"Every tale has a price, Zotikos. Nay, I shalt not name thee by the name that echoes in your own torn apart throne, kinsman. But know this, I shall trade thee one tale of mine, for one of thine own." The assassin held the gaze of the healer, black eyes boring into the elf's soul windows, seeking confirmation of the deal.
"As we agreed, blood of mine blood." The elf said solemnly.
"Good. But first, think hard about which tales you wish. Not all will be as you think, giving you little hope or knowledge beyond what thou already possess." Looking at the towers, Tam-Hattu grunted. "Nor will I tell you everything. Some things done or seen by me, I bear shame over. Such as that." Pointing to the ruins of one column of stone, onyx boulders laced with gold veins, tossed about far from a pit where its base once rose.
"Thy brother's throne. The seat of power from which the last Lord of the Arbitrations held court." Zotikos sighed. "Yet, of all the tales, that one, and why thy tower lay in ruins are those I seek the most."
"The mists of Athalan cloud it, boy." The assassin chuckled at the glare that evoked. "Boy thou art, to me at least. Thou may hath traveled this orb for ages, but I have walked upon it in this form for that time and more, and glided in her clouds for yet longer times before that. Remember, we were the last to cross over the void between worlds, in a distant era."
"So, start there." Zotikos settled his small pack off his back, drawing out two skins, offering the choice of which to his elder.
Eyes narrowing, the assassin weighed the offer. Eyes touching the seals lit up with deep sparkles of red amid the solid darkness inside those sockets. "Varamian Noir. The most precious wine there is, ne'er shared outside the gens of the Jai'. You have talent, after all, as a thief, I see."
"A gift. Given to me on a dark day, by the family of one you should be wary of." The healer waited, knowing the shell his elder wore drove the decision towards caution. "No poisons, brother of my grandsire. I swear it."
Silence broken only by faint skittering of pebbles rolling down the amphitheater's walls and the rustle of the few clumps of grass as breezes danced by between heartbeats. Only after a second glance away from eyes towards the seals, did any hint of humor touch Tam-Hattu's face.
"Eleven-Seventy-Five." He whispered, in reverence. "A good year for the vines along the base of Rima Hamus."
"A bad year for those who made this vintage, though." The healer answered. "The year Pelori was freed from another from our home world."
"The year fools managed what the wise said impossible, if I remember." Calloused hands accepted one of the skins, when tossed to him. "Fools you set in motion along the Paths of Damnation."
"Fools who walked it, despite my warnings. Fools I called friends, in some cases. Only five of the score who dared it returned." Zotikos grimaced. "And one I am not sure ever left those paths, despite my best efforts to repair his body and soul."
Breaking the seal, Tam-Hattu took a sip of the wine inside, savoring the rich flavors, and potent bite the intoxicants for mortals added. He settled in, after a moment, cradling the skin to his chest gently, after capping it again. "Indeed. A Varamian, was he not?"
Shifting legs and body angles told the tale better than words. "Aye." Whispered the healer.
"Quintas Billenius Varus Orestes, now called Augurius as well." Lips parted with those words, the smile the assassin used often to intimidate others from speaking of seeing him at work. "Bahai-Lahai-Naish. You need not tell that tale, boy. I knew that day as well, she forged the doom and salvation of us all, blinding him that way."
Eyes blinking, the elf's head cocked to the left a bit in shock. "Salvation?"
Holding up the wine skin, Tam-Hattu laughed loudly, enjoying the moment. "Ah, you have not a clean copy of the ranting of mine brother, then." Inspecting the wineskin, the human slowly regained his composure. "Wine such as this, I will tell you that and another tale beyond our agreement, boy." Darting glance silenced any thanks. "But in their time, not before. Yes, I know the Prophecy of the Scales, Zotikos, for my talons etched those marks upon the Iron Scrolls."
"Then where shall we begin?" Zotikos said after long reflection.
"At the beginnings, boy. You will tell me of thy reason for admiring the Varamusian gens, and the half breeds you protected for so long." Waving off the frown from the healer, the assassin eased several weapons from places about his body, setting them down around him, at hand, but not in threat. "But after I tell you of this place, and another before it."
Zotikos choked. This was something he had not expected. That there were places before the raising of the Arbitrators' Thrones.
Smiling at the shock he'd prompted, Tam-Hattu whispered. "Yes, there was a place before here, several in fact, boy. And each fell, from our own hubris. But really, our tales must start across the void and amid the yellow mists of the orb my foolish allies call Tar-Gallu or An-Shar, based on their moods and desires."
Narrowed eyes of green met his. "Athalan." Statement, not question.
"Aye, for mine brother and I were the last to cross the void of our kindred." Shaking his head, the assassin found his eyes drifting to the ringed orb filling a huge chunk of the sky, a pale yellow crescent finished out in grey and black bands, broken by sparkles of red and purple flashes from time to time. "Athalan, and the destruction of our floating islands and kindred. And why thy grandsire and I did flee across the void, riding the long shadow of our home to this place."
Zotikos discovered, with those words, that even the most jaded souls could be shocked.
No comments:
Post a Comment