Defiance and Destruction
When his excruciatingly long discussion with King Jonathan finally concluded, Zahir hurried back to the sanctuary of his bedroom, even though he did not comprehend why he was so anxious to return there when, doubtlessly, he would be sick of being trapped in there soon. As soon as he arrived in his chamber, he collapsed on his bed, and took several deep breaths to prevent himself from hyperventilating. Once he had calmed himself somewhat and had ensured that there was some air to fuel his reeling brain, he allowed himself to reflect upon what had just transpired.
King Jonathan, he thought as blood pounded against his eardrums, had just forced him to promise that he would not help the Hibrus, and a Bazhir did not break his word. A Bazhir would die rather than be foresworn and would carve out his own tongue before speaking a falsehood.
Yet, he had also sworn to the Hibrus that he would assist them, and, so, no matter what he did, he would be betraying and hurting somebody. Worse still, ties of kinship bound the Bazhir and the Hibrus, and no decent Bazhir abandoned his family.
It wasn't fair, he lamented to himself as he smashed his fist against his forehead in frustration, that he was shoved into a situation where no decision was the right one, and that really was a prime example of being caught between a rock and a hard place. In fact, the dilemma that he was faced with would be enough to drive anyone into insanity or depression. Really, it was remarkable that he hadn't committed suicide yet. Indeed, perhaps the only reason that he hadn't done so was because even that would end in his disgrace.
Since he couldn't be loyal to both his knightmaster and the Hibrus at the same time, he would have to choose between them. Pressing his lips together, he noted inwardly that the Hibrus were in a far more dire plight than King Jonathan was. Besides, the king had more beings to turn to for aid than the Hibrus did. That meant that he would have to honor his promise to the Hibrus at the expense of his word to his king.
"I'm a traitor now," he muttered, his lips curling up with disdain for himself, his knightmaster, and the world for reducing him to such depravity.
Tears pricked at his eyes like daggers as he realized the depths to which he had plummeted. Once, he had believed that it was possible to be honorable. Now he saw that when loyalties conflicted, it was impossible not to betray yourself and those you cared about. When he had polished his weapons as a page and daydreamed about how he would be the most steadfast and courageous squire in Tortallan history, he could never have imagined being in a situation where he was forced to be a coward and break his word to someone.
His father and Lord Wyldon had all spoken about honor as though it were something that was either present or lacking in a particular person or action. Neither of them ever treated honor as though it were a virtue that could appear on a spectrum. Certainly neither of them had ever admitted the possibility that an individual or a behavior could be simultaneously honorable and dishonorable. Their uncompromising perspective had shaped his own rigid stance on honor, but now he couldn't help but think that in a world of so much gray, perhaps black and white shouldn't be the only two color classifications that existed in his mind.
Of course, maybe he was just trying to justify his own failure to live up to the high moral standards that had been hammered into him since he had emerged from the warmth of his mother's womb. After all, when he closed his eyes, he could clearly see Lord Wyldon glowering at him and rapping out that a knight's first duty was always obedience to the Crown. No doubt Lord Wyldon would be apoplectic if he heard that Zahir was even considering defying the king, especially in an important matter of state, but Lord Wyldon couldn't understand just how subconsciously anathema obedience to the Crown was to a Bazhir in whose veins roared the independent blood of renegade forefathers.
Still, disobedience had never been a virtue his father had strived to instill in him. In fact, he didn't even have to shut his eyes in order to hear his father's voice ringing inside his head: "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."
Feeling nauseous knots in his stomach that perfectly mirrored the sickness in his heart, Zahir discovered that it was all too easy to change his father's words to suit his present circumstances. Actions speak louder than words, Zahir ibn Alhaz, he thought. If you love your knightmaster, obey him and honor him enough that you do not need to tell him that you love him. A defiant squire is a disgrace to his knightmaster, and a squire who shames his knightmaster does not love his knightmaster.
Zahir swallowed hard, as his lungs and throat tightened, making it impossible for him to breathe. For a long, terrible moment, he couldn't drive the echoes of his alteration of his father's comment from his mind. Finally and ironically, it was the recollection of a remark King Jonathan had made to him on the voyage to Tyra that loosened his throat and lungs, allowing him to breathe once more, and that untied the knots in his stomach: "Zahir, you are a human being, and, as such, you have a tremendous value whether or not I acknowledge that. If I don't recognize how much you are worth, it is me, not you, who is diminished."
The king's words didn't need to be tailored to fit the circumstances; they just had to be applied. Zahir was a human being with a brain and a conscience of his own, and, in the end, he had to make his own choices. Even if his knightmaster and all of Tortall disagreed with him, he had to do what he thought was the right thing. In this case, that was keeping his promise to the Hibrus. His honor wasn't to be found in blind obedience, but rather in doing what he perceived as the best, most moral action in any given situation.
Of course, that wouldn't spare him from feeling as though his heart had turned to ashes when he contemplated those who would be injured by him acting as virtuously as he could. In this case, he didn't think that Common or the ancient language of the Bazhir had words powerful enough to convey just how sorry he was to betray his knightmaster's trust, and he suspected that, for the rest of his life, an apology to King Jonathan would be the constant refrain in his head.
Staring at the pawn and king he had been fiddling with earlier, Zahir noted bleakly that he was about to discover what happened when a pawn challenged a king. As he bit his lower lip hard enough that the metallic taste of blood flooded his dry mouth, he observed dully that perhaps it was just impossible for a black pawn to obey a white king, because the two of them had been born so different…
Torrents of rain didn't ask for permission before they assailed the ground, drowning a hundred furred creatures cowering in burrows, Zahir thought, wishing he could offer this pathetic apologia to his wronged knighmaster. Locusts didn't dream of ruin before they descended upon lush fields any more than sandstorms considered the plants and animals their winds would bury, and sometimes a bee—oh, how Zahir wished that he could have been better to King Jonathan—would die of its own baffled sting.
A sharp knock on his door interrupted his despair enough that he was forced to call out dismally, "Come in."
"You look as though you just saw a ghost or just became one." Trevor clucked his tongue sympathetically as he sat down on Zahir's bed. "I hope I didn't get you into too much trouble, because that was never my intention."
"It better not have been." Zahir forced himself to snort derisively. "After all, I could never sink so low as to be friends with tattletales. Besides, I don't need you to get me into trouble when I have a knack of getting into it all by myself, thank you very much."
"Of course I would never wish to impugn your skill at landing yourself in a mound of trouble." Trevor grinned for a moment, and then stated more seriously, "Still, I had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that you wouldn't be in trouble at all. By the looks of it, though, the king cut out your heart and made you eat it."
"Not exactly." Zahir decided that even if he couldn't keep his promise to his knightmaster, at least he could be fair about what had transpired between them earlier in the evening. "I mean, we exchanged words, and some of them were heated, but he didn't start the conversation angry at me. In the beginning of our talk, he just wanted me to explain what happened with the kidnapping, and it was only when I refused to that he got cross with me. Still, it wasn't as if he yelled at me the whole time. I think he tried to explain his view of things as gently as he could, although he never really likes anyone challenging his authority as I seem to have the bad habit of doing, and he listened as patiently as he could to me when I said what I thought, which maybe is all that you can ask of any teacher. Unfortunately, I just wasn't persuaded by his arguments, just as he wasn't by mine."
"As I expected, King Jonathan refused to entangle us in the rebellion." Trevor exhaled gustily, his features grim.
"Yes," Zahir confirmed, pressing his palm against his forehead. "Worse than that, he made me promise that I wouldn't involve myself any more with the revolution, and then, as if my word wasn't good enough, he confined me to the villa to ensure that I wouldn't be tempted to do so."
"Is your word good enough?" Trevor demanded, his eyes narrowing. "For some reason, I can picture you sneaking out to steal from the Vox Populi during tomorrow night's banquet."
"I don't know whether to accuse you of being a mind-reader or of having too low an opinion of me," mumbled Zahir, flushing to the roots of his dark hair.
"Neither is true," Trevor answered, smiling slightly. "I just know you very well. Anyway, if you are indeed planning on doing such a thing I hope that you will let me help you."
"Why would you want to assist me in doing something you believe is wrong?" asked Zahir, his forehead furrowing.
"I'm not certain it is wrong, and, if I were, I wouldn't do it," Trevor murmured. "The truth is that I spent much of this afternoon and evening reflecting on our conversation, Zahir. I think that you made some intelligent points. One of the reasons that I always wished to become a diplomat was to bring peace and justice to as much of the world as I could, which means that, in good conscience, I can't turn away from the oppression and unfairness that reigns in Tyra alongside Giovanni Medica. I admire the non-violent approach to solving conflicts between people, but there are times for talking and times for doing. Perhaps the situation in Tyra has escalated to the point where only actions can resolve anything, or maybe my hot, youthful blood has just been roused by your passion and pain. I don't know. All I know is that I will help you achieve your goal if you will grant me the honor of accepting my aid."
"Lord Conan will be furious at you for setting yourself against the king's will," Zahir warned, even as his heart soared with hope at the idea of Trevor assisting him.
"I can always claim that I thought it better to help you and thereby reduce the odds of your being caught in a rebellion against the Vox Populi than to not aid you and increase your chances of being found out once I could not persuade you to refrain from ensnaring yourself in the revolt," pointed out Trevor, his tone reasonable.
"Politics will indeed ruin you, Trevor." Zahir shook his head at his friend's acumen.
"Political corruption essentially amounts to pushing along your friends, so you, Zahir, shouldn't grumble about it when you are the friend I am pushing along," retorted Trevor. "Now, let's not waste any more of our time discussing frivolities. We need to devise a plan to get you into the Medica villa, allow you access to the Vox Populi's study, and ensure that you have enough time to actually steal the scroll and deliver it to Beniamino or Marietta, although she will probably be busy occupying Giovanni Medica in his bedchamber."
"We should also give me wings while we're at it," Zahir snorted, recognizing for the first time just how impossible his objective was.
"If you have nothing positive to contribute to a conversation, don't say anything at all," chided Trevor. "Anyhow, you might be interested in hearing the strategy I have concocted so far. Since the king wishes for you not to attend the banquet tomorrow night, but does not want to offend Giovanni Medica, he will not retract your acceptance of the Vox Populi's invitation. Instead, when the Tortallan delegation arrives at the door, it will just be claimed that you suddenly took ill and so could not leave the villa. It would be more plausible, I think, if you and I were both sick from some tainted calamari we ate in the market this morning. Since my dear cousin Cassandra, who has always been very concerned with her figure, has taught me how to make myself vomit, I can cause myself to be sick before the feast, rendering it tragically impossible for me to attend. Once the rest of the delegation has been gone for some time and Marietta will have been able to draw Giovanni Medica into his bedchamber, you and I will leave our rooms, climbing down the ivy that conveniently grows on the walls outside our windows. We will proceed down the road to the Vox Populi's villa, walking as though we have never even contemplated doing anything wrong in our lives. When we reach the gates to the Medica villa, we will give our names to the guards, saying that our illness has passed as abruptly as it came upon us. Once we are inside the villa, I will convince the indoor guards to grant us access to the Vox Populi's study."
"A brilliant idea," Zahir remarked wryly. "Now, how do you propose we make the last step a reality?"
"Erm, I happen to have a Gift that, while largely untrained, does provide me with the power to influence the minds of others, which means that I can persuade the guards to admit us to Giovanni Medica's study," explained Trevor, ducking his head.
"There's no need to look depressed when you can make people do whatever you want with your magic," exclaimed Zahir enviously. Then, his eyes contracting as the full implications of what Trevor had said sunk into his head, he asked in a sharper voice, "You haven't ever influenced my mind, have you?"
"No, I haven't and your question was exactly why I looked depressed, Zahir, because the last friend I confided my secret to decided that he never wanted to talk to me or meet my gaze ever again," Trevor informed him softly. "I don't like to tell people that I have such a Gift, because I don't want to make them believe that I am slipping into their brains and compelling them to like me or anything similiar. I also don't enjoy using my Gift. It feels dishonest, and so I much prefer employing wit or genuine emotion to convince others that I am right, but, as I told you earlier, I will do what I must."
"I guess it is difficult having so much control over the minds of others," whispered Zahir, thinking of the mental power that the Voice wielded over the Bazhir. Then, more firmly, he added, "Anyway, I will also do what I must."
It was this assertion that repeated over and over in his brain the next evening as he clambered out of the window of his bedroom, grabbed onto a vine of ivy stretching down the villa's side, and began to shimmy down it, bracing his feet against the wall for support. As he moved through the black, damp air with only a prickly vine to hold him up, he tried not to consider how far beneath him the ground was located while at the same time reminding himself that no matter how much some of the leaves dug into his flesh, he would not relinquish his grip on the vine.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of climbing down the ivy, his feet touched the ground. Offering a quick, inward expression of gratitude to Mithros, Zahir glanced to his right and saw Trevor awkwardly moving down another vine.
When Trevor had finished his slow journey down the ivy, the two of them set off down the street toward the Medica villa, Trevor commenting under his breath, "When I'm old, I'll blame a vast majority of my bone aches on that climb down that wretched vine, I assure you."
"Well, while you are complaining, be sure to mention that it was your genius that caused you to climb down the vine in the first place," Zahir hissed back as they arrived outside the gate to the Vox Populi's villa.
"What is your business?" demanded one of the sentries stationed outside the wrought-iron gate.
"We were invited to tonight's banquet," Trevor said, nodding politely at the sentinel.
"Names?" the guard asked, his gruff manner suggesting that he was one of the few individuals immune to Trevor's charm.
"Trevor of Marsh and Zahir ibn Alhaz," responded Trevor, smiling. "We are members of the Tortallan delegation."
"Humph," the sentry grunted. "Are you the two members the others told us were sick?"
"Yes." Trevor grimaced, placing a hand against his stomach. "We ate tainted calamari in the marketplace, and earlier this evening, we experienced severe gastro-intestinal distress. However, we are feeling much better now, and we wanted nothing more than to celebrate our restored health with a visit to your master."
"My master will be delighted." Finally, the skeptical sentinel nodded and the guards admitted them onto the expansive, verdant grounds of the Medica villa.
As they strode up the pathway to the villa, Zahir muttered, "That was the easy part."
"The easy part definitely wasn't climbing down the ivy," Trevor mumbled as they walked into the entrance hall, where a pair of guards were on duty.
"We have an important meeting with the Vox Populi," announced Trevor to the sentries in a voice as smooth as silk and as sweet as honey, waving his hands so that a faint, almost invisible olive green glow flared between his fingers and then disappeared. "It would be best if we waited in his study."
"You have an important meeting with the Vox Populi," echoed the sentries in unison, their eyes glazing over. "It would be best if you waited in his study on the second floor four doors down."
Flushed with their victory but taking care not to act suspicious by hurrying away, Zahir and Trevor walked as sedately as possible up the grand staircase on the far side of the entrance hall. However, once he was confident that they were out of the earshot of the guards, Zahir murmured in Trevor's ear, "That trick of yours is quite useful. Is it really too late for me to develop a Gift?"
"I'm afraid that a second after your conception, it was too late." Trevor chuckled as they stepped onto the second floor landing and progressed down an art-lined corridor to Giovanni Medica's office.
As they arrived outside the Vox Populi's study, Trevor's amusement died, and Zahir felt the fear he had been trying to ignore all night churn inside him. His palms sweaty, he reached out and twisted the handle only to discover that the door was locked. Not exactly astonished by this fact, he fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a hairpin that he had stolen from Myra earlier that day.
Although his fingers were clammier than he would have liked, Zahir was able to unlock the door without much difficulty. A minute later, he was slipping into the study through the newly opened door.
"I'll stand sentry for you outside," Trevor told him.
Nodding, he shut the door silently and tiptoed over to the desk. Once there, he took a deep breath, acknowledging that by breaking into the Tyran leader's office and stealing a scroll of valuable governmental information he was about to dive into an ocean of insanity that he wouldn't be able to swim out of for a very long time if he was fortunate and that he might drown in if he wasn't. Deciding to take the plunge anyway since self-preservation obviously wasn't an area in which he excelled, he pulled out the top drawer and removed the scroll the Hibrus had described for him.
As he tucked the scroll into his pocket along with the hairpin and crossed over to the door, Zahir thought that stealing from Giovanni Medica and betraying Jonathan of Conte wasn't as hard as most people would have imagined.
"Let's get out of here before our luck shifts," he said to Trevor, as he closed the study door in his wake.
"You've never had a cleverer idea in your life," Trevor educated him dryly as they busted down the hallway toward the stairwell.
Zahir's heart pounded anxiously with every step he took down the stairs to the entrance hall, and the tension coiled in his muscles did not unwind as the two of them made their way into the teeming banquet hall, which was packed with dancing couples.
After a few moments of searching, Zahir found Beniamino standing beside a refreshment table, sipping from a teacup. As he reached for a pastry, Zahir slipped the scroll into Beniamino's pocket, and, biting into the dessert, whispered, "Here's a present for you."
"Thank you." Beniamino kept his focus riveted on the whirling dancers, and, following his gaze, Zahir was relieved to see that Trevor had already faded into the partying crowd. "I wasn't sure you'd be able to offer me your gift. More than half of the Hibru guards we were relying upon didn't show up tonight, but at least Marietta has drawn Giovanni Medica away from the banquet hall."
"More than half the Hibru guards haven't shown up?" Zahir frowned. "That's awful. Something must have gone horribly awry. Do you think that Giovanni Medica suspects—"
"I think that you have done more than enough for the Hibru cause already." Beniamino patted his wrist. "If the Hibrus are to fall tonight, my young friend, there is no reason why you should go plummeting down with us. You've spent more than enough time fetching a refreshment now. Go speak with some loyal Tyrans before suspicion falls upon you."
Hating every component of his craven, traitorous body, Zahir approached a trio of Tyran merchants arguing vociferously about whether Yamani rice was a better investment than Carthaki grain and feigned an intense interest in their debate. The Tyran merchants were all puce with fervor and wine when a sudden silence in which nobody seemed to inhale or exhale fell over the hall as Givoanni Medica flanked by several squads of sentinels and a half-naked Marietta marched into the room.
"This evening, a group of vile, unfaithful Hibrus, showing an utter lack of appreciation for the many bounties my generosity has already bestowed upon them, sought to overthrow me," Giovanni Medica raged, his jowls aquiver. Over the exclamations of shock and horror from his Tyran guests, he continued to seethe, "Many of those who plotted against me have already been arrested and await a brutal public execution that will demonstrate quite plainly what happens to those who dare to betray me. Those of you who have committed treason against me may either surrender to my mercy or can further incite my ire by fighting those guards who will move to arrest you now."
On the final words, the banquet hall descended into pandemonium as Giovanni Medica's sentries, who had encircled the Hibru guards and Beniamino during the Vox Populi's speech, attacked the Hibrus. The Hibrus, apparently not about to trust in the mercy of a tyrant, drew their weapons.
As the hall filled with the sounds of shouting merchants and clashing swords, Zahir, aware that he could not openly combat Giovanni Medica's men, crept through the oddest battlefield he had ever encountered. Dodging waving swords, flying fists, and kicking legs, he reached Marrieta, who had not been assaulted by the Vox Populi's guards.
"Filthy traitor," he spat at her.
"Not to you; you aren't even a Hibru," she snapped.
"Neither are you," he snarled, his hand darting instinctively to his hilt.
"Good, because I despise the Hibrus and detest the Hibru blood that flows in my veins," screamed Marietta. "The fact that Giovanni will give me my own villa as a reward for betraying the Hibrus is just a nice bonus."
"How many Hibrus will die so you can have your own stupid villa?" growled Zahir.
A flaming fury consumed his brain, and it was this fire that drew his sword from his scabbard.
He was so fixated on chopping off Marietta's vain, greedy head so she would never enjoy the villa she had purchased with Hibru blood that he did not see one of Giovanni Medica's men surge forward to protect her. Nor did he spot the fact that the sentinel's blade would have passed through his chest from behind.
Yet, he heard a wild cry that prompted him to pivot in time for him to see Trevor collapse, clutching a crimson wound where he had taken the sentry's blow for Zahir. He did see Trevor's head turn toward him, his cheek against the cold floor. He did see the cloudy film in Trevor's eyes, the shock of being pierced by the sword. He did see Trevor gathering his courage, as though it were a physical struggle, to accept the hit.
He saw all this, and he felt the moment careen out of control into impossible time, which froze everything, even his heart. Shoving his sword back into its scabbard, he dropped to his knees beside Trevor, hunching over the other teenager as if he could protect Trevor from a disaster that had already struck. The knowledge that Trevor was terribly injured choked him as he clutched Trevor's hand and received only a feeble twitch of frigid fingers as an answering squeeze.
For an instant, hope surged in Zahir's veins as the haze around Trevor's eyes faded, and the other boy whispered, "Peace be with you."
The next second, his hope was transformed into soul-crushing despair when Trevor's muscles stiffened, the last flutter of breath left Trevor's lungs and was not replaced, and the little heat remaining in Trevor's skin disappeared entirely. Trying not to look at the blank, lifeless green eyes that had once been so vivacious and so sparkling with wit, Zahir heard Trevor's last words rise like a battle cry inside his head: "Peace be with you."
Oh, but there was no peace to be had in a world without Trevor, and there could be no justice when Trevor had been allowed to perish in his place. There could only be wrath and vengeance, but if it was revenge he sought, he would have to kill himself and the guard for murdering Trevor, and, somehow, Zahir knew that Trevor wouldn't have wanted any killing to be done in his name. Trevor would wish for life, not death, as a monument to his life and his death. Trevor would say that there had been enough death and destruction tonight without Zahir running around on a murderous rampage.
Of course, Trevor was no longer alive to say anything, and that simple fact caused Zahir to sob as he had never cried before. His wails rose and fell in an endless cycle of grief for himself, for Trevor, and for a world that was cold enough to kill a Trevor while allowing a Marietta or a Giovanni Medica to live.
As the tears streamed down his face, he could only think numbly that perhaps all the rules in the cruel, wintry world were vindicated if every act of defiance was punished with the destruction this night had been jammed with. If you broke the rules, he concluded on the verge of hysteria, then it was only fair that they ruined you in return.