Memories Surface

“My lord, if I had known that our journey to Junar would require riding for weeks on horseback,” Vixin said breathlessly behind Gestarin. “I’m not entirely sure I would have chosen to accompany you.”

“Oh come now, Viceroy.” Gestarin called back as Roughdasher swayed beneath his body. “I thought you a man of quality. Surely you’ve ridden horses enough to grow fond of them.”

“Fond of them?” Vixin scoffed. “Is it possible to grow fond of a smelly, sweaty, mess of a beast?” Swiftflyer whinnied in response, almost like a complaint. She had been reluctant to leave Matrikai, and it had taken a half hour of soothing words from Riina to allow Vixin to even hold her reins. Indeed, Gestarin had to speak some soothing words himself to allow Riina to let him go on this journey.

“This is madness.” Riina had raged, pacing back and forth in the royal bedroom. “Why would you want to go to the people that are trying to kill you? Why would you risk your life needlessly?”

“I am not risking my life needlessly.” Gestarin pleaded. “The Imperial Houses would not risk killing me in their own country, in their own company. Such an act would throw too much blame on them.”

“You think that they will be open about it?” Riina screeched, her voice rising to dangerous levels. Jiriinii could almost certainly hear her all the way in Valanal. “They will knife you in an alleyway and blame it on a cutpurse. Aia above, you’ll probably be dead before you even reach the gates of Yijiiru!”

“Riina,” Gestarin said softly. “I have been through worse.” He fingered his Bloodblade. “And I shall not be defenseless.” He got up from the bed and walked over to his worried wife, grasping her trembling hands in his. “I will be safe.”

“And what if you won’t?” Riina said, tears falling from her face. “What if I will not only lose two of my children, I will also lose my husband? My king?”

“Trust me, my love.” Gestarin said, touching his lips softly to her brow. He pulled her into a close embrace, holding back tears even as she wept openly against his chest. “Trust me.”

Even now, ten leagues and two days into their journey, Gestarin worried if he had made the right decision. What if she was right? Yijiiru was sure to be a hotbed of corruption and intrigue, especially once the King of Glausiania arrived. He very well could be dead two months from now.

Forcing those thoughts away, Gestarin looked back at Vixin, squinting his eyes against the setting sun. The Viceroy was a strange sight against the rolling green grass of the Southern Plains. He had dressed in a bright yellow doublet with tan trousers that fit snugly against his legs. He wore a strange, flowing piece of cloth that wrapped around his head, obscuring everything but his eyes.

“What are you wearing that for, Viceroy?” Gestarin said with a raised eyebrow and an amused expression. “I’m almost certain that no one will recognize you, even without that thing on your head.”

“This isn’t for my reputation, your majesty.” Vixin laughed. “It keeps the sun off my head and allows the breeze to cool my head as my sweat dampens the cloth.” He looked up at the sky. “It is summer, after all.”

“If you say so, Viceroy.” Gestarin said, looking down at his own brown doublet and black trousers. “I’d rather look like a normal man, but I suppose to each his own.”

“Excuse me, your majesty,” Vixin said with feigned indignance. “But have you lived in the Quasexan deserts?” He squinted at the sun. “Question me again in a few hours. I may even have a spare one you can use.”

“When that time comes, Viceroy,” Gestarin laughed. “I may allow you to say ‘I told you so’.”

As the hours wore on, and they found no shade for respite, the sun beat down upon Gestarin’s head. Sweat began to pour in rivulets down his head, and he found himself drinking often from the waterskin on Roughdasher’s side. His lips and mouth tasted overly salty, and his tongue perpetually felt like sandpaper. He refused to look back at Vixin, though he could almost feel the man’s smug grin boring into the back of his neck. Eventually, he look back at Vixin with chagrin.

“I did tell you so, your majesty.” Vixin said with an absolutely straight face.

“That you did.” Gestarin said, wheeling Roughdasher back to graciously accept a head covering from Vixin. Gestarin noted the fact that Efstany wore one as well, apparently slightly more intelligent than his king. Gestarin was surprised to see that the quiet servant was able to keep up with the other two, especially considering the fact that he was on foot even as Gestarin and Vixin rode on horses.

“Efstany,” Gestarin said, and the man looked up. His feet moved flawlessly over the rocky ground, giving him the illusion of floating over the path. He was moving at the same pace as the trotting horses. “Why did you refuse a mount for this journey?”

“I do not trust horses, my lord.” The servant said in the quiet, intense manner that defined him. “They always get skittish, frightened around me. Best to keep well away.”

“How are you able to compensate, though?” Gestarin questioned, nodding at the man’s feet. Efstany looked down, though his steps were not interrupted in any way.

“I have always loved running, my lord.” He said with a shrug. “I have built up a fair amount of skill for it.” His lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Best to do what one is good at, true?”

“He has a fair point, your majesty.” Vixin laughed.

“That he does.” Gestarin said. “That he does.”

The journey was rather monotonous, and the days began to blur together. Riding through the Southern plains for days on end reminded Gestarin why he hated the sight of endless green grass. All the emptiness and dull tedium of the rolling hills set his teeth on edge. At the very least, he knew that no assassins could be hiding between the blades of the scant foliage.

As the days turned into weeks, however, Gestarin could no longer ignore the black wall that began to truly loom over the party. Outside of Matrikai, Gestarin could allow himself to ignore the Void. It was merely a strip of shadow that rose infinitely into the sky, nothing more. Here, however, he could not deny its terrifying presence. Too many memories returned as they drew nearer.

“What do you suppose it is?” Vixin asked, craning his neck to follow it up to the heavens. “I mean, what it really is. Not what the Harvesters say.”

“Well,” Gestarin said, swallowing hard at the sight of the dark walls rising up on the horizon. “The Harvesters say it’s the presence of Oio in the world. Aia created Oaiao, and Oio created the Void to counteract it.” He shrugged. “I have no better argument.”

“I wonder who first thought that Oio created the Void.” Efstany said softly, staring up at the infinite wall. “I would like to have a frank discussion with them about theology and swordplay.” Gestarin and Vixin looked at each other before turning to stare at Efstany with confused expressions.

“Efstany,” Gestarin said. “I do believe that is the first violent thought to ever cross your mind since we left on this journey.”

“I think you’re right, your majesty.” Vixin said with an amused expression. “We appear to have a budding warrior on our hands.”

“Well, make sure to keep him in check, Viceroy.” Gestarin said with a laugh. “We wouldn’t want him to slit our throats in the middle of the night, now would we?” They both laughed, and in their mockery, they failed to notice Efstany’s expression turn dark.

That night, as they made camp, Efstany approached Gestarin as he gathered fuel for the fire.

“My lord,” He said, ever subservient and ever enigmatic. “I would appreciate if you and the Viceroy would not make jokes about the slitting of throats in the night.” Gestarin looked up from the dry grass he was cutting, and he put his knife down.

“Is there something wrong, Efstany?” He said earnestly. He stood up and brushed off his trousers.

“Yes, my lord.” Efstany nodded. “Though I feel it is not my place to say it.”

“Please, say anything you wish.” Gestarin said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He marveled at the man’s strength; his shoulder muscles almost seemed to be raised inches above his skin. “We have no secrets here.”

“Well,” Efstany said slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. “My lord, I have had a troubled past.”

“As a carpenter?” Gestarin scoffed. “I should be amused to know what a troubled past for a carpenter entails.” He laughed. “Did you happen to dally with the cooper’s daughter when you were young by chance?”

“I was not always a carpenter, my lord.” Efstany replied with a shake of the head. “Carpentry was merely the simplest occupation that I could put my… skill set to work for.” He was silent for a moment.

“Speak, man!” Gestarin cried, breaking the silence. “Not only am I now curious, I also realize that you have something to confess. I do not wish for you to be burdened by this. I do not wish for it to compensate your ability to serve me. So, speak!”

Efstany looked startled at the vehemence of Gestarin’s outburst, but he began to speak. “When I was a child, your majesty, I lived in western Quasexa. Specifically, I lived near the Barabak Wall.” Gestarin’s eyes darkened at this statement, but he made no speech or gesture, so Efstany continued. “I always admired the soldiers who came to our village, telling wild tales of the savages of the Wastes beyond or the valor of the soldiers who protected us. My parents ran a tavern, you see, and though their stories were usually just a way to impress the serving maids, I was entranced by their words.”

“So you enlisted.” Gestarin said with a sigh. He knew this tale. Efstany would say that he enlisted, served his time, and settled down as a carpenter. Typical for Barabak soldiers, and almost all considered their time as a soldier a “troubled past”.

“No, my lord.” Efstany said quietly, and Gestarin started. That was unexpected. “I wanted to, do not misunderstand, but my parents would have none of it. They disapproved of the soldiers and their work, and they forbade me from listening to the men and their wild stories.”

“And you disobeyed.” Gestarin said.

“Correct.” Efstany nodded. “No matter what, I could not shake the feelings of glory I felt when the soldiers told of their days on the Wall. I snuck out at night to their rooms, where I would stay, sometimes until the setting sun, listening to their battles and defenses. I must have heard every story at least three times each, and they never got old. This went on for years, even.

“Until, one day, when I was eighteen, I woke up in the middle of the night to someone screaming. A woman, from the sound of it. She was screaming loud, and it was coming from one of the soldier’s rooms. So, quick as a whip, I grabbed my father’s sword from off of the wall and I ran as fast as I could to the source of the girl’s screams.” He fell silent, and the only sound that could be heard was the wind and Efstany’s ragged breathing.

“Go on.” Gestarin said gently. Efstany nodded, tears slipping out of his eyes and falling on the parched grass.

“A soldier had broken into my sister’s room.” Efstany said, almost too quiet to be heard. “He was on her bed, holding something against her chest. All the while, my sister screamed and screamed.” Gestarin froze, all the blood draining from his face. This story was too familiar, too memorable for him to have heard it before. So why had he?

Carnidoni. He thought to himself. This sounds much like that man, Radiran.

“Almost as soon as I walked into the room, my sister’s screaming stopped, and the man jumped off the bed.” Efstany continued, oblivious to Gestarin’s reaction. “He was holding this enormous sword, as long his arm, that was curved and sharp.” He made the shape of a sickle in the air. “Like that.”

Eliran's Sickle. Gestarin thought.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Efstany choked out, tears falling freely down his cheeks now. “I was a boy of eighteen, holding a sword that I could barely use. And yet, one of the men I loved, honored, adored, had just murdered my sister. So, I charged him.”

“And?” Gestarin whispered, terrified at the answer.

“Nothing.” Efstany said. “Before I even took two steps, there were three other men in the room. They wore all black, and they almost were like shadows. Light seemed to be pushed away from them.” He shuddered. “And they all had four spikes on their arms.”

Flens. Gestarin thought. This man has seen a Flen and lived.

* * *

Efstany talked as fast as he could, as fast as the memories rose to his mind. He did not know where they were coming from; he did not care. Here was some remnant of his former life, a fragment of his past, and he would cherish it for as long as it was possible. The lies that Vixin had taught him were now mixing with the truth, and he could no longer tell one from the other.

“They spoke in dark tones to the soldier, rebuking him for his abuse of Aia’s power.” He continued, oblivious of the tears that poured over his face. He recognized the emotion, treasured it even, but he could not stop talking. “They each wielded a sword much like the one the soldier had, but they were different. Hooked. Serrated. Evil.”

“Did they kill him?” The king asked quietly. Efstany didn’t acknowledge him. He wasn’t talking to the king anymore, he was talking to the world. The Void. He was trying to take back what the Void had stolen from him.

“He tried to fight, leaping at the man in black.” He rambled. “The man parried faster than anything I had ever seen. Just as quickly, he stabbed his Blade through the soldier’s chest and back out again, blood spraying everywhere. ‘Aia’s justice is served,’ he said. I don’t know what he meant.”

“What happened next?” Gestarin probed breathlessly.

“And then they turned on me.” Efstany whispered. “They turned toward me, Blades gleaming. ‘You are part of this, little one,’ one of them said quietly. ‘For that, we are deeply sorry.’”

Suddenly, the memories ran out.

* * *

Gestarin stood staring at Efstany, scarcely able to breathe. The man had been speaking so quietly, so intensely, and now he had stopped. He had stopped at perhaps the most climactic moment. Gestarin felt like a child hanging on the words of a great bard, anxious to hear the glorious ending.

“What happened then?” Gestarin asked sharply.

“I…” Efstany said, wiping tears from his face. He stuttered out a few more syllables, unable to get any words out. “I cannot speak of it. Please.”

“It’s alright.” Gestarin said comfortingly, stepping forward and embracing the man. Efstany stiffened in response, but he soon returned the embrace. Gestarin didn’t care about propriety, about what the Harvesters called the “proper relationship of master and servant”. All he saw was a man in need of comfort, and by Aia, he would comfort him!

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Efstany said as they pulled away from each other. “I should not have been so emotional.”

“Nonsense.” Gestarin scoffed. “You needed to remove a burden that you had been carrying. There is no dishonor in that.”

“Tis true, my lord.” Efstany agreed. He cracked a smile, his white teeth glittering in the phantom moonlight. “Though I could have done it with far less rivers running down my face.”

Gestarin laughed. “Some men say that true men never show their emotions. I say different. I say true men are brave enough to show their emotions, and you are one of the truest men I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Efstany said with a small bow. “That speaks directly to my heart.”

“You are very welcome, Efstany.” Gestarin smiled. “Now, let us return to camp before Vixin has time to rebuke us for our long absence.” They returned to their camp and laughed at Vixin’s outraged face, a consequence of their absence. They laughed long into the night.

As the days and weeks wore on, the company began to grow closer to one another. Efstany’s conversation with Gestarin seemed to have a profound effect on the morale of the group, and they began to form a bond of brotherhood between the three of them. Efstany began to smile more often, even laughing at the jokes Vixin and Gestarin endlessly shared. Humor seemed to be the way the king and the Viceroy both communicated, and hours passed on lazily as each told different riddles and jokes. Gestarin was even able to forget about the Void looming over them, no matter how much of the horizon the black expanse filled.

Eventually, something else began to appear on the horizon. What started out as a small black point grew as the company moved onward, expanding into towers and buildings. After a few days, cobblestone walls could be spotted flying a bright green flag with the sigil of House Yijin, the imperial family of Junar, emblazoned boldly across the fabric.

Gestarin calmly reigned in Roughdasher and wheeled around to face the other two men.

“Gentlemen,” He began. “Have either of you ever had the occasion to visit Yijiiru?” They both shook their heads.

“Is there something we need to know?” Vixin asked, nodding at the city that lay at the bottom of their hill.

“There are many things that I wish I had remembered to tell you.” Gestarin sighed. “But there is no time now. For now, I want you to know one simple thing.” He looked both of his companions sternly in the eye, demanding their attention. “No one in the city of Yijiiru is to be trusted. Not the beggar on the street, not the captain of the guard, not even the emperor himself.”

“What kind of city would require this caution?” Efstany said, looking at the walls and paling.

“Yijiiru is the most corrupted city on Oaiao.” Gestarin said. “Though they may claim to uphold honor and dignity, it’s merely a facade they use to distract the world from the true degradation in their streets. Nearly everyone you will meet, if they are not actively working at a trade, is either a cutpurse or a Bedseller.”

“Blasphemy.” Efstany whispered. “Aia would not allow men to live like that.”

“I don’t know what Aia would or would not allow.” Gestarin said darkly. “All I know is what this city is, and I am warning you. Do not trust anyone you meet, and be very aware of your surroundings.”

“Sounds like someone needs to take a bit o’ their own advice, mate.” A rough, roguish voice said from behind them. All three men whirled around to see a man, dressed in a black cloak that dragged against the road, walking towards them with a large grin on his face. Behind him were two equally strange men with the same grins, though these two men were holding large weapons. One held a vicious double-bladed battle axe, and the other held a large mace on a chain.

“Oh, don’t worry, your majesty.” The man said gaily. “We aren’t here to kill you. We’re just here to take all your belongings. Clothes, horses, gold, supplies.” His smile grew even wider. “And your Bloodblades.”

With that, he reached to his left wrist and ripped out the spike that protruded from it. Blood flowed out of his veins and coalesced into twin blades, curved and vicious. Gestarin groaned inwardly and rubbed his temples. He had allowed a Falconeye to sneak up on them, outside of the most evil city on the face of the earth.

Aia above. Gestarin thought to himself. Why do I never listen to my wife?