Drowning
"I hope you don't mind losing a glorious day with the politicians," Zahir commented to Trevor the next morning as they sat upon the ledge of a bubbling fountain in a marketplace thronging with customers haggling with vendors, children running around and getting under everyone's feet, women gossiping, and men exchanging boastful stories. Looking around the market, Zahir thought about how happy he was that so far the mackerel sky hadn't chosen to rain upon them yet.
"I don't," Trevor reassured him, grinning as he stared up at the naked, perfectly proportioned marble statues of a handsome man and beautiful woman with water shooting out of their mouths and fingers who stood proudly in the center of the fountain. "After all, one of the main reasons why I want to be a diplomat is to travel, and I wish to travel because I want to see the world. Tomorrow I will have time enough to sit in on official conferences."
"I hope I won't," muttered Zahir, thinking of the king. "Even good people I like turn into bores or monsters when politics are involved. Trevor, you are much too wonderful a person to be wasted upon politics."
"Decent people have to go into politics despite the monsters," Trevor countered, smiling slightly. "Otherwise, there will only be monsters in politics, and how wonderful a being would I truly be if I permitted that to happen?"
"Politics will corrupt you." Zahir shook his head. "Like everybody else in government, you will end up sacrificing your honor to achieve your goals."
"I hope not," answered Trevor. Pointing at a magnificent stone cathedral whose belltower pierced through the heavy, gray clouds like a gigantic needle, he added, "I can pray about the issue in there if you would like. It's the Cathedral to Our Lady Mother, and I confess that I would not complain about discovering if the inside is as gorgeous as it is rumored to be."
Zahir, who had always felt discomfited entering the Mithran chapel in the royal palace for Sunday services as a page, grunted, "We can go inside the cathedral if you want."
"Stellar," replied Trevor, grabbing onto Zahir's wrists, tugging him to his feet, and dragging him across the packed cobblestone street to the cathedral.
As the two of them approached the grand cathedral that shadowed the marketplace, they spotted a message carved into the stone beside the gigantic oak doors which declared that the cathedral's construction and maintenance had been funded through the generous donations of the Medica family.
"I'm so glad that the Medica family makes a habit of announcing how devoted to the gods they are, because I would have no way of knowing that they were otherwise," Zahir snorted, rolling his eyes at the etching in the stone.
"It is a bit ostentatious, isn't it?" Trevor agreed cheerily, his eyes glistening with amusement. "Still, we can't judge the Medica family based on that sign. After all, while it may seem like they only poured their wealth into this cathedral to enhance their earthly standing and possibly to attempt to bribe their way to a favorable destination in the afterlife, we can't know for sure that is why they did it. Perhaps they were genuinely motivated by the desire to glorify the gods and to give back some of their riches to their fellow citizens. Since we can't see into their minds, hearts, and souls like the gods can, we cannot pass judgment upon them in this matter."
"If they were just doing it to enhance their status in the eyes of mortals and to try to bribe the gods, that would be evil," scowled Zahir.
"Yes, it would." Trevor nodded somberly. "This is an instance where the same action could be driven by two entirely different emotional states, one of which is worthy of salvation and the other of damnation. In this case, there is no middle ground, but only the gods can know the truth, and so we have to assume that the Medica family was motivated by only the purest of incentives."
"You are being far fairer to them than they deserve," remarked Zahir derisively.
"It's best to leave the justice to the gods in this situation," Trevor stated, giving Zahir a friendly nudge with his shoulder. "Look at it this way, Zahir. If the Medica family only wished to enhance their status in the eyes of men, then they have already received their reward, and so they won't be getting one in heaven. Similarly, if their objective was to bribe the gods, the gods will not be tricked, because they cannot be conned with impunity by merchants or anyone else. The gods always get the last laugh on mortals who believe that they have the power to outsmart the gods."
Biting his lower lip, Zahir considered Trevor's argument and conceded after a long minute, "I suppose that you are right."
"Of course I am." Playfully, Trevor bowed. "Shall we enter?"
"Very well," Zahir mumbled, and the two of them stepped into the arching nave of the cathedral.
As they walked through the entranceway, Trevor paused to dip his finger in a bowl of water that had been blessed by a priest and to trace the sign against evil over himself with his damp finger, while Zahir averted his gaze from a practice that would always strike him as foreign no matter how many times he witnessed it performed.
Mainly because it provided him with an excuse to miss Trevor's peculiar act of devotion, Zahir gazed around the cathedral. When he did so, he found that his breath left him in an awed gasp, and his lungs seemed to feel that it was irreverent to allow air to flow back into his body, for he suddenly couldn't inhale as he stared around him.
The ceiling of the cathedral seemed to stretch up to the Divine Realms. The stained glass windows tinted the marble floor crimson, rose, mauve, violet, azure, emerald, and orange. Every faint ray of sunlight that filtered through the colorful windows was transformed into a rainbow.
Each window depicted a god or the tale of some human who had devoutly served the gods. Every window told a story, he thought, and just walking around the cathedral would offer a person a basic religious education. Of course, religious art ran the risk of being idolatrous, but that was so hard to remember here…
The smell of incense wafted through the air from the altar, and Zahir couldn't help but imagine that it might just be the scent of the divine. A sacred, eternal hush seemed to permeate the cathedral, and it was hard not to envision that the cathedral was somehow both inside and outside of time. Here, it felt like one could just remain motionless while the chaotic world continued to go on all around the sanctuary.
It was only when Zahir caught sight of a woman kneeling before a statue of the Goddess, her fingers dancing across her prayer beads, and her lips moving rapidly in a silent, fervent prayer that he glowered, coming out of his trance.
"Worshipping statues is very wrong," he hissed to Trevor. "I don't know why so many non-Bazhir make a habit of doing so."
"Non-Bazhir don't worship statues." Trevor chuckled softly. "Zahir, do you honestly think that I fall on my knees and beg the statue to come to life and save me? Do you reckon that when I am in distress, I appeal stone and mortar to come rescue me?"
"You're mocking me." Angrily, Zahir pressed his lips together.
"No." Gently, Trevor clasped his shoulder. "I never mock the sincere religious beliefs of others. However, I do try to correct people when their perspectives of other groups might be incorrect."
"My perception isn't incorrect." If anything, Zahir's lips tightened further. "It definitely looks like that woman is worshipping a statue."
"Appearances can be deceiving," Trevor informed him quietly. "The woman is praying to what the statue represents, and merely using the statue as a means of focusing her mind. If something brings someone closer to the gods, how can it be evil?"
"I think it draws a person closer to idolatry rather than to the gods," Zahir established through gritted teeth.
"Well, it's just another case where an action could be motivated by two totally different internal states, then, isn't it?" Trevor pointed out calmly. "The appearance of praying to a statue could either be praying to the gods or it could be idolatry. Only the gods can know which it is, and so only they can judge."
"Humph," grunted an unconvinced Zahir, folding his arms across his chest.
Trevor hesitated, and then said, "I'm going to say a quick prayer to the Goddess, and then we can leave."
"Fine." Zahir offered a short, irascible nod, and turned away in disgust as Trevor knelt before a statue of the Goddess.
Trying to ignore the fact that his friend was praying to a statue behind him, Zahir riveted his gaze on the religious scene on the far wall of the cathedral. He was about to note inwardly that he much preferred the geometric designs favored by religious buildings in Persopolis to the paintings of the gods lining the cathedral when he found himself being enthralled by the picture on the wall.
It was a depiction of the ancient flood that Mithros and the Goddess had sent to drown the whole world except for two animals of every kind and a devoted family. The waves in the painting appeared to be moving, and he could practically taste the salt on his tongue. He could feel himself being tossed mercilessly about by the frothy waves in the stormy ocean that suddenly had covered the whole world. He could hear the water slamming into his eardrums. He could feel his mouth and nose tightening as he struggled not to drown. He could feel his own legs failing him as he desperately kicked toward a shore that didn't exist. He could feel his own hands stretch helplessly towards the heavens, awaiting a salvation that would never come. He could feel all this because he knew exactly what it was like to drown, and it was this terrible understanding that had made him seasick on the journey to Tyra…
Zahir could remember that day as clear as if it were yesterday, even though he did the best he could to blot it from his memory. He was almost five-years-old—just a week away from his fifth birthday, in fact—which in his young mind made him practically a man.
A man, as far as he was concerned, didn't need to stay away from oases for fear of drowning. After all, oases were so small compared to the vastness of the desert, and they couldn't be too deep, given how little rain fell from the sky in his homeland.
That was why he first put his toe in the water. He felt the compulsion to prove that he wasn't afraid of this mysterious blue substance. Then, because the sensation of the cool water upon his hot skin had been so glorious, he waded in up to his shins, then up to his knees, then up to his waist, and then finally up to his chin.
The bed of the oasis was muddy, squelching delightfully beneath his toes. Unfortunately, it was also treacherous. As graceful as he was, Zahir miss-stepped, found his head submerged underwater, panicked when liquid burned up his nose and mouth, and lost his footing entirely.
Wildly, he cast his feet about, searching for the muddy bottom. His toes couldn't touch anything but water, and he could feel himself sinking, weighed down by his own clothing, which he had foolishly not removed.
His arms flailed about, reaching toward the cerulean heavens, but the only blue they made contact with was the water of the oasis. His head pushed frantically toward the surface, yet he couldn't reach it. Somehow, he knew that he would die here, no matter how hard he fought to live, and perhaps he would perish only an inch away from the marvelous air he could never breathe again. That inch could have been a league since he could never complete the journey…
From a distance, he could hear someone shouting his name. At first, he assumed that the Black God was summoning him to court, where he would be punished for all of his sins. However, when he saw two strong arms plunge into the water and snatch at his wrists, he recognized vaguely that this wasn't the case. As he was dragged back to shore, his head above the water at last, it occurred to him that he wasn't dead yet.
When he was dumped unceremoniously onto the sand, the rough grains of which had never felt so tender against his skin, powerful hands slapped his back. Water gushed out of his lips and nostrils, wetting the ground around him.
Zahir finally realized that the hands of his savior were those of his father's when a furious voice penetrated the water still swimming in his ears to snap, "What have I always told you about going near oases?"
Tears of relief at being alive mingling with tears of horror at what had just happened to him welled in Zahir's dark eyes. All he could do was shake his head miserably and sputter.
"Answer me, boy." His father's hands clutched his shoulders hard enough to bruise, and he felt as though water was rattling around inside his skull as he was shaken vigorously.
"Not to go near them," Zahir whispered, the tears, to his shame, trickling down his cheeks now.
"You're lucky that the sheep needed a drink," snarled his father, and, for the first time, Zahir noticed the flock of sheep sipping from the far side of the oasis. "If I hadn't been around, you would have drowned, son."
"I'm sorry, Father." Zahir tasted salty tears on his tongue, and his whole body heaved with sobs. He hadn't wanted to die. Indeed, he had only wished to prove that he was a man. Similarly, he hadn't intended to incite his father's ire. All he had really been hoping to do was earn his father's approval. Everything had gone so nightmarishly awry when it was supposed to go so perfectly, and all he could do now was cry out his terror and shame.
"I ought to tan your miserable hide for disobeying me and endangering your life like this." His father's words were gruff, but the firm hands that pressed him against a muscular chest were surprisingly gentle, and the heart that he heard pounding in that strong chest told him that his father had been just as scared as Zahir was that he was going to die.
He was loved, and he was safe in his father's arms, he assured himself, as his father went on, "Yet, since I just went to so much trouble to save your skin, I don't feel like beating you within an inch of your life even if you deserve the thrashing of your life."
"I'm sorry, Father," repeated Zahir, burying his head in his father's chest. "I'll never do anything like this again."
"You'd better not," his father barked. "If you do, I assure you that you'll be learning how it feels to be truly sorry."
"I—I just wanted you to be proud of me." The traitorous comment spilled from Zahir's lips before his brain could halt it, and his cheeks blazed with embarrassment at his own weakness as he recognized what he had said.
"You're my only son." Briskly, his father shoved him away. "I won't be proud of you if you kill yourself foolishly. If you must leave me without an heir, at least die bravely instead of stupidly."
"Yes, sir." Ducking his head as though he had just been backhanded, Zahir murmured, "I—I love you, Father."
More than anything, Zahir longed for his father to say that he loved Zahir, too, or at least to embrace him again. Yet, all his father did was snort, "Actions speak louder than words, Zahir ibn Alhaz. If you love me, obey me and honor me enough that you do not need to tell me you love me. A defiant son is a disgrace to his father, and a son who shames his father does not love his father."
Listening to his father's reprimand, Zahir tried to be grateful for the man's words of wisdom, but he couldn't manage it, since part of him still wanted to be told that his father loved him. Yes, his father had hugged and lectured him, but was a simple declaration of love from his father impossible for the man to give? After all, an uncomplicated, unambiguous statement of his father's love was all that Zahir had ever really wished to receive.
"Zahir." Trevor's hand clapping his shoulder lightly yanked him out of the memory he was drowning in. "We can go now."
Absently, Zahir nodded and trailed his companion out of the cathedral. It was only when they had twisted through the congested marketplace and were heading down a scruffier sidestreet filled with the small shops and cloth factories that made the city run that he roused himself enough to ask, "Trevor, do you know that your father loves you?"
"Absolutely," responded Trevor, as they turned down another lane, which contained worker housing that made it apparent just how tremendous the poverty of the average Tyran was in relation to the wealthy merchants living in villas near the Medica family.
Trying not to remind himself that he had not even seen what life outside the city walls was like, Zahir pressed, "Would he love you even if you defied him?"
"If my father's love of me was contingent upon my obedience, he would have hated me ever since I was a toddler." Trevor chortled, and Zahir wished that he could join in with his friend's mirth.
Unfortunately, he could only mumble, "It must be nice to be raised by a father like that."
"Zahir, any father who makes an effort to rear and provide for his offspring deserves to be honored," remarked Trevor delicately, shooting Zahir a sidelong glance. "That being established, respecting your father doesn't mean that you have to loathe yourself. I think that when you accept that you are worthy of being loved despite your flaws, you will be at peace."
Before Zahir could snarl that he did not loathe himself, he was distracted when a shiver rippled down his spine. Feeling abruptly as though his every movement was being watched, he hissed to Trevor, "Someone is tailing us."
Trevor had the presence of mind not to twist his neck around to check if this were the case. "I don't sense anything," he muttered back.
"I feel it," Zahir insisted tersely, glad that one of them had received combat training. "Let's lead whoever it is on, and then double back and see who it is."
After that, they picked up their pace slightly, weaving in and out of alleys and staying in the shadows of buildings. This close to the wall surrounding the city, the neighborhood was so rundown that, as far as Zahir could discern, introducing a Stormwing to the area would be constituted as gentrifying it. Water and waste collected in the gutters and pooled in the cracks between cobblestones, while the buildings looked old and dilapidated. Occasionally, they heard the scuttling of rodents and increased their speed.
They turned a corner onto a short block. Ahead, three dark alleys radiated out and were swallowed up in blackness. Perfect.
They didn't have to talk. Both of them began to run, darting into the middle alleyway. Quickly, they climbed up to the top of a building and lay down on the roof. From this vantage point, they would be able to see whoever was following them.
Below them, they saw a maidservant in Medica colors who looked familiar move forward, gazing around her with every step.
"It's Marietta," Zahir said. "Come on."
Without bothering to ensure that Trevor would follow him, Zahir jumped to an overhang below and then leapt nimbly onto the ground directly in front of Marietta. A second later, Trevor landed more clumsily beside him.
With a yelp, Marietta jumped back in fright.
"Looking for us?" Zahir inquired, smirking.
Attempting to disguise her involuntary display of fear, Marietta coughed into her sleeve. "Ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I was." Her tone and eyes speculative, she added, "I did not expect to have to follow you to this section of the city."
"We're just exploring some of the wonders of your lovely city," answered Trevor, smiling pleasantly.
"Let me assure both of you that there are far better sights to be seen," Marietta said. "This neighborhood is a curious choice on your part."
"We got lost," Zahir told her brusquely. "What can we do for you?"
"I am to deliver an invitation to the two of you," explained Marietta. "The Vox Populi is hosting a reception tomorrow evening and wishes you both to attend along with the rest of the Tortallan delegation, to whom he has already extended the invitation and received warm acceptance."
"We accept with delight," Trevor stated smoothly.
"I will inform the Vox Populi." Marietta curtsied. "Now, no doubt, you wish to resume your…sightseeing."
With another curtsy, Marietta spun on her heel and bustled off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Zahir muttered, "An invitation could have been sent to our villa, especially since the rest of the delegation has already accepted Giovanni Medica's offer."
Trevor opened his mouth to reply, but he never had the opportunity to do so. Caught up in their conversation and relief that it was only Marietta who had tailed them, they had lowered their guard. Their attackers came from behind, using rocks to knock both Zahir and Trevor off their feet. After that, Zahir felt like he was drowning in darkness as a black hood was thrown over his head, and, from the muffled screams beside him, he could only assume that Trevor had received the same treatment.
Instinctively, Zahir rolled away from their assailants and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, prepared to fight but not drawing his sword. The hood was fastened in a way that he couldn't untie at the present, but that wasn't a problem. He could defend himself and Trevor in the darkness if he had to. Then again, he thought, he was on a diplomatic mission to Tyra, which meant that his knightmaster would probably frown upon him brawling unless he absolutely had to do so.
Perhaps it would be better if he just allowed himself and Trevor to be kidnapped. After all, if the situation worsened, he could resist later and save himself and Trevor if necessary.
It was too late to fight now, anyway, he realized, as he felt himself being shoved into a cart and heard Trevor thump down beside him.
"Do you have any ideas?" Trevor rasped through his hood.
"We might as well discover who kidnapped us and why," Zahir whispered. "I think that you might be about to see another side of Tyra."
"I'm not sure I'll like this side as much," Trevor snorted, "but thanks for trying to comfort me, Zahir."
After that, both of them were silent as the cart bounced them along. Finally, the bumpy ride ended with a final jolt, and they were dragged out of the cart and pushed into what Zahir supposed was a building. Then, the hood was wrenched off his head, and he took a deep breath of fresh air, or, rather, what should have been fresh air, but was actually dank and not much of an improvement over the stuffy air behind his hood.
"That's right," a masculine voice advised in a tone edged with sarcasm. "Take a deep breath of the wholesome country air of Giovanni Medica Estates."
Zahir couldn't see who spoke, because a bright pea green light was in his eyes, and the rest of the room was in deep shadow. Trevor was beside him, his chin up as he tried to blink out the light, and Zahir tensed, as if for a blow, ready to defend himself or his friend the instant his threat assessment level of his kidnappers racketed upward again.
"Relax. We don't want to hurt anyone wo is friends with Beniamino. This is just the only way we can talk to you without Giovanni Medica hearing about it," the voice continued dryly, and Zahir realized with a start that he and Trevor had been kidnapped by Hibrus. Marietta must have been sent ahead to gain a fix on their position. "Oh, and, for the love of Mithros, stop using your Gift to make such a bright light, Eli. You'll blind us all."
The vivid green light went out, and now the only illumination came from tiny, uncovered windows carved in some sort of wooden structure. Water pooled on the hard-packed dirt floor, and Zahir supposed that indicated that the ceiling leaked, which was a real problem in a country as rainy as Tyra.
A Hibru male emerged from the shadows. He was tall and slender. Energy seemed to be coiled in his muscles and emanated from his gestures and his pale eyes. The rest of the group remained in the darkness.
"I apologize for the method," the Hibru who appeared to be the leader announced, nodding at the hoods. "We can't exactly issue nice personal invitations the ways our beloved Vox Populi can, and we need to talk to you without any prying eyes or ears, since we have a proposition for you."
"Who are you?" demanded Trevor, who obviously regarded kidnapping as one of the few offenses which justified rudeness.
"My name is Hiram," the Hibru leader answered. Hooking a foot over the rail of a chair, he brought it over to sit astride it, facing them. "I am head of the Hibru resistance against the Vox Populi and the oppressive governing council. My face and name are well-known to Giovanni and his supporters, so there is no need for concealment on my part. However, my compatriots are less notorious and will remain hidden from you. The only thing you need to be aware of us that there are many of us, and we do not all reside beyond the wall."
"Some of your sympathizers in the city include Marietta and Beniamino," Zahir cut in. "What do you want with us?"
"Why should we help you when you kidnapped us?" Trevor put in, his ivy eyes scorching Hiram.
"If you wish to resolve your trading dispute in your favor, it would be prudent for you to align yourself with the winning side," retorted Hiram.
"The winning side?" Arching an eyebrow, Trevor folded his arms across his chest. "Are you seriously going up against the merchant families and expecting to be victorious?"
"We will be victorious because we have to win." Hiram spoke with without rage and without bravado. "What never fails to amuse me is when beings underestimate the power of desperation. Anyway, we are not nearly so weak as you think. After all, it was Hibru sailors who mutinied, disappeared in the ocean with the cargo your merchants ordered, and who will return with armed merchant vessels to aid in the Hibru rebellion."
Spreading his arms, Hiram spat, "This is how we live on the other side of the wall. This is a typical dwelling in which two or three families will be crammed. Disease is rampant in our quarters. Many of our children die before their second birthday, and the ones who survive have no hope of getting better than a menial, unpaid position of mucking streets or dying cloths unless they forsake their heritage."
"I'm sorry, but we have nothing to do with your troubles," Trevor replied, shaking his head.
"Ah, of course not." Hiram's lips twisted bitterly. "You just profit by them, since you buy the cloths that are dyed by our enslaved hands."
"Are you going to insult us or ask for our assistance?" Zahir broke in before Trevor could respond to this challenge.
"That puts me in my place, that does." A strained grin creased Hiram's taut features. "Here is our request. We need certain important information stolen from Giovanni Medica's office tomorrow night during his banquet. Since Giovanni has taken an interest in our dear Marietta, she will be able to distract him while you steal the important information we require."
"You want us to steal from Giovanni Medica?" Trevor actually rolled his eyes. "You can forget that idea, I assure you, because it is never going to come to pass, my friend."
"What do you want us to steal, anyway?" Zahir asked, thinking that, even if Trevor didn't, he wanted to help the Hibrus all he could.
"A small scroll from his top drawer," stated Hiram. "It contains all the information that will guarantee our success. With it, we will be able to take over the government in a short time span, and, as a token of our gratitude, Tortall will receive all of its cloths and will be greatly esteemed by the new Hibru government."
"Go on," Zahir urged.
"We also know that we have enough Hibru guards stationed at the reception to capture all of the important government officials at Giovanni Medica's party." Hiram's jaw clenched. "If you don't help us, there will still be a revolt, but it just won't be a bloodless one, and, when we are in charge, your trade dispute will not be settled favorably."
"I'll help you," agreed Zahir grimly, elbowing Trevor in the ribs when his friend opened his mouth to protest.