Book 5: Chapter 44 - Drama (RAW)

When we are in the womb, we cannot see, nor can we cry out for our mother. And yet, we are there—real, present, very much alive. So it is with the Divine. We do not see them, but we feel their presence. We are all cradled in the womb of the infinite, wrapped in a truth far greater than we can comprehend.

- attributed to Cardinal Mauros.

I rose long before dawn rose, watching the night’s last stars gutter out as daybreak breached the battlements. Across the sea the sun bled upward, transmuting the horizon’s deep purples into reds and oranges.

When the kitchens finally stirred, I broke my fast on unleavened bread drizzled with honey. The sweetness felt thin, distant—my thoughts were taken with the coming duel, imagining what treachery the elf Alexandros had devised. Part of me rued the concessions I had granted him; a larger part relished the chance to humble the invaders from across the seas. Elves lived long, and fear would cling to their racial memory, like moss clings to stone: once rooted, it lasts an age. Let it last ten.

Yet a sword hung above my own head. Aelayah had escaped from the palace; I could not linger in this city overlong.

So I made preparations. I converted the bulk of my spoils into liquid Al‑Lazarian currency and deposited it at the Exchange. The bankers handed me a code that would unlock funds at any Lehman’s Bank on the continent. Withdrawal in full would take time, they warned, and incur several fees. I pared their fees to nothing with a single truth: their survival, like their ledgers of silver and gold, balanced on my favor. 

The markets of the city already echoed this certainty. The elves were broken; only this last dance of blades remained before the quills came out to draft a peace. Traders bustled, wagons rattled in from the Green Road. Already, a group of optimistic craftsmen, so Farzan told me, were dusting off forgotten treatises on ship-building. Already, scribes were racing to duplicate knowledge dismissed as useless generations ago.

None of them knew the price the Mer had demanded for peace: Al‑Lazar must cease cultivating Dust along the shore, the narcotic weed that leached poison into their watery realm. Farzan had not yet found the courage to tell his citizens their chief export would soon wither. Had the choice been mine, I would have ordered the Dust fields sown twice over and poured every toxin we could brew into the warm seas to scour the Mer from existence. But wishes are like the water and wind.

I returned my trencher to the kitchens despite the fluttering protests of servants. Odd, to go unarmored, I felt as light as a bird on the wing, yet naked as well. My Adamantine harness now rested in my temporary lodging, straps re‑oiled and buckles mended. The metal itself needed no tending. In civilian garb, and not so much as a sword at my hip, I descended to the street and told the soldiers on watch I was going to the Begonia’s Shade.

There were words that needed to be said, and things that needed to be done.

I saw that war had scoured the softness from these men. Their faces were grim, and their expressions tight as drumheads. War could do that to men, harden them to be as tough as stone, or so brittle that they snapped when the first cool winds of peace blew. Or so, a poetic side of me liked to think.

The soldiers offered an escort after one of their number moved to inform someone up the chain of command; my first impulse was refusal, but in the end thought better of it. Better for their honor, and my prestige, that the First Tamkar not venture alone into the city. I no longer just represented myself, I realized with a somewhat heavy heart.  Also, I only had my dagger, Zariyah, at my waist. In the end, I took two score of men with me, promising we would return within two turns of the glass.

So we marched through the cool of early morning. I knew these streets now: I had fought on them, spilled enough blood that certain stoness still bore a rust‑dark sheen. The memory of the Contest of Knives walked beside me, a shadow layered over the present bustle—vendors crying wares, children darting under cart wheels, wary hope on every face.

The crowds parted for soldiers, and thus we made swift time. The Begonia’s Shade rose ahead, shutters thrown wide to the breeze. Naira waited outside to greet us, as though the Divines themselves had whispered my approach. She must have had a network of sorts. The proprietress’ face was the same calm mask of professional indifference. 

“Gilgamesh,” she said, formal as ever, her gaze flicking to the armed men at my back.

Yet I had watched that composure shatter when she writhed beneath me, half‑unwilling; the memory lent a certain spice to all our conversations.

“Naira,” I answered with a genial smile.

“I fear we can offer little to such a number on such short notice,” she said.

“They need almost nothing—perhaps a drink of water, if anyone’s thirsty. That will suffice.”

“May I ask why you’re here? Official business?”

“Nothing so grand. I’ve come to visit Patches.”

“Ah.” Her expression wavered. “Of course. She’s in the stables, as usual. The hands spoil her—your donkey has grown quite fat and lazy.”

I smiled, wistful. “Patches was always lazy.”

I left my men to wait outside. It was time to catch up with a companion I had neglected for far too long.

The stables of the Begonia’s Shade were built of the same yellow stone as the rest of Al-Lazar, cool even in the midday heat. As I stepped through the archway the tang of hay and animal musk wrapped around me, and somewhere a sleepy donkey stamped in its stall.

Patches recognized my footfall before I saw her. A hoarse, indignant bray echoed down the aisle, the sound she always made when meals were late—or when she merely imagined they were. I chuckled and quickened my pace.

There she stood: belly round as an amphora, shaggy black coat with patches of white around the mouth and forelock—the patterning that had earned her name. She butted the gate with her nose, ears swiveling.

“Still dramatic, I see,” I murmured. I produced a satchel bulging with fruit and unlatched the stall. At once she shouldered past me, searching for treats with single‑minded devotion.

I let her nuzzle my palm, then offered a piece of Valny fruit. She chomped, crimson juice staining the white of her muzzle like war paint. Next came Tantan—soft, overripe, perfect for a lazy beast. She accepted them with less ceremony, already eyeing the satchel for what else I had hidden.

Behind me, two stablehands pretended to muck straw while casting sideways glances. One, a skinny boy with a ragged scar across his face, whispered, “That’s him, the First Tamkar… killed a legion of me he did.”

“Thought it was just tavern talk,” the other muttered. “Who keeps a donkey as a pet?”

I pretended not to hear. 

Patches nudged my hip, displeased with the lull. I withdrew a handful of dates, sticky and sun‑warm. She gobbled them, lips tickling my fingers.

“You’ve grown fat, old friend,” I said, scratching the coarse fur between her ears. “Too many handouts and not enough exercise.”

Her only reply was another bray—less indignant, more expectant. I laughed and fished out the prize: a rare yellow quince. Well, rare for these parts. The stablehands gasped as the fruit disappeared in two greedy bites.

“That quince cost more than my month’s pay,” one of them whispered.

“Aye, and he feeds it to a donkey.”

Their incredulity amused me. They could not know what this creature had carried or the dangers she had faced alongside me. A man might forget such burdens and trials; a beast never does. If she wished to live out her days among soft straw and spoiled fruit, she had earned it.

When the satchel was empty Patches sniffed it, disappointed. I tossed some cloth over her back like an ornamental blanket and leaned against the stall door.

“I’m leaving, Patches, and I doubt I’ll ever return,” I murmured. “Forgive me.”

She stared, still tasting quince, then rested her heavy head on my shoulder—a silent assent.

“Yes, Larynda’s coming too,” I went on, stroking her ears. “Al‑Lazar is sliding toward chaos—change piled upon change. Too much of it, and far too soon. We will head north, perhaps even carry Enkidu’s ashes back to his people. He deserves to go home.”

Patches only blinked at me, her eyes dark and solemn.

“Were it not for me, you would have been glue. I will see you live well and treated like the queen, you,” I promised. She answered with a throaty, indignant bray. I laughed, ruffled her mane, and latched the stall behind me.

Naira waited outside, hands clasped in front of her. “I thought it was gossip, but you truly care for that donkey.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I shrugged. “She’s never wronged me. There are no ledgers, no accounting of debts between man or beast—just loyalty. And, of course, no secrets.”

“I see.” She brushed a stray lock from her face.

“I will not be back for a very long time,” I said, “perhaps never.”

“Off to die, then?” Her tone was flippant, though her eyes said otherwise.

“If only death balanced the books,” I replied. “Al‑Lazar is turning deadly dangerous; you should leave, too. But people like you are bound to this city—bound by everything you’ve poured into this place. Even if it costed you your daughter. That’s my advice, at least.”

Her gaze sharpened. “What are you implying?”

“That the story about your husband selling Zariyah was a lie,” I whispered, mindful of the curious ears. “I think you sold her—out of greed and ambition. A common enough sin here.”

Naira’s face drained. Guilt, grief, and distance had all surfaced the day she was reunited with her child; my mind had stitched the clues together.

“How dare you!”

“Then deny it.” My voice dropped to a hiss. “I loved your daughter, Naira. Swear before the Goddess that it isn’t true.”

She met my eyes—and could say nothing. That was answer enough for me. No wonder Zariyah had grown up so twisted. No wonder Zariyah had been consumed too soon by her own madness.

I pressed on, for it was not only women who could be ruthless and unreasonable. “And you seduced her lover. Hardly the act of a doting mother.”

Seconds stretched. “That’s not… No. Why now?” she croaked in a hollow voice, a final confirmation.

“Because I might die,” I said simply. “Death all around has forced me to think—dangerous habit. I did not know for sure until. Naira, I wanted the truth spoken. I forgive you, Naira, and I believe that Zariyah forgave you long ago. She was kind at heart.”

Her shoulders sagged. “What do you want from me? What more can I give you? What’s left to take?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just look after Patches. That’s all.”

I turned away, leaving her alone with the weight of regurgitated guilt. There’s a harsh kind of satisfaction in naming another’s sin—an irony that, to me, tasted like justice. The truth was punishment enough for Naira; no amount of mental gymnastics could twist her free from this most brazen of revelations. 

Not turning around, I imagined that she was crying behind me. Selfish tears filled with the shame of a liar caught out. If, that was, she had any humanity in her to cry at all.

Now it was time to confront more truths. To take the measure of a long-dead legend. Had Alexandros, too, been chosen by some Divine? Or was this land merely a refuge for lost souls—gathered like debris on a forgotten shore?

It pained me more than I cared to admit, but once, I had been a nobody. There had been no grand reason to choose me over a million—no, a billion—others. I’d become so adept at weaving lies, I hadn’t noticed when I’d begun to lie to myself. And that, perhaps, was the gravest sin of all.

For no one else had done what I had. No one else had come so far. I might have been insignificant in the world I came from, but here… here, I was a legend.

A legend in a world that might not even be real.