War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) (2 page)

“About three thousand now.”

Iyasu nodded back.

Three thousand. And how many of them hope to become clerics? How many will succeed? And what will the others do in the face of that failure? Will they simply walk away? Can they? Can anyone just walk away from that much power?

Iyasu shook his head.

I suppose Faris could.

Shortly thereafter the two men came to a square just beyond the shadow of the eastern palace. In the center of the square was a wide fountain filled with crystal clear water, and standing in the center of that water was an enormous orange tree with such lush branches dripping with ripe fruits that the boughs hung nearly to the water’s surface, obscuring the view of the far side. But from across the way, Iyasu heard the voices of the young clerics-in-training, the next generation of Razielim sitting together, discussing some story, some parable, some tiny step forward in their education that might one day endow them with the power to preserve, and perhaps even to create, life.

They came around the fountain and saw the children sitting in a sun-drenched circle of soft grass beside the water. Iyasu stared darkly at their happy faces, seeing nothing in their eyes but wonder and joy, seeing faces constantly smiling, hearing voices constantly laughing as they shared their thoughts about the lesson.

Was I really like them once? God, what a world awaits them, ready to swallow them up and grind them into… red… wet…

And then the cleric looked up at their teacher.

The angel Raziel stood upon the surface of the fountain’s water with his six great wings stretched wide above him, shining like living crystal and running water and liquid fire all at once. In the crook of his arm rested his book, a massive tome that only he could open, that only he could read, a book rumored to contain all the secrets in God’s creation.

And he just holds it. Right there. For all to see. All the secrets in the universe, there for the asking, there for the taking, and yet there is no one asking or taking. No one demanding it, no one fighting for it. Anywhere else, that would be insane.

The angel turned to smile and nod at the new arrivals, and Iyasu bowed his head in return. A few minutes later the angel dismissed his students to go eat, or play, or whatever it was they wanted to do, and the children dashed off without another word of encouragement.

“Iyasu Sadik, seer of Shivala, lantern of the Arrahim, you are very welcome back to Naj Kuvari,” the angel said, inviting them to come and sit at the fountain’s edge. He spoke with a gentle, friendly voice that sounded young and perpetually amused, as though his thoughts were ever dwelling on some great joke he had heard long ago.

“Thank you.” Iyasu sat and gazed up at the calm features of the Angel of Life. He recalled all the years he had spent at the feet of Arrah, all the long days and nights spent in quiet discussion, in careful practice, in silent meditation. In that moment, he wished he could go back again and leave the world behind forever. Instead he sighed.

“Oh, Iyasu. Is it very bad?” Raziel asked simply.

“Yes.” The young seer turned away as the word caught in his aching throat and his eyes began to burn with shameful, angry tears. “But it’s going to get so much worse soon.”

“I see. Who should join us? Who should hear what you have to say?”

“Just Veneka, I think, unless you have other elders you think should hear about it.”

Raziel nodded. “Just Veneka for now. We can tell the others later, if need be.”

Zerai shrugged and strode out of the square, and he returned a few moments later with a tall woman at his side. Iyasu was glad to see that she hadn’t changed much either. Her hair still floated about her head in a lovely black nimbus, and the only real difference he saw in her was how healthy and strong she looked now compared to the emaciated young woman he had rescued from madness all those years ago. There was a quiet power about her now, in the way she moved, in the way she looked at him, and in the way she smiled at him as she rushed to embrace him.

Their reunion was brief, but very warm and he almost melted against her, remembering the days and the nights when she had held him, when he shook in terror at the sight of the demons and only she could keep him from screaming and pissing all over himself.

The moment passed and soon he was seated again and the time to speak finally arrived. He paused, uncertain how to begin now that he was actually looking into their expectant faces. He closed his eyes. Everything was a little easier when he closed his eyes. He didn’t have to see so much, or feel so much.

“Take your time,” Veneka said.

He began, “A little over a year ago, I was one of a dozen clerics sent from Shivala to the Navean kingdoms. We were invited to serve as advisors to various kings and ministers, and the Negus thought it would help to bring the eastern and western kingdoms closer together again. I went to Tagal, capital of Maqari, to serve the king but when I arrived, the king was dead and his son Faris was refusing to accept the crown.” Iyasu hesitated. “He’s an unusual man.”

“It takes all sorts.” Zerai shrugged.

Iyasu nodded slowly. “My first act as his counselor was to help Faris chose a replacement. We chose his cousin Simon. A month later, Simon was dead. Murdered in his own bed.”

Iyasu wet his lips and curled his hands into fists on his knees.

Simon. Simon was the first. The first of how many? How many of died because of me? How many more…?

“And then?” Veneka touched his hand.

“Then Prince Faris and I chose another king, his cousin Darius, a soldier. He seemed level-headed, clever, and popular. I looked at him, at his soul. He was so bright, so decent. I was sure of it. But…” Iyasu shook his head as his hands trembled in his lap. “The day after his coronation, Darius executed the minister of trade. And then the minister of war. He took off their heads with his own sword in the council chamber.”

Iyasu choked on the words as the memory splashed across his mind’s eye, blood trickling over the marble tiles as he stood there, staring in shock, in silence.

“Day after day, more people died,” Iyasu rasped. “Good people. People I’d just become friends with. Here one day, dead the next. All executed by Darius and his cronies.”

“Why?” Zerai asked quietly.

“He called them traitors.” Iyasu shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “But they weren’t. They were good people. Honest. Kind. Even stupid.” He gasped out a little laugh. “There wasn’t a shred of cruelty or deceit in any of their souls. I know. I saw.”

“And you chose this man to be king?” Veneka frowned at him.

“I know!” He squeezed his eyes shut again. “You don’t understand. When I first met Darius, when I studied him, he seemed… fine. Good. I don’t know. I don’t know how I could have been so wrong,” Iyasu whispered as the burning tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’ve never been so wrong about anyone before.”

“So what happened then? Did Prince Faris take back his crown?”

Iyasu shook his head. “Faris locked himself away in his estate outside the city and wouldn’t let me see him. The last note I got from him said that he trusted Darius and that I should too.”

“Coward,” Zerai muttered.

“Yes, he is.” Iyasu lifted his head and managed a sad smile. “And until that moment, I liked that about him. Faris is very gentle and kind, and so very afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing. Everything.” The seer sighed and wiped his face dry.

“So you left Maqari?”

“No, no. I stayed. I had to. I had to fix it.” Iyasu took a breath. “I had to fix him. I had to save the country. I had to do something. But Darius ignored me. Then he barred me from his meetings. And finally he threatened to kill me.”

Veneka’s eyes went wide.

“If I hadn’t been a cleric from Shivala, I think he would have done it, too.” Iyasu nodded. “I tried one last time to make him see sense, to make him stop the killings. He put his boot on my neck and told me I had until sunset to be out of his city.” He touched his neck. “He was crushing my throat. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to do anymore. So I ran.” The tears fell again, silent and unacknowledged. “I ran.”

“Come here.” Veneka put her arms around him and he leaned into her and let himself sob and shake in silence for a few moments. “It’s all right now.”

“It’s not all right,” he whispered between gasps as he clutched at her arm. “They’re dead. Don’t you understand? They’re all dead! All those men and women, so many good people, all dead, because of me. And they’re still dying in Maqari. He’s taxing the people of Ovati to death. They’re starving. Dying every day. And now he’s going to invade Elladi. God, he’s going to start a war…”

His body ceased to be his own and became a quivering vessel of pain. His chest was shaking so hard he couldn’t breathe, his eyes were clamped shut, and his mouth was open in a locked rictus of indescribable anguish.

This was where the gifts of Arrah became an unbearable curse, his ability to see the truth of things, to see the past and foresee likely futures, and to imagine the real world far beyond his senses. He could see the poor farmers of Ovati being beaten to death by the tax collectors, the farms burning, the livestock being stolen, the children crying over their parents’ corpses.

He could see the Maqari soldiers marching south toward Elladi, beautiful Elladi and its capital at Sabah, the city of a thousand bridges. The bridges would burn, the houses would burn, and the soldiers would enslave anyone they didn’t butcher. The dead would be burned in piles and buried in pits.

He could see the bodies, bloody and broken.

He could see the charred bones, the skulls.

He could see it all.

“Breathe, Iyasu, breathe!” Veneka shook him, pressing on his chest, filling him with the healing grace of Raziel, trying to take away his pain, trying to bring him back to her.

Bit by bit, she succeeded, until he collapsed in her lap, no longer frozen in pain and horror. He lay on her, shivering and wiping at his face.

“I’m so sorry, Iyasu,” Raziel said above the fountain. “Suffering and death, yet again, for such petty reasons. We have all seen this before, and sadly, we will see it again. I’m afraid we must hope that Darius’s conquest is swift and the suffering as small as possible.”

“It won’t be.” Iyasu massaged his aching head as he sat up. He felt drained and exhausted, but his mind was clearer than before. “There’s something else. Someone else. Someone is attacking Darius’s soldiers and destroying their barracks and supplies along the border between Maqari and Elladi. Darius is furious. He thinks Elladi is preparing for war, or even to invade Maqari. It’s made everything even worse. So now he won’t just ride into the capital at Sabah and kill the king. He’s going to storm across the entire country and burn it to the ground. He’ll parcel it out to his generals to set up little fiefdoms where the survivors will become slaves. And their children. And their children’s children. It’s going to be nothing but suffering and death for generations.”

And it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault…

“There has to be something we can do.” Zerai’s terse voice betrayed how much effort it took him to remain still and calm.

“Darius still needs to prepare his invasion, so we have some time. Days, maybe weeks. And we have something else.” Iyasu shivered and sat up straighter. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. “I’ve heard a rumor about these border attacks. It’s not an army. It’s not even bandits. It’s a lone Daraji woman. Just one, all alone.”

“Wait a second. You’re saying that a single woman is attacking Darius’s army? By herself? How is that even possible?” Zerai asked.

“And why has Darius not been able to stop her?” Veneka asked.

Iyasu nodded. “He’s tried. But the stories about this woman are… well, almost unbelievable. Destroying buildings with her bare hands, hurling armored men through the air. As strange as it may sound, I think she’s a Sophirim.”

“A rogue cleric on the warpath?” Zerai blinked. “Maybe we should be helping her.”

“No, we have to stop her,” Iyasu said. “She’s going to get everyone in Elladi killed, and then who will Darius turn against next? Naj Kuvari? Shivala itself? Open warfare between the west and east, slave armies dying by the thousands against the power of the clerics? No, we have to stop this, we have to stop it now, before it destroys us all.”

“All right, point taken, but still, how are we supposed to stop someone like that?” Zerai asked.

“You can’t,” Raziel said. “But I believe we can summon someone who can. Zerai, I will need the help of one of your falcons. Little Vashti should suffice.”

“Sure. Sending a message to the clerics in Shivala?”

“No, that would take too long. Odashena is much closer.”

“Odashena!” Zerai stared at the angel. “Why?”

“To summon the djinn, of course.”

Chapter 2
Zerai

Lying beside Veneka was his home. Not standing near her, or looking at her, or anything else. Just lying beside her, touching her hand and her leg with his hand and his leg. It was perfect.

The heat of her skin, the cold of her feet, the tickle of her hair in his face, the softness of her small breasts, the wonderful roundness of her hips, the hard muscles of her arms, and the slow, husky sound of her breathing. That was his home, and in that moment as he lay beside her, the rest of the world could burn for all he cared.

Well, maybe not burn. But it could go away and give us some privacy for a while.

Zerai lay there in his home and watched the morning sunlight slip into their room through the open window. Outside, the city of Naj Kuvari would awaken slowly, everything from the delicate blossoms to the hungry birds to the playful children gradually coming to life, bit by bit. Inside, they awoke just as slowly.

“Did you sleep?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“A little,” he whispered into her hair. “But you… you had the dream again.”

“Did I hit you?”

“A little. Are you all right?”