Author's Note: This story was written thanks to several reviews on my Death of Innocence fanfiction that requested I write a sort of Zahir saga. Although some of the characters like Aisha who appeared in that fic will also show up in this story and some of the events that happened in that story are referred to in this one, it isn't necessary for readers to be familiar with that fic.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and any original characters introduced throughout the fic.
Reviews: Are very welcome, since I always like to gauge whether I should continue a multi-chapter fic.
World Turned Upside Down
As far as Zahir ibn Alhaz was concerned, the novelty of being a squire hadn't worn off yet. It didn't even matter that he hadn't been chosen as a personal squire to a knight yet. After all, he had only become a squire two days ago, and none of his friends had been picked so far. As long as he wasn't selected after Garvey or Vinson, he would be happy. If he was chosen after Garvey or Vinson, he would lose all faith in Tortallan knighthood.
However, he wasn't going to entertain such a bizarre possibility as either Garvey or Vinson being picked before him. Instead, he was going to focus all his attention on his practice sword bout with Joren, because there were about a dozen knights leaning against the training yard fence, and Zahir wanted to impress them with his agility and fighting abilities.
Actually, when he thought about it, if his goal was to impress as many knights as possible, maybe he should make a habit of fencing with Garvey or Vinson, even though, since his father had died, Zahir had less patience for the two boys who seemed to be all brawn and no brains. After all, Garvey's sloppy footwork and Vinson's slow reflexes would have shown Zahir in a better light than Joren's quick feet and reflexes did. Zahir was still the most graceful of the new squires, but it was less obvious when he was paired with Joren.
He had made the mistake of allowing himself to get distracted, he realized a second later, as he felt the sting of a practice sword slicing into his forearm.
"Got you," Joren remarked, grinning as he launched another attack.
Returning his awareness completely to the duel, Zahir somersaulted backward, and then twisted to assault Joren from the left, cutting off the hem of Joren's tunic.
"Missed me by a league," teased Joren, dancing a retreat. The gleam in his sky blue eyes told Zahir that his oldest friend at the Royal Palace was having fun.
His lips tightening determinedly, Zahir thought that his foe might have been having fun, but he was serious. Reversing swiftly, Zahir ducked and rushed at his opponent. Satisfaction rose up inside him when Joren almost stumbled in surprise.
Taking advantage of his friend's unbalance, Zahir decided to dictate the pace of the battle, rather than leaving that to Joren. He attacked aggressively, and then stepped back to lure the other teenager forward. When Joren moved into his trap, Zahir landed a blow on Joren's arm in revenge for the cut on his forearm.
As the sun pounded down on the practice court, he was grateful for growing up in the desert, because he wasn't sweating as much as Joren was. That meant that his right hand wasn't slippery when he gripped his sword and his vision wasn't blurred by his own sweat.
The heat was plainly tiring his friend, though, and Zahir took advantage of this to leap forward and lightly touch Joren's neck with his weapon. "Yield or lose your head," he said, acting like this were a real duel instead of a practice bout.
"I yield." Joren raised his palms in surrender, and Zahir lowered his sword.
As the two of them crossed to the other end of the yard to return their practice weapons to the barrel, Zahir commented, as custom required, "Good fight, Joren."
"Don't tell me it was a good fight when you won, not me," snorted Joren.
"My winning is what made it good," Zahir explained, his tone mocking as he shoved his practice sword into the keg. "If you had won, it wouldn't have been any good at all."
"It wouldn't have been any good for you," answered Joren, dropping his sword into the hogshead as well. "For me, though, it would have been."
"I'm not worried about what's best for you." Zahir shrugged as they made their way across the training court. "I'm concerned with what's best for me."
All of the knights who had been watching the fight had disappeared except for one man wearing the Nond colors who appeared to be in his early thirties. While Zahir and Joren were exiting the practice yard, this knight rested a hand on Joren's shoulder and asked, "May I have a word with you?"
"Of course, sir." Joren bowed, showing all of his perfect white teeth in the alluring smile he always offered whenever he wanted to charm someone.
"I'll be in the mess hall with Garvey and Vinson, so you can join us whenever you'd like," Zahir whispered to Joren. Then, with a bow to Nond knight, he walked back up to the palace.
On his path to the mess hall, Zahir suspected that Joren would soon have a knightmaster. Although he knew that he should have been happy for his friend, he wasn't. There was a nasty part of him that wanted to be picked first. That element of him made it impossible for him to celebrate his best friend's achievement. Trying to lessen the guilt that coursed through him at this realization, he reminded himself that after the competitiveness that four years of brutal page training under Wyldon had instilled in him, it would have been unnatural if he had been able to delight in Joren's accomplishment, Zahir entered the mess hall, grabbed a tray of food, and plopped down on a bench across from Garvey and Vinson.
"Where's Joren?" Vinson inquired, eating a whole roll in one bite, the instant Zahir had settled himself.
"Mithros, Vinson, I know you're thicker than Raven armor, but did you learn anything during Master Oakbridge's lessons?" Zahir rolled his eyes. "Surely, he or your mother must have told you at least a hundred times that it's disgusting to talk with your mouth full of food."
"You shouldn't have to be polite near your friends." Unperturbed, Vinson continued to speak and shovel food into his mouth at the same time. "Besides, when you have only a short time to eat meals, you have to talk with your mouth full of food, or else you'll either go hungry or never get to speak with your friends at all."
"Anyway, you didn't answer his question," added Garvey. "Joren was fencing with you. Where did he go?"
"A Nond knight wanted to talk to him after our little practice duel," Zahir replied. "Somehow, I think that Joren will have a knightmaster by the time that he joins us."
"Good for him," grunted Garvey. "I think I saw Jeral of Nenan watching me while I was practicing archery with Vinson."
"And I think that a Rosemark knight had his eye on me," Vinson announced.
"Great. I'm really glad to hear that," Zahir muttered dully, lying through his teeth. Truthfully, he couldn't be more depressed. It wasn't fair that all of his companions were moving ahead while he was standing still. He could tolerate Joren being chosen before him, because Joren was talented at the fighting arts and wasn't an idiot, but Garvey and Vinson were not the sharpest knives in the drawer and their fighting technique was more about force than skill. It grated on Zahir that he wasn't being picked, especially because he was starting to believe that it had something to do with his ancestry….Nobles and servants were always staring at him and other Bazhir, so it wouldn't be too astonishing if the fear of white Tortallan knights prevented them from taking on any squires who were of Bazhir descent.
"Not as glad as you're going to be when you hear that I am a squire to Sir Paxton of Nond, a conservative knight from an old family," Joren chimed into the conversation without warning, as he dropped his tray down and sat next to Zahir. Once he had accepted the congratulations of his friends, he went on, "Anyway, Zahir, you don't have to worry about being chosen despite your background. There are always progressives who are willing to take on a Bazhir squire to show that they aren't prejudiced."
"Of course. It displays a complete lack of prejudice to choose someone to be your squire because they are of a different race than you, and you wish to prove that you are blind to minor details like skin color," mumbled Zahir sardonically.
"All progressives are hypocrites." As he established as much, Joren speared a piece of chicken with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
"At any rate, I don't think any progressive will ask for me as squire, since I'm a Bazhir, and Bazhir beliefs are far more conservative than progressive," Zahir pointed out.
"Well, I'm not sure why you would want a progressive knightmaster, anyway." Based on his words, Joren seemed to have forgotten that he had been trying to console Zahir with a promise that a progressive would pick him as a squire. "If one asked me, I would say no. It's better to be unattached than to be attached to a progressive."
"You only say that because you aren't unattached anymore." Miserably, Zahir shook his head. "At this point, I think I would say yes to a vegetable if it asked me to be its squire."
"Don't be a moron." Joren waved a dismissive hand. "It's only been two days since we were made squires."
"It feels like it's been a lifetime when I have to sit around and watch all of you get matched up with knights." Again, Zahir shook his head.
"You have plenty of time to be chosen," Joren tried again. "Most of our yearmates haven't been selected yet. Relax."
Zahir opened his mouth to retort that it was easy to relax when your future was assured, but he was chopped off when someone taped him on the shoulder, saying, "Zahir?"
"What?" snapped Zahir, whirling around to face Quinden of Marti's Hill, a page whom Zahir had sponsored what felt like a lifetime ago.
"I'm sorry to interrupt." Recognizing the danger in Zahir's tone, Quinden hastened to appease him. "It's just that His Majesty requested your presence in his council chamber at the fifth bell this evening."
Wondering what in all the Eastern Lands King Jonathan wished to see him about, Zahir automatically thanked Quinden for delivering the message.
"What does the king want to see you about?" demanded Joren, gaping at Zahir as Quinden scampered off to join some fellow pages for the meal.
"I don't know," responded Zahir, his forehead furrowing pensively. "King Jonathan is the Voice of the Bazhir, and I am officially a chief, although I temporarily handed over much of my power to my cousin Nadir, since I am busy training to be a knight and don't have time to rule properly. Perhaps the king wants to talk to me in my capacity as chief."
"No doubt that's the case," agreed Joren, and then shifted the topic to how beautiful he found Lady Calanthe of Eder.
However, Zahir didn't pay the slightest attention to Joren's lengthy, dreamy description of Lady Calanthe's eyes, ears, nose, hair, skin, and waist, because he was too preoccupied with pondering what King Jonathan wanted to meet with him about. Since he had appointed Nadir to represent him, he didn't involve himself much in the governing of his tribe, and the Voice didn't bother himself with trivial matters, anyway. That meant that the king's reason for summoning him was serious, and, in his experience, serious was a synonym for bad….Maybe King Jonathan had received word that Nadir had died. That certainly would be bad enough news to warrant summoning Zahir…
His stomach twisted at the notion, and he prayed fervently that this wouldn't be the case. He pleaded with the pitiless Black God to remember that Nadir was younger than Zahir was even, and to show mercy upon an adolescent who was purer than him. He implored the Black God to take into account how much Zahir's whole tribe needed Nadir's leadership, and how the tribe had already been shaken when Uncle Kamal, Nadir's father, had murdered Zahir's father―the former chief and older brother of Kamal. Then, he begged the Black God to recall that Zahir wasn't ready to rule yet, and perhaps he never would be, no matter what King Jonathan had said after he had made Zahir chief. After all, it was entirely possible that the Voice had been mistaken when he said that Zahir had the capacity to become a good chief. Personally, Zahir doubted very much that this was the case, and, if he was fit to rule, surely he would have noticed that by now.
By the time he had finished his fervid mental prayers, Joren had finally concluded his description of Lady Calanthe's incredible beauty, and so the four young men rose and returned their trays to the kitchen.
As he left the mess hall with his companions and headed back to Joren's room to help his closest friend move into a chamber adjoining Sir Paxton's quarters, Zahir tried to convince himself that he was overreacting when he immediately assumed that King Jonathan wanted to speak with him because Nadir was dead.
He had managed to persuade himself that Nadir wasn't dead until he heard otherwise, after all, by the time he, Garvey, and Vinson had assisted Joren in moving to the room adjacent to Sir Paxton's chambers. Sadly, the great strides he had taken in soothing his nerves vanished with every step he took toward the council room at a few minutes before the fifth bell of the evening.
When he arrived outside the council chamber, he took a deep breath to prepare himself as much as he could to hear about another tragic death in the family, and then knocked on the engraved maple door.
"Come in," a strong voice shouted from within, and Zahir complied, stepping into an enormous, richly furnished room that swallowed him completely, as the bell tolled five times. Looking around the expansive chamber, Zahir's feeling of insignificance only increased when he realized that he was in the room alone with King Jonathan. This chamber was too large for him, and he certainly didn't deserve to be by himself with royalty in such a place. Only council members warranted being alone with the king in such a room.
"Zahir ibn Alhaz." King Jonathan's piercing sapphire eyes scanned the addressed from head to toe, and Zahir wished that he wasn't paralyzed by the intensity of the monarch's gaze. Right now, all he wanted to do was flee from those penetrating eyes that must have already detected all of his petty vices and grave shortcomings, especially since those eyes were attached to a man who was probably going to explain to him in an authoritative but somehow not unsympathetic tone that Nadir was no longer among the living. "You're right on time."
"Lord Wyldon taught us to be punctual." Zahir's body finally remembered to bow, and his brain scolded his muscles for not recalling to do so the moment he entered the council room. "Your Majesty chose your training master well."
"I think that I have picked my training master well, although I imagine that many pages would disagree with me about that." King Jonathan flashed a grin, and some of the tension coiled in Zahir's chest eased. Certainly, the king wouldn't be jesting like this if he were about to inform Zahir that his cousin had perished. By both Tortallan and Bazhir standards, that would be a severe breach in etiquette. His smile still in place, Jonathan continued, waving a hand at one of the chairs surrounding the gigantic council table, "Please be seated. Let's not stand on ceremony."
As Zahir obediently slid into the indicated seat, King Jonathan observed, "I don't suppose that you have any idea why I have summoned you here, Zahir."
"Does it have anything to do with my people, Your Majesty?" asked Zahir. It had to do with his tribe, he told himself, because there was no other cause for the Voice to wish to converse with him, but the real question was what had happened to his people that was horrible enough to require the Voice to involve himself.
"Everything you do impacts your people in some fashion, and so this discussion, like every one you will engage in while you are chief, has something to do with your tribe." Again, King Jonathan's gaze lanced into Zahir, and the teenager wondered if now would be the moment when the Voice stripped him of his rank as chief. The Voice was such a skilled leader that he had to spot that Zahir was nothing more than a little boy pretending to be chief. He had to recognize that the self-confidence that Zahir always strove to project to such a degree that many of his peers regarded him as arrogant was really just a pathetic sham he had constructed to conceal his many insecurities. The Voice had to see that his poise was a façade he had developed in the pages' wing when he learned that those who acted strong didn't get pushed around while those who acted weak did. His mask could fool almost everyone, but he didn't believe that it would trick King Jonathan with his bright eyes that were designed to flesh out the truth in every situation. "However, this conversation won't directly pertain to your people, no."
"In that case, I have no clue what Your Majesty wishes to speak with me about," Zahir admitted, inwardly kicking himself for sounding ignorant before the most important being in the realm. His tendency to make an idiot of himself was exactly the reason why he shouldn't be allowed to be alone with the king.
"Good." King Jonathan smiled again. This time, remembering that authority figures approved of underlings who seemed amused by their quips, Zahir bullied his lips into offering a grin that probably appeared agonizingly artificial. "People listen to me better when they don't believe that they know what I am going to say next. Anyway, Zahir, I wanted to speak with you now, since I wished to ensure that nobody would have a chance to ask you to be their squire before I did."
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I was careless and didn't hear you properly," stammered Zahir, forgetting his manners enough to gawk at the king as though he had just transformed into a cactus. "I thought you just said that you wanted me to be your squire."
"You heard and thought correctly," King Jonathan educated him dryly.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I can't be your squire." Feeling as if the world as he knew it had inexplicably flipped upside down, Zahir shook his head vehemently. "I may not be familiar with all the nuances of Tortallan culture, but I do know that you're supposed to take your son as squire, not me."
"Traditions are not laws, Zahir." King Jonathan shrugged, and Zahir could see that this ruler who had no problem breaking a thousand customs wouldn't have any issue with shattering one more. "There is no law that states that I have to take Roald as my squire."
"Your Majesty, Prince Roald won't be pleased by your decision." Zahir was just making this objection up based on how he would feel if tradition demanded that his father choose him for something, and his father violated that custom, utterly humiliating him in the process by essentially declaring him unworthy of the honor. The truth was that he could not know what would please or displease Roald, as the crown prince rarely expressed his feelings on any subject.
"I've already spoken with Roald," King Jonathan answered smoothly. "He understands my reasons for picking you as a squire, instead of him, and he trusts my judgment in this. He also realizes that, as crown prince, he will not have any difficulty finding a competent knightmaster to instruct him once it becomes clear that I do not intend to take him myself."
"Perhaps he was agreeing with you out of politeness." Zahir's thought emerged as a mutter without his knowledge or consent, because Roald seemed like the sort of person who would agree to something crazy in the name of politeness. The instant Zahir recognized what he had said, he wished that he had more of Prince Roald's politeness. After all, one did not mumble comments like he just had under one's breath around the king, since that crossed the fine line that separated confidence from sheer impudence.
Before he could attempt to salvage the situation with an apology, King Jonathan fixed cold blue eyes upon him that rendered it impossible for him to breathe, nonetheless talk. Suddenly, as the king's hard gaze riveted on him, Zahir felt the blood in his veins freeze. It truly hit him that this man, as the Voice, had the power of life or death over him, and that the majesty King Jonathan emitted when he made Zahir chief and when he spoke to Zahir after his father's cremation were nothing compared to the mighty aura that encircled him now.
"My son trusts my judgment," King Jonathan announced, his tone quiet but somehow containing all the menace of a bellow. "Perhaps you should do the same, Zahir ibn Alhaz."
"I trust your judgment, my liege," responded Zahir immediately not only because Lord Wyldon had taught him that if you were fond of being alive, you should do your best to pacify any authority figures you might have vexed, but also because the truth was that he did trust King Jonathan. Not only was Jonathan the Voice, which meant that all the wisdom of countless generations of Bazhir swirled around inside him, but the man was so charismatic that it was difficult not to accept that he knew what was best for the entire country, even if his decisions appeared absolutely illogical.
"Good." The look in King Jonathan's eyes softened slightly. "If you are to be a knight of mine, you should get into the habit of trusting my judgment. Now, if you think, Zahir, you will see that there is no rational reason for you not to be my squire. After all, if you are willing to serve me for life as a knight, then you should have no problem with being my squire for four years."
"I'm not worthy of being your squire, Your Majesty," Zahir protested, even as he thought that he would prefer to be the squire of an active knight, rather than the king. Being the king's squire was undeniably a prestigious position, but it was also, as far as he could discern, a boring one. Of course, he couldn't establish as much to King Jonathan, even if the Voice might be able to read some of his thoughts, anyway, thanks to the mystical link the Voice shared with all Bazhir. "The only person worthy of being your squire this year is Prince Roald."
"Don't let traditions limit you," admonished King Jonathan. "There are more options in life than you seem willing to contemplate, and that's a shame. Often enough, there is a logic behind a custom, just as the reasoning behind keeping a crown prince beside his father is to prepare the crown prince to take the throne upon his father's death. Even though there is often a logic behind tradition, it is unwise to act as though abiding by custom is the only choice any of us possess. On many occasions, the untraditional decision is more prudent than the conventional one. In this situation, that is the case, since Roald is ready to take my place when I die, and there are things that I want to teach you-only you―that you can only learn from me."
"I don't suppose that Your Majesty would care to elaborate on what those things I can only learn from you are." Intrigued by the king's final cryptic comment, Zahir arched his eyebrows.
"I shall tell you someday, Zahir, but that day isn't today." King Joanthan's eyes sparkled enigmatically.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I haven't agreed to be your squire yet," Zahir scowled sullenly. He didn't appreciate the king taking his consent for granted, since the decision to accept a knightmaster's offer was the only choice that a squire was guaranteed to have in the knightmaster-squire relationship. Of course, if you were asked by the king, you could hardly refuse, so you didn't actually have a choice at all…Still, King Jonathan could have at least been courteous enough to allow him the illusion of having some control over which knight he was squire to.
"When you started page training you agreed to serve the realm as the Crown deemed best, not how you deemed best," King Jonathan pointed out.
"I would be honored to be your squire, Your Majesty." Zahir bowed his head, deciding that his hand of cards was too weak to continue playing, and folding it, instead, to minimize his losses.
"Wonderful." King Jonathan offered a nod of satisfaction, and then assured him, "You have my word, Zahir, that one day you will understand the reasoning behind my asking you to be my squire. When you do, you will see that my actions were right, but, for now, I want you to trust me. Trust is the foundation of any relationship. Without it, every relationship is built on sand and will crumble into the sea under the slightest pressure."
"Yes, Your Majesty," replied Zahir in a hushed tone, because there didn't seem any other response he could make under the circumstances.