The City of Pillars Page 8

  A thought struck him as he watched Shadya return the veil to her face. “Put your head covering on,” he told Andrasta.

  “We aren’t in Zafar.”

  “Zafar isn’t the only place that looks down on women showing their face and dressing like you do.”

  “I’m sick of pretending to be something I’m not. Let anyone who has a problem with the way I dress tell me to my face.”

  “Just put your head covering on. You can’t fight an entire town. And even if you can, what good would it serve? You aren’t going to change thousands of years of culture in a day. Certainly not by slaying anyone who simply wants you to abide by their laws in their lands.”

  She muttered something Rondel could not make out, but obliged all the same, draping her head and face in a gutrah, a male head covering of white cloth.

  Shadya quickly led the wagon past the men working the river. They were too caught up in their catch to do more than glance in their direction. Rondel decided that was for the best. Unsure how far word about their crimes in Zafar had traveled, he wanted to get in and out of Hegra as quickly as possible.

  On the other side of a small cluster of olive trees, the road opened wider and Hegra came into view.

  Similar to Zafar, its tightly packed buildings of limestone and sandstone stood haphazardly with very little thought to how the narrow streets and paths would connect with each other. Unlike larger cities, buildings rose two stories at best, with most consisting of only a single floor.

  “How many live here?” Rondel asked.

  “Less than a thousand,” said Shadya.

  “Multiple sources of food. Water. Even a natural beauty rare in this country. It makes me wonder why there aren’t more people here. It’s certainly better than the crowded Zafar.”

  Andrasta snorted.

  “What was that for?”

  “It was a good observation. It gives me hope you aren’t completely blind to your surroundings yet.”

  He scowled at her as she glanced at Shadya’s back.

  Rolling into town, heads poked out of windows and figures, mostly female, appeared in open doorways. Each carried a clay container under an arm or roped over a shoulder. Their postures were not inviting. The mood softened slightly by the time they reached the center of town as several children wearing wide smiles came out to meet them. They talked so quickly that Rondel could barely track the dozens of questions. He answered a few of the simpler ones and ignored the rest.

  Shadya pulled the wagon up to a building prominently positioned off the main road. A large sign hung over the wide doorway, signifying it as a trading post, a place to buy supplies. Even if someone did not have a grasp of the Erban language, the assortment of items for purchase displayed on tables in front clearly indicated what it was.

  The children dispersed as Andrasta jumped out of the wagon.

  “Quite the touch with the young ones,” Rondel quipped, trying to add some levity to the recent tension in their relationship.

  “It’s a gift,” Andrasta grunted and in a wistful tone added. “Maybe I’ll have a few one day.”

  Rondel cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Gods no.”

  He chuckled at the woman’s rare joke.

  He climbed off the wagon and helped Shadya down while Andrasta went to tie the camel to a post. The beast shuffled backward as she grabbed the reins.

  “He doesn’t like to be tied,” said Shadya.

  Andrasta yanked at the leather. “And I don’t like to have my actions dictated by a camel.”

  The camel pulled back sharply, jerking Andrasta to the side.

  “Athar will be fine. I never tie him,” said Shadya.

  “I’m not you.” She jerked the reins hard and looped it around the post.

  The camel groaned and pushed Andrasta with his head, knocking her back. Andrasta sneered and slapped Athar across the cheek.

  The animal made a strange noise in its throat that cut off quickly as Andrasta pressed her dagger against the soft skin beneath one of the animal’s black eyes. “You seem smarter than most of your kind. Do not test me unless you want to pull this wagon blind.”

  “Is everything all right out here?”

  Rondel turned to the doorway of the local store. A heavily built man of medium height stood in the entrance. He wore the traditional white robes of most males in Erba as well as the typical gutrah to cover the top of his head. A thick beard framed the man’s round face. He held his lips tight, but smiled with his eyes.

  “Everything’s fine,” Rondel answered, knowing that as a man, he would be expected to speak. And having Andrasta say more than a few words, will only have people question her disguise. “Just a little trouble with our camel.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I see. Can I help you with anything?”

  “We’re looking for supplies.”

  The man’s face brightened. “You’ve come to the right place. My name is Fikri. Please come inside.”

  From outside, the shop looked no wider than the other buildings around it. Inside, the space went deeper than Rondel expected. Rows of long tables stood in the space’s center while floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls.

  Fikri did his best to steer them toward the most expensive items, things they had no use for such as decorative pieces of pottery.

  “See this one. It was crafted by the hands of an old blind woman right here in Hegra. Look at the detail. Even with her blindness, she was able to capture the great battle that took place in the City of Pillars as though she was there herself.” He chuckled to himself. “As old as she is, she actually might have been.”

  Though he had no intention of buying the container, Rondel accepted it for inspection so as not to offend Fikri. While he doubted the work had been done by an old blind woman, he had to admit the impressiveness of its detail. Even with his limited knowledge of the Erban pantheon, he recognized many of the gods and goddesses involved in the battle that was said to have occurred thousands of years ago.

  “What is this battle?” Andrasta asked, masking her voice.

  Fikri raised an eyebrow in surprise. His expression softened. “I forget that not all foreigners know our history.” He paused, accepting the vase back from Rondel and setting it down on a table. “It was a battle among the gods themselves. The battle. It decided who would rule, who would obey, and who would be damned for eternity.”

  Rondel repressed a smile. He was not as familiar with Erban religion, but he already felt like he had heard the story that was about to be told for every culture has their battle involving the gods.

  “How did it begin?” Andrasta surprisingly continued.

  Fikri nodded. “The Father, the great Hubul, had a son. No one knows his name. Hubul, in his wisdom, struck it from memory as part as his son’s punishment. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Hubul had many sons and many daughters, and all had their own aspirations. But none sought to rule over their father as this one did. Through lies, deceit, and treachery this son won many allies to his side including several siblings. When he felt he was at his strongest, he mounted an attack against Hubul while his father sat upon the throne.

  “Hubul survived and managed to rally against this son. Their battles were so great, it shook the heavens until the gods themselves fell from the sky, finishing their war in what was once the great City of Pillars. Hundreds of thousands died in the destruction. Rivers dried up and most of Erba became the harsh desert you see today.”

  “What happened in the aftermath?” asked Rondel. The tale had taken on a different spin than the ones he was accustomed to.

  “Hubul elevated those who came to his aid, giving them more prominence in his court. And after punishing those that fought against him, he eventually forgave and restored some with reduced power. He stripped his son of his name and never forgave his son’s staunchest supporters. Today, the son is known simply as Nasnas.”

  “What does Nasnas mean?” asked Rondel, unfamiliar with the term.


  “It means “a part of” or “half.” Fikri shrugged. “I’m not sure why that’s the name given to him. I assume it has to do with him having fallen so low that he is not even half of what he once was. Others believe that he was actually a bastard, a son sired with a human. Therefore, the name would be thought of as an insult.”

  “Some believe that Nasnas acted admirably,” said Shadya, speaking softly. It was the first time she had spoken since coming to Hegra and her voice held a hint of frustration in it. “That he, in fact, was trying to create equality among the gods as well as raise up the humans. Some believe that Nasnas attacked his father because he had no other choice.”

  Fikri raised an eyebrow at her, but then waved a hand dismissively. “Those tales are foolishness. Old lies that very few believe. It’s a wonder they’ve lingered on this long.”

  Though Shadya’s veil still covered her face, Rondel could see she wanted to say more. Yet, she bowed her head and began examinging another piece of pottery.

  “Now,” said Fikri, once more picking up the vase. “Shall I add this to your purchases?”

  “It’s a beautiful piece and under normal circumstances, I’d say yes. However, we’re trying to keep to only what is necessary.”

  “I see. Where did you say you were going again?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Fikri gave Rondel an odd look. Then a smile slowly crawled across his face. “As you wish. A man is more than free to keep his plans to himself. Some say it’s most wise.”

  Fikri placed the vase down once more and walked to the front of his shop, moving behind a counter while Andrasta hauled up goods she wished to purchase. Among other things, she plopped down rope, canvas, a spyglass, and a set of throwing knives. Rondel made accommodations to buy water as well as some dried horse meat.

  Shadya gave Rondel money for the purchases and then stepped outside. Andrasta followed while hauling things to the wagon.

  After a bit of haggling, something expected for the region, Rondel settled the bill, feeling like he had only been partially taken advantage of. He paid Fikri three silver yinars and received two bronze girsh in change.

  Rondel tucked the coins away.

  “Thank you for your business.”

  “And thank you for not robbing me blind.”

  Fikri offered a wink. “Who’s to say I didn’t?” He walked around the counter and shook Rondel’s hand. “Have a safe journey.”

  “Thank you.” Rondel decided that since their conversations had been light-hearted he would ask a question that had been niggling at him. “Hegra is a beautiful place. Better than most I’ve seen in Erba.”

  Fikri nodded, a look of pride shined brightly on his face. “Yes, it is.”

  “Then why do so few people live here? With the river nearby, I would have thought this place would be as large as Thaj.”

  Fikri’s pleasant expression faded to concern. He spoke in a calm voice, but it lacked the genuine sincerity it held earlier. “Who’s to say what goes on in the minds of others?” He placed a hand on Rondel’s shoulder and hastened him along. “Come, let me walk you to your wagon. The least I can do is see off my best customer in days. Besides, you’ll need a hand getting some of the things loaded.”

  They stepped outside under a canvas hung over the shop’s entranceway. It blocked the sun’s harsh rays.

  “Your camel looks nervous, almost excited,” observed Fikri.

  Athar shuffled back and forth while shaking its long neck. Garbled growls and odd moans followed. “I believe you’re right.”

  “They’re strange creatures and the noises they make are often the strangest part.”

  Rondel shrugged. He was no expert on camels. He turned his attention to the wagon.

  Andrasta wasn’t in sight, but she had gotten all of their supplies loaded with the exception of the water. A moment later she rolled a wooden barrel around the corner of the shop, stopping at the foot of the wagon.

  Fikri stepped forward. “Let me give you a hand with that.”

  Andrasta paid the man no mind, flipping the barrel upright, squatting down, and wrapping her arms around it in a giant bear hug. With a grunt, she lifted it into the back of the wagon and then slid it toward the center.

  “By Hubul, your friend is strong,” Fikri whispered back to Rondel.

  Despite all that Rondel had seen Andrasta do in the last year, he too was impressed by the show of strength.

  Those things are close to three hundred pounds.

  Fikri went over to Andrasta, talking as though she was a man, telling her that she should return in a month when the men would hold a competition of strength. He said good money could be made, especially if one was careful about setting up their bets.

  She deepened her voice again, turning away and mumbling. “We’ll be busy.”

  Rondel had a strange feeling he couldn’t quite place. His chest itched as he looked around. “Where’s Shadya?”

  “I thought she went back inside with you,” said Andrasta.

  “No.”

  Andrasta shrugged.

  “We must find your wife,” said Fikri, looking around nervous.

  “She’s not my wife. Just a friend,” said Rondel.

  He winced, realizing the error of admitting that. A woman traveling with two men, neither of whom she was married to, just wasn’t done in Erba.

  Fikri gave him a disapproving look. “Regardless, it’s not safe to be outside alone.”

  Athar let out another long low moan.

  “What do you mean?” asked Andrasta.

  Fikri ignored the question. “Come. Perhaps she went around the other side of the building.”

  They made a lap around the building but found no sign of Shadya. Shouting her name warranted no response.

  By the time they returned to the wagon, Athar was yanking on his reins, shaking the post Andrasta had tied him to. A growl that reminded Rondel of a bear came out of the camel’s shaking jowls while it flung its head to the right.

  Andrasta began to scold Athar in hushed tones. “Stupid beast, I ought to—”

  “Wait,” said Rondel studying the camel. Athar continued to jerk his head to the right. “I think something’s going on here that we’re missing.”

  Rondel led the others in the direction the camel had gestured which took them to the other side of the road. He found a set of small footsteps next to blackened dirt. The discolored earth continued to a narrow patch of land between buildings.

  “Shadya!” No answer.

  What in the world would she be doing over here?

  He took a step in the direction of the footsteps when a hand grabbed his arm. “I would not go farther. It’s pointless. Look at the ash on the ground and the scorch marks on the side of the building there,” said Fikri.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Past these homes there is a small grove of olive trees which leads to the river—”

  “And?”

  “On the other side of the river, three acacia trees stand in small arc. Between the trees is a cave in the ground. It’s the lair of a djinn.”

  “A what?” asked Andrasta, forgetting to mask her voice.

  “A djinn,” said Fikri, not seeming to notice Andrasta’s error. “You foreigners call them jinnies.”

  Rondel sniggered. “Are you trying to tell me there really are magical creatures that inhabit lamps and grant wishes?”

  Fikri’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Do not mock us with bedtime stories, twisting something dangerous into something wistful. A djinn is evil. Especially this one. We call it a majun because it’s not only evil, but mad. It has great powers, much more than a normal djinn.”

  Andrasta pushed past them, sword in hand. “Let’s get the woman and leave this place.”

  It was obvious her patience had worn through. Rondel’s wasn’t faring better. He twisted his arm free, drew his sword, and followed.

  Fikri shouted something from behind, but Rondel ignored it.

&n
bsp; Exiting the space between the two buildings, they came into a small clearing of browned, shin-length grass. The olive grove Fikri mentioned stood on the other side of the clearing. Andrasta entered without pause.

  “He’s not following us,” said Rondel. “I guess he believes this djinn is as bad as he said.”

  “Or he’s letting us fall into a trap.”

  “Always so positive.”

  “Rondel!” a shout came.

  “Shadya!”

  “This way,” hissed Andrasta, running through the olive trees and into another clearing.

  Rondel surged past his partner, running with reckless abandon through knee-high grass. Shadya shouted his name twice more. The grass thinned as he reached the river bank. He came to a halt, mouth falling open.

  On the other side of the Undis River, rested a twisting mass of black and gray smoke interlaced with small bursts of bright orange fire. Shadya seemingly floated above the smoke, her black abayah flapping in the still air as she thrashed. Her clothes did not burn.

  The djinn stopped. The smoke shifted. Rondel realized it had swung toward him. The black smoke coalesced into a human like head at the top of the creature. Where its mouth would be, a yellow crescent formed. The fiery smile widened until Rondel stared at a wide gaping maw. A burst of flame raced toward him.

  Something slammed into his back.

  He hit the ground with a thump. Air left his lungs and heat washed over his back.

  “You idiot. Pay attention,” Andrasta said in his ears.

  His chest itched. He blinked. “Shadya.”

  He climbed to his feet and looked at the opposite river bank as the djinn disappeared behind a small formation of sandstone.

  “Rondel!” echoed faintly back to him. He had to save Shadya.

  He started toward the river.

  “Where are you going?” Andrasta asked.

  “We have to save her,” he said, stripping off armor so he could swim.

  A hand slammed onto his shoulder and yanked him back. “What’s the matter with you? You know better than to go charging after something like that. I thought you were the thinker.”

  “But that’s—”

  Andrasta’s open hand struck his cheek. “Think!”