis without a pure heart would die. The mysterious artifact lay nestled within golden leaves atop the low pedestal at the center of the large, circular room. His slow footsteps echoed as he approached the barely glowing orb. He had lied and deceived people to achieve this goal. Gall at his son's betrayal had blackened his heart. How could he dare think he would succeed?

         Soon King Davin would arrive, his ministers with him. And Trevor. He must face him without any hatred or bitterness. No desire for vengeance. He stared at the tallis, battling against these evil feelings he had fought to throw off and sending up a prayer of forgiveness for his dishonesty. He had no time left. The tallis would judge him and find him lacking. Indeed, could any man claim a pure heart?

         Zaqain shivered.

         The doors burst open and guards rushed into the chamber, followed by King Davin and his ministers. Zaqain held a hand above the tallis, and the guards halted, fear on their faces. Relief flooded him that the king seemed well and unharmed, although he now walked hunched over, with the aid of a cane. His troubled face indicated all was not well.

         But Zaqain did not anticipate his own reaction as he faced the tall, handsome high priest that walked with his liege lord. He remembered his love for his son, and his heart softened, but then he thought of the cliff and his calling, and set his jaw.

         Trevor's face turned red and contorted with rage. "This is some chicanery! Some foul mage has taken my father's form! Kill him!"

         The guards stared at Zaqain and the orb, and did not move.

         "You still wish me dead, son? No remorse for trying to kill me?"

         Trevor's voice rose to a hysterical screech. "Evil trickster! Kill this imposter! Obey me!"

         "They will not obey you while my hand is near the tallis." Zaqain raised his voice as he met the eyes of his friend. "Come, O King, and be witness of this judgment."

         Davin lifted a feeble arm in a pleading gesture. "No one has dared use the tallis since before my time. If it truly has any power, it will kill you." His voice quavered, and he looked up at the spike thrusting down from the peak of the domed ceiling above, then he gazed again Zaqain, his eyes hard. "You should not have come back."

         Zaqain frowned. "The tallis is my only way to reveal the truth, Your Majesty. Certainly you wish the truth. And justice."

         Davin shook his head with a small smile. "You are a fool."

         "He always was." Trevor turned to the king, pointing toward the pedestal. "My father taught me the tallis was a useless relic whose purpose was to bring fear into men's hearts and force them to admit their lies. It has no power."

         "If you truly believe that, then face me, son. But know this—I was wrong. Horribly deceived."

         Trevor almost snarled as he strode to the opposite side of the tallis. "Do you truly believe this ancient artifact is real? If so, then you think touching it will kill you. Or do you merely think you can intimidate me?"

         The time had arrived. Zaqain would reveal all and die. His heart broke as he thought of the beautiful young woman who had fallen in love with an old man. That he would never see her again or Egan. Kalleen, my love...

         Stiffening his arm to keep his hand from trembling, he stretched out and touched the orb as he met his son's gaze. "We have used chicanery and fraudulent magic to keep our role as priests at court. I have lived my life by lies and deceit. Any goodness I displayed was to receive praise for my virtue. But I found truth and compassion in a little hut as I was nursed back from near death. So now, I come back to make amends and seek justice, not only for the crime committed against me, but also for the people in this realm who suffer. May not only you, but" —he gazed about at the other men in the chamber— "also those who conspired with you, be judged."

         Trevor sneered as he placed his hand on the orb, his eyes fastened on Zaqain's.

         The room became deadly still. Not a sound echoed. Not a breath.

         Moments passed then Trevor laughed. "You are a fool and a liar. And you have just proven this globe, and its outdated religion, a fraud. Now the guards will kill you, old man."

         A small, pulsing light grew inside the tallis, and vibrations rumbled in concert through the chamber. The hair on Zaqain's arms and neck stood up as tingling coursed through his body. The light grew. Several guards shouted. Some of the men fell to the ground and covered their heads. Trevor pulled back, glancing up, his face filled with alarm. The rumble grew louder, and a shaft of light shot straight up to the apex of the domed chamber.

         Zaqain stiffened, waiting for death. Fresh regret passed through his heart that he would never again see his wife and tiny son, but he had faced that reality when he had started this quest.

         Lightning sparked from the spike at the top of the dome, and bolts shot down, killing several ministers and guards. Trevor cried out, backing toward the wall. A bolt struck him. He screamed and collapsed.

         The rumbling stopped, and the room became quiet. Zaqain still waited, motionless, and slowly the realization came to him that another bolt would not be forthcoming. Beyond all hopes and prayers, he had lived. The stench of charred flesh filled the chamber, and men began to weep.

         He gazed around for his friend, the king, and clenched his jaw to swallow the bile that rose. King Davin lay dead in a smoking heap. The tallis did not lie—the king had conspired with his son. Davin, my friend, why?

         Zaqain turned away, not ready to think of the prayers and ceremony needed for the tallis to pick the king's successor. He crossed to Trevor and fell to his knees, grief pressing heavy on his heart. The holy fire had destroyed the young man's handsome features. My son! My son!

         Lord Grisham and Sir Stuart knelt by him. The old lord grabbed his shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend."

         Zaqain turned his head and closed his eyes. "So am I."

 

Copyright 2006, L. S. King

A homeschooling mom, and a gramma, L. S. King taught martial arts for years, and also coached gymnastics. She loves Looney Tunes and the color purple, and adores Zorro, which might explain her fascination with swords and capes. When on the planet, she lives with her husband and youngest child in Delaware.

She is one of the Overlords of the e-zine Ray Gun Revival < www.raygunrevival.com >, which also features her space opera serial Deuces Wild.

Visit her website Loriendil's Dreamland < www.loriendil.com >  to read her published short stories or her blog.

 

 

Cover: "Jupiter Rising"

Copyright 2006, Karl Eschenbach

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