A/N: This multi-chaptered fic was initially inspired by Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. If you recognize a few lines or a situation, that is the source. This is Jon mentoring Zahir, not in a relationship. I own nothing. Enjoy!
Voice Lessons
Chapter One
Zahir searched the entire palace, looking for the king. He was a fourth-year page now, he had no prospects for a knight-master, and he was getting desperate.
He refused to settle for some lowly border knight. He especially refused to be squire to a palace knight who rode only mountains of paperwork, not thundersome chargers.
The Bazhir wanted the king, not because he was king, but because he was the Voice, and he couldn't be the Voice forever. More than anything, Zahir wanted to be the next Voice. It was his purpose, his reason for being. Zahir was to become the first Bazhir knight under the first Tortallan Voice. It would wed both worlds together, bring an end to the schism that still affected the tribesmen. After all, just because they could not war against the Voice didn't mean they had to cooperate.
It was meant to be, Zahir decided. He would explain everything to the Voice, ask him to take him as a squire and not his son, Roald. However, first Zahir had to find him.
Hours later, after having given up his search for the missing king, Zahir was returning from a foray from his favorite tavern in the Upper City of Corus when he stopped suddenly. Zahir had fruitlessly combed the palace for hours to find the king, who was now watching him from atop the curtain wall.
Zahir cursed under his breath and quickened his steps before the man moved yet again. By the time he entered the palace, shoved open the doors to the guardhouse below the curtain wall, and raced up the stairs, the king was at the other end, and Zahir forced his leaden muscles to move faster. He regretted the last few drinks at the Squire's Pony, and contained the urge to taste it a second time.
The king raised an eyebrow at the Bazhir's rapid - and slightly staggering - approach. "May I help you, Page Zahir?"
The out-of-breath page could only nod weakly and clutch his side until the stitch gradually disappeared. "Yes, sire. Have, have you yet taken a squire?"
Jonathan frowned slightly. "Does it matter?"
"Sire." Zahir took a deep breath and met his blue eyes. "You ought to take me as your squire."
The other eyebrow joined its brother. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I can be the next Voice."
The king looked steadily at the young man, then gave one simple, dismissive answer. "No."
Zahir felt himself deflate. "But, sire-"
Jon rounded on the boy. "Why do I need a successor, Page? Am I getting too old?"
"No, but-"
"Do you think I'm going to die in some terrible horrible mangling accident?"
"No!"
"You haven't considered that Roald is already training for the duty?"
"No, sire-"
"Would you do a better job than I?"
"Yes!" Zahir slapped a hand over his traitorous mouth.
Jon stiffened and glared at the presumptuous page. "Indeed," he said dangerously. "Enlighten me."
Zahir opened his mouth, shut it, then took a deep breath to gather his scattered thoughts. Finally he spoke, slowly. "Because no matter how much you learn about the Bazhir, no matter how much you respect and appreciate them, you are not one of us. Despite the fact that you're the Voice, you cannot command the obedience and respect of the tribes. I am one of them, but I'm Tortallan too. I can."
The king didn't respond, just watched him with a closed, impassive expression. Zahir shifted uneasily as the seconds ticked by, then minutes. Finally:
"Find me three perfectly round white stones as big as your fist, then we'll talk, boy."
Zahir nodded gratefully, bowed and yelped a quick, "Thank you, sire!" and took the stairs down the wall three at a time, his dream finally within reach.
Later, Zahir would blame his inadvertent enthusiasm on the lingering effects of cheap alcohol. As it was, when the Voice told him to find three white stones as large as his fist, he attempted the task with every bit of energy he possessed.
Several hours later, having skipped dinner and combed through Lindhall's rock collection and the small rocks on the Royal Way leading up to the palace, the alcohol finally wore away, the daylight faded, and Zahir gave up his search. His efforts had produced amounted only one round white stone the size of a fingernail, one jagged clear stone the appropriate size, and a yellow-ish round-ish substance he thought might be a stone, purloined from Master Lindhall.
He collapsed in his chambers and spread his spoils out on a table. He looked at them mournfully, seeing his chances of apprenticing to the Voice diminish to nothing.
Why would the king assign such a task? To test his fortitude? Seriousness?
Zahir shook his head, slowly. The man hadn't seemed eager to teach him, quite the opposite, in fact. He did everything to dissuade him, including...
He let his head hit the table with an audible smack. The Voice had sent him on a fool's mission and, like a fool, he had fallen for it.
Zahir knew where to find the Voice. When he awoke the next morning, thankfully sans hangover, he checked the normal places where a normal king might reside, then ran to the curtain wall.
Surprisingly, the man was not there, but as Zahir looked around from his high vantage point, he spied a long figure seated on the central roof of the palace. Of course. This couldn't be easy.
Though the curtain wall had crenellations on both sides, there was one point where a nearby building's roof was a short jump away. Zahir judged the distance, sent a brief prayer to Mithros, his ancestors, and any god who was listening, and jumped.
He landed on all fours and scrambled up before he slid off the slippery tiles onto the ground many feet below. The next roof adjoined this one, so Zahir simply had to mind his footing as he traversed the palace roof.
The king watched him approach, but thankfully did not move from his spot. "Page," he greeted as Zahir slowly drew near, each step trembling with tension as the tiling shifted at his every movement.
"Sire," breathed Zahir, somehow afraid that if he spoke too loudly, it might cause him to lose his balance and fall a very far distance.
The king sighed. "What do you want? You don't have the rocks already, do you?"
Zahir carefully lowered himself to sit by the Voice, and kept his eyes firmly on the roof tiles. If he looked away, they might tilt and slip him off, just from spite. "You don't want them, so I don't have them."
A slow clap drew his attention briefly. "That didn't take you as long as I expected, Page Zahir. I didn't think you'd ever figure it out. You've disappointed me; I expected to be rid of you."
"I want to be the Voice, sire," said Zahir quietly. "Why are you so against the idea?"
"Because it suits me to be," he replied flippantly, then turned briefly serious. "The other day, were you serious?"
Zahir knew he meant his last, presumptive response. "Yes," he said simply, believing with all of his heart that he couldbe a better Voice than this Tortallan king.
"Jump off the roof."
Zahir wasn't sure if he'd heard him correctly. "Sire?"
The king leaned back, propped up on his elbows. He waved at the space where solid ended and open space began. "Prove it. Jump off the roof."
Zahir looked at him, at the edge of the roof, back to the king, who stared impassively into the rising sun.
Surely he wouldn't let him die, would he?"
So it was with trembling legs that Zahir stood up and stepped out into the open air.
As he fell, air whistling past his ears, it was with mingled amusement and terror that he saw the king's face peer over the side, contorted with shock and dismay.
