The Book of Apa’nangati
By Mark van Dyk
“Keep those coals hot!” he called.
Pran’yana, his elder and his helper, redoubled his efforts upon the bellows, huffing and puffing as he raised and lowered the great leather lung. The coals in the pit smouldered like the surface of the sun and gave off such a heat that they might have been purged from the very fires of the underworld.
Just then, a fat man in noble clothing entered the forge. The heat was so great that he did not come further than the doorway. He stopped there, on the threshold, and put his hands to his mouth. “D’Han!” he called.
D’Han did not hear him, but kept beating the steel upon the anvil.
“D’Han!” the man roared.
Pran’yana turned and saw the man. He glanced over to D’Han. “Master!” he yelled. “Master D’Han!”
“I’m busy, dammit!” D’Han yelled over his shoulder. “Can’t you see I’m working?”
“Master, it’s Lord Rhal!”
D’Han looked up from his work and caught sight of his landlord standing behind the flames. He felt momentarily as if he were standing in some pit of hell and looking out to his devilish overlord. His anger at being interrupted was immediately overcome by the spineless terror inspired by his lowly standing in the caste system and his impotence before the powerful lord. He wiped his forehead and stammered awkwardly. “Yes, m’lord!” he called. “What can I do for you?”
“You can pay your rent, young master!” Lord Rhal demanded. “It was due three days ago. I am not a patient man, blacksmith. I am a business man.”
“Of course, sir! Forgive me. I have but to finish this one weapon. I’ll be able to pay you tonight.”
“I hope so, for your sake. I don’t rent this barn for nothing and I have no intention of being your mother. Either pay, or get out!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And clean out your stalls. The inn next door is beginning to complain about the smell. And one more thing. I’ve seen that whore that’s been visiting you. I am a man of dignity, sir, and I will not have my name sullied by association with hussies.”
“But---” D’Han swallowed his protest. It was not proper to contradict the upper classes and, had he done so, he could have been jailed for it. “Yes, sir. As you say.”
“See that you pay attention,” said Lord Rhal. “I’ve half a mind to turn this building into a potter’s studio.” Without another word, he swivelled on his heels and stormed out of the doorway.
When Lord Rhal had gone, Pran’yana looked over to D’Han and gave a sympathetic look, but D’Han ignored his assistant. He did not want pity. He did not want landlords or rent or any of the nonsense associated with being poor. He turned back to his sword and began to beat it even harder than before, letting his anger fuel his muscles. The ringing of his forge could be heard throughout the district.
* * *
The sun had set over the city of
His father had died suddenly only six months ago and had left the smithing business to D’Han. One month later, Lord Bur’i, an amiable member of the Angustian ruling class, and a man easy to get along with in matters of business, had sold the building to Lord Rhal. Lord Rhal immediately raised the rent and imposed severe restrictions upon D’Han’s business. Since that time, D’Han had lost every penny saved by his father. Now, he stood upon the brink of financial ruin.
He sat at his table and stared emptily at the money. His heart was full of fear and doubt, for he did not know where he had gone wrong, nor what he could do to make ends meet. Everything seemed to lean against him, like a mountain of responsibility that always threatened to crush him.
Just then, a beautiful young girl bounded through the door. She slammed the door shut behind her, then leaned against it and smiled so grandly that the walls of the room seemed to straighten themselves and the lights seemed to glow a bit brighter than before. Her hair was auburn and hung to her shoulders. Her eyes were brown and bright. Her lips were soft and innocent, full of life. “Good evening, Master D’Han!”
“Il’Asha!” he exclaimed with surprise. Fear seized his breast as he remembered Lord Rhal’s threat. “You’re not supposed to---”
She ran over to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat just beside him. “And how are you this fine evening?” she asked, leaning in to him, her bodice open, her hair smelling of lavender and strawberries
“Good,” he said, trying to mask his feelings.
She made a pout. “Just good? That won’t do! We should do something about your condition immediately!”
D’Han looked at her in despair, knowing that he could not tell her what Rhal had said and knowing that he was in danger of losing everything over her visit. He could see that she was in a lusty mood. The last thing he wished to do was dampen her spirits, but he could not bring himself to feel anything but hopelessness.
“What’s the matter, love?” she asked. “You seem unusually disturbed.”
D’Han rose from his chair and paced furiously about the room. “It’s a hundred different things!” he exclaimed. “It’s always something! It never ends.”
“What never ends?”
“He’s raising my rent, Il’Asha,” he said. “And he just keeps demanding and threatening. It’s driving me insane!”
Il’Asha frowned with concern.
D’Han shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I hate this! I hate not knowing whether I’m going to eat tomorrow, whether I’m going to have a roof over my head. Every penny I make goes to some fat lord or some tax baron. And me, trapped! This place is a madhouse! I’m so tired of having to answer to every madman in this city.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oard! The system! It’s totally unfair. Why should I not live in some mansion? Just because I was born badly? Why am I denied an education?” He grabbed his ragged shirt and pulled at it. “I’m better than this. There’s more to me than this stupid blacksmith’s shop. I don’t even particularly like smithing! What’s the point? I work and work and work and where does it get me? Merchants dangle money before me like carrots, hoping I will borrow more and more, consigning myself to a lifetime of servitude and slavery.”
Il’Asha gazed at D’Han for a moment, then beckoned him to take his seat. D’Han moved back to the table and sat down. Il’Asha touched his arm and smiled gently. “Come on, D’Han. Cheer up. It’s never as bad as it seems. Let’s go out! I’ll make you forget all this stuff for a while.”
D’Han shook his head. “I have no money to go out with.”
She tugged at him until he stood. “We don’t need money, silly. And we needn’t go far. Just take me to your royal bedchamber and take me on a trip to the moon!”
D’Han could not help but smile. Il’Asha’s warm body was pressed against him, her eyes looking up to his, her lips glistening. “You are very forward for a courtesan,” he said.
She batted her eyes. “Is my lord displeased?”
“No,” he laughed. “Get on with you! To the bed!”
D’Han lay in bed next to Il’Asha and gazed up at the wooden slats of his ceiling. For some time he did nothing but stare at the boards, smiling to himself.
“You know,” he said. “You were right.”
“I was?” she whispered.
“You made me forget.”
She smiled and rolled over to him. “Good,” she said with a kiss.
“I think the only time I do feel right with the world is when I am with you. Everything makes sense here in our bed.”
She smiled. “Go to sleep.”
D’Han closed his eyes. He fell asleep with Il’Asha’s head upon his breast.
In the morning, Il’Asha left. She was a barmaid at the Silver Chalice, and she was required early. She gave D’Han a long kiss then left him alone in his barn. When she shut the door behind her, it was as if the light had gone with her. The forge darkened like a prison at sunset.
D’Han turned and stared up at the rafters. A pigeon roosting there gave a coo and cocked its head at him. His heart sank and the fear returned. He looked around his forge knowing that not one job was scheduled for the day. In times of peace, sword work was scarce. And there was plenty of competition in other places for horse shoes and tools, competition that didn’t have to pay outrageous rents and so charge exorbitant sums.
“What am I going to do?” he said, wringing his hands.
Pran’yana appeared in the far doorway. He was a stooped over little man with a long black beard. He had apprenticed under D’Han’s father, but due to a severe arm injury, he would never be a blacksmith. Instead, he contented himself with the role of smithy’s assistant and bunked in the forge’s loft.
“Good morning, Master,” he said.
“Good morning,
“Have you had your breakfast?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll cook.”
D’Han followed Pran’yana
into their modest kitchen and sat down at the table. For some time he watched
the old man start a fire, place the pan on the metal rack, then break several
eggs into the pan. Pran’yana was old. He was nearly fifty. But few lines marred
his face. D’Han studied him for a time, then asked: “
He shrugged. “I reckon. What do I have to complain about?”
D’Han nodded. “Still, you never wished for more?”
“More than what?”
“More than this. This stupid life.”
“A man must take the life he is given and be happy. That’s my philosophy.”
“Didn’t you ever question things? I mean, the caste system and our place in it? Don’t you feel it’s wrong to be denied so much, to be so restricted?”
“All men are restricted in one way or another, I guess. It is best to accept that all is just as it should be.”
D’Han didn’t like Pran’yana’s
answers. He began to grow irritated. “I don’t think so. The rich and powerful
aren’t constrained by material matters. Hell, they aren’t even constrained
by moral ones! The ruling class gets away with murder. If someone like me
is murdered by a high ranking official, do you think anyone pursues the matter?
Hell no. But what if some lowly blacksmith kills a noble? He’d be lynched
up before you could say speedy trial. I don’t know about you,
“It’s fate. You can’t escape it.”
“Fate? That’s a cop-out.”
Pran’yana did not answer, but flipped the eggs and added a bit of butter.
“Stupidity is the order of the day,
Pran’yana smiled. “Have you ever seen a rich and powerful wise man?” he asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Pran’yana shrugged and handed D’Han a plate full of eggs. “You don’t go looking for wisdom at the King’s court. You’ll find wisdom at his back door.”
D’Han took the plate. “Yeah, whatever,” he groaned. “At least if I had power or money I wouldn’t be subject to the will of idiots.”
Pran’yana shook his head and laughed. “You may be right. Of course, you would still have to answer to yourself.”
“Exactly my point!”
* * *
D’Han and Pran’yana slid open the main doors of the forge, pulled up chairs, and sat for quite some time watching the streets of Oard come to life around them. Carriages bearing nobles with high-backed collars rolled by. A caravan full of elephants passed. Merchants, vendors, and peasants all passed by their door. Farmers drove their sheep through the street. Dogs chased children. Children chased each other. And though a few men stopped, none bought a single tool from D’Han. None commissioned him for even the slightest bauble.
Then, just after
“May I help you?” asked D’Han.
“I am from the office of taxation,” said the man. Even his voice was luke warm. “I am here to give you formal declaration that if you do not pay tax on the sales you have made that you will be jailed until such time as you can pay.” He handed the scroll to D’Han.
“I see,” said D’Han. “Thank you. And where might I pay these taxes?”
“You may go to the city clerk’s offices in T’Bor.”
“T’Bor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But isn’t that several hundred miles away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Isn’t that a little strange?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t make the rules---”
“Right, right,” said D’Han angrily. “I wonder who does!”
“Good day, sir. You have three days to comply.”
The tax collector turned and left.
D’Han crumpled up the paper and threw
it to the ground. “Did you hear that,
Pran’yana had no answer.
D’Han began pacing and pulling at his hair. “Bastards!” he exclaimed. “What a life! Accident of birth alone has---”
“Sir!” Pran’yana exclaimed.
“What?” D’Han turned. He was surprised and alarmed to find Pran’yana upon his knees in the dirt. “What---”
“Forgive me if I’m intruding,” said a man.
D’Han turned to see an old gentleman dressed in fine robes standing just behind him. The man was thin in the hands and face, and tall. His beard was long and white. The lines of his face and the calm and gentle demeanor that surrounded him marked him instantly as a man of noble birth.
D’Han fell to his hands and knees, for it would have been death not to, though inwardly he chafed at having to scrape and bow to anyone.
The old man smiled in a kindly way. “I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said. “I know that it’s unusual for nobles to call in this fashion. Most nobles would rather send their servants, I suppose, but I am not like most nobles. I like to use my own two feet from time to time. A little exercise does a man good, and I’m certainly not ashamed about it. But, look at me! Forgive me. Let me stop chattering on so and come down to business. Please, which of you is the blacksmith here?”
“I am, sir,” said D’Han.
“Good,” he said. “I am Chief Librarian Utar’rah, of Lord B’Rath’s court. You may have heard of me.”
D’Han and Pran’yana shook their heads in surprise.
“Ah, well,” said Utar’rah. “I suppose the title of Librarian carries with it a certain amount of anonymity.” He shrugged. “It suits me well enough, I suppose. I am rather nondescript myself! But I am wasting your time, aren’t I? Please, may we talk inside, gentlemen?”
“Of course, sir,” said D’Han. He rose and beckoned the librarian into his blacksmithing forge. Pran’yana followed and, when they had all entered, shut and bolted the door behind them.
Utar’rah walked to the center of the room. He glanced into the rafters then back to the door. He turned twice, stopped, then tapped his foot and nodded to himself. “Are we alone here?” he asked.
D’Han shrugged. “Yes, sir. But for the pigeons.”
“That’s good.”
“Won’t you please sit down, sir?” offered D’Han.
“Yes, thank you.”
D’Han and Pran’yana took their places around a small work table in the middle of the room. D’Han hastily moved a hammer and a set of tongs, then handed the old man a chair.
Utar’rah accepted the chair and sat down. He glanced about the room for a moment, then nodded. “It is good to be out of the palace,” he said. “It can be stifling work at times. The life of a librarian is a quiet one. There are times when I have to get out into the streets and live a bit.”
D’Han and Pran’yana listened but did not speak. The appearance of the Librarian of Oard was something of a shock to them, and they found themselves at a loss for words.
“I came here today,” said Utar’rah, “because I knew of your father’s reputation. He was an honest man and always dealt fairly with the Chaos Lords. I trust that you are a man who can keep the secrets of his clients, and I trust that you are not without the skill for which your father was known. Am I correct to make such an assumption, Master D’Han?”
“You are sir!”
Utar’rah smiled in that kindly way he had. “Very good. Then, if you will indulge me, I will tell you just why I have come to you.”
“Please do,” said D’Han.
The old man leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, seeming to gather up his strength. He then began: “Recently, I have come into possession of a very rare and dangerous book. I dare not let the secret of its name nor its existence out to anyone. It is a book that is both powerful and perilous. Many, if they knew of its existence, would advise me to destroy it. Yet, I cannot, as a man of letters, bring myself to do this. It is a book of power, you see--- magical power. Even if I desired to destroy the thing, I might find that it was protected against my efforts by ancient counterspells.” He smiled in a self-deprecating way. “So, you see, my only alternative, it seems, if I cannot destroy it, and I dare not let its existence be known, is to protect the book. This is where you come in.”
D’Han listened attentively. He found himself suddenly intrigued by the man’s frank discussion of power and magic. What sort of power, he wondered? What sort of magic?
“I need you to build a chest for me,” he said, pulling a rolled up parchment from out of his robes and laying it on the table. “I have the plans here. It must be made of steel and it must be made impervious to any physical assault upon it. I will handle the magical protections myself, being somewhat learned in these matters. All I would need from you is the actual construction of the box itself. A simple task, to say the least. Can you do it?”
D’Han looked over the plans. They were straight forward enough; nothing he could not do.
“I will pay you five hundred gold sovereigns,” said Utar’rah. “That should cover your expenses in material, your taxes, and rent. I will pay you one hundred of the five hundred today. This should be more than enough to pay the debt to your creditors.”
D’Han felt a twinge of embarrassment and fear rise up in his gut. “You--- you know of my situation?”
“I know a great many things,” he said. “But, you should not be so surprised. Your monetary records were not difficult for me to obtain. Anyone with a modicum of curiosity may find that out. It just so happens that I like to research my business associates thoroughly before engaging myself in discussion with them.”
D’Han nodded uncomfortably. “I see.”
“So, do you accept my offer?”
D’Han shook his head in awe, knowing that he could hardly refuse. “Yes---” he stammered, embarrassed. “Of course! I accept!”
The old man smiled as he stood. “Excellent! It will do my heart good to see this book well protected. How long will it take you?”
“Not more than a week, sir.”
“Good,” he said, placing a bag of coins onto the table. “Now, then, if you please, I shall take my leave of you. You have work to do, after all! Good day, gentlemen.”
D’Han was beside himself with joy. All day he laughed and shouted to Pran’yana: “Can you believe it?”
And Pran’yana would answer: “It is certainly a miracle, sir!”
D’Han immediately sent for Il’Asha and told her the news.
“It’s just what you needed and wished for!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “Now we can marry, just as we planned!”
“Aye! And no mere peasant’s dress for you, my dear! Silk and pearls!”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Don’t do it! We must keep it simple, just as we always said we would!”
D’Han and Il’Asha were joyous together and celebrated well into the night. They went into the city and returned a bit drunk, but they were yet full of happiness and enthusiasm for their future together. They went to bed dreaming of their life together, the children they would have, the happiness they would share. But this happiness did not last long for D’Han. It was only a short time after Il’Asha had fallen asleep that he became gripped with a sudden and unexplainable bitterness and resentment. The events of the afternoon replayed themselves in his head, and the more he thought the matter through, the more he feared and suspected the old man
“Who is this man?” he whispered to himself. “What does he really want? No one is that kind. No one is that generous. Does he think to free me from one bondage only so that he might enslave me himself? Does he hold out one hand full of money while he shackles me with the other? Perhaps he reasons that I will be beholden to him--- and surely I shall! I should feel grateful. I should be thankful. So, why am I filled with hate for him suddenly? Why must I despise him?” He stewed and stewed over the matter, becoming more and more agitated until he was forced, at last, to get up from his bed, whereupon he paced over the rug, grumbling to himself in gloomy tones. “He certainly made me seem like a charity case,” he muttered. “And me. What did I do? I hopped and panted like a begging dog. What sort of man am I?
“And what of this book?” he said. “Ah, now that’s where we come to it. This book must be very powerful and very dangerous if he wants to hide it so. And what of me when I complete the job? I have heard of men who were killed for knowing less than I do about even more trivial matters than this. Is it to be my final task? Not if I can help it...”
He paced and fidgeted with his robes. He began to truly loathe his benefactor. He began to denigrate him in his mind. “The man is a fool,” he muttered to himself. “This much is certain. What good is the book locked in a box, anyway? No one hides away power like that. Power should be used. What of men like me? Men born into poverty and misery? Why should I not have my chance at such power? Better that than hiding it away. It’s almost as if he waves this treasure before my face, flaunts it, taunts me. ‘Look at me, I am so rich and powerful I don’t even need this book. I’d rather lock it away than have anyone else have it!’ Hmph! He’s a fool. A fool...”
D’Han paced until he began to sweat. And the more he puzzled it over, the more he began to believe that the book was rightfully his, that it had been meant for him, that it was providence, so to speak, his opportunity, an opportunity that should be seized, for, after all, what sort of man would he be if he let this one and only chance slip through his fingers like so much dust?
The next day D’Han paid for his passage through the Psi-gates, travelled to T’Bor, and paid his taxes. After returning to Oard, he threw himself into his work with a zeal unlike any he had ever before experienced. Pran’yana was amazed at his master. He had never seen the young man so industrious. In one day D’Han acquired the proper grade ores, the smelting fuels, and the materials necessary for pouring his moulds.
He worked in the forge like a man possessed, his eyes glowing in the heat of the red coals, his skin sweating, bronzed and taut. Pran’yana could not keep up with D’Han’s sudden enthusiasm for his work and was forced to take breaks. D’Han worked into the nights, barely sleeping, then rose up again early the next morning to resume his work.
Despite D’Han’s efforts, the job still took nearly a week and a half. The old man’s plans had been meticulous and realizing every facet of their details was a slow going process and tiring to the young blacksmith.
Il’Asha came to visit him several times, but he would not see her. He was either deep into his work, fueled by some inner fire that had taken him, or he was in his bed sleeping like a dead man. He had given Pran’yana strict instructions to admit no one at any hour. He took no other jobs. He finished none of his prior commissions. Pran’yana began to worry after his master. D’Han had taken to talking to himself and laughing in a strange way. At first his elder apprentice had thought it was exhaustion, but the longer he watched D’Han, the more he believed that his friend was not well mentally, that some strange ailment had befallen him.
Then, upon the last day, D’Han gave a hoarse laugh and announced that his work was finished. He fell into a swoon and collapsed on the floor. Pran’yana ran to him and put his friend into bed. He gave him water and applied a cold compress to his head. All the while, though D’Han was surely fatigued beyond mortal reason, he continued to mutter in his sleep about money and power and freedom.
Pran’yana called upon Il’Asha, thinking that her delicate hand might aid D’Han’s recovery. But despite her presence, D’Han remained in bed, sweating, his body feverish.
Three days passed like this. Finally, upon the third evening, D’Han opened his eyes and awoke. Il’Asha was beside him. Pran’yana was asleep in the other room.
Il’Asha bent down to him and smiled with relief. “D’Han?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
He looked up to her. “Yes,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been asleep for three days,” she said.
“Ah,” he nodded, barely recalling the last days of his work. “I’ve been working hard.”
“I know,” she said. “You haven’t even allowed me to see you.”
D’Han rose up from the bed and crossed the room. He took up a cup of water and drank it. “Well,” he said. “It is important work. I didn’t want anyone getting in the way.”
Il’Asha stood. “Of course not. Oh, but I don’t care about that! I’m just glad to see you well! Pran’yana was very worried about you.”
D’Han nodded dully, his thoughts far away. Il’Asha walked over to him and put her hand to his forehead, but D’Han flinched away. A dark noise gurgled in the back of his throat as he recoiled from her touch.
“D’Han---?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, coughing to cover his sudden queerness. “It’s nothing. I’m still tired--- and weak. Let me sleep tonight. If what you say is true, then I have to deliver the box tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Of course. You need to rest.” She reached out her hand to him, but before she could touch him, he moved back to the bed and pulled the blanket over his head.
“You don’t have to stay tonight,” he said. “I’m sure you miss your own bed.”
Il’Asha felt the pain of confusion overwhelm her at that moment. Did he not want her near? “Yes, D’Han,” she said. “You’re probably right. You’ll probably sleep better that way, too.”
He did not answer her. Il’Asha gathered up her things in silence and, without another word, departed.
D’Han rose early the next morning and went about his toilet in silence. He ate no breakfast, drank nothing, but immediately set about preparing for his journey to the Chief Librarian of Oard. He covered his box in a white linen then, with the help of Pran’yana, loaded the box into a wagon. He did not take his helper with him, but drove off alone toward Chaos Lord B’Rath’s palace.
The sun had barely risen, but the streets of Oard were alive already. Indeed, they never seemed to have died down. D’Han passed by white stuccoed walls, towering minarets, and golden gates. He passed into the merchant’s district, a ramshackle gathering of mis-shaped houses and leaning structures; alehouses, inns, town houses and baths. Buildings here were stuccoed and painted lavishly with rich blue and orange paint. And the streets, here, were already thriving with the most curious individual citizens of Oard. Strange men with fox-like features left one business together and stepped into a carriage. As they turned to enter the carriage, their red tails swished the air in a menacing way. A group of school children passed by riding large beetles. The beetles were gold and black, and flags which stuck high into the air had been attached to their shells to mark the coming of the children. A fabulous white sledge floated upon the air, pulled by two swans. The sledge bore three beautiful women dressed in the finery of the court of Chaos Lord T’Ranghani. They did not look at D’Han as they passed and he did not look at them. Indeed, he saw nothing around him. His eyes had been blinded like those of his horse, and all he could see was the realizing of his dreadful purpose. Again and again he echoed the creed of the Chaos Lords in his mind: ‘All men have the right to do as they wish, and all other men have the right to oppose them.’ Such was the law of the chaos cities, law that provided for the ambitious man, law that acknowledged the right of rule and the will to power. And he would follow his own will. He would realize his own potential, regardless of the contradiction of the class system and its oppressiveness. He would transcend all known order, perhaps even become a chaos lord himself! Always in his life there had been one thing lacking, one crucial element missing that would allow him to climb the ladder of power: the opportunity. Now, that opportunity had arisen, and he had deigned himself to be as much of a fool as old Utar’rah if he were to pass it up.
And so he drove his cart forward possessed with the promise of freedom that power would bring to him, the promise of lawlessness which money would provide. He drove straight for the air stations and reined in his horse.
The castles and palaces of the Chaos Lords and other nobles of Oard floated above the city proper, and so it was necessary to book passage on a flying vessel or mount. D’Han went to where a grande staircase rose up into the air to meet a hovering stone platform. He summoned up one of the many servants that scampered about the area and bade him carry the box up the stairs to the landing.
The station itself was located beneath the stairs. Here, rows of glass columns supported a lovely lattice ceiling which was overgrown with ivies and flowers. Butterflies and fat bumble-bees flocked about the flowers and sipped nectar while other patrons of the gardens sat below the lattices and sipped hot drinks and ate their breakfasts. A tiger dressed in purple silks stirred milk into his tea, while nearby a man with two heads and a shrivelled arm read summoned up a carafe of warm hleng-tao. A giant tortoise with a tray affixed to his back slid away from the two-headed man’s table and moved toward an arched doorway covered over with silk. The tortoise slid through the silk and disappeared. Other patrons of the tea house filtered in and out, while above them, in a constant stream of activity, flying elephants, wooden ships with wings of malachite bore passengers to and from the landing.
D’Han climbed up the stairs to where
his newly acquired manservant awaited him next to the box. When he reached
the landing, he stared up at a magnificent palace that stood upon a floating
inverted mountain of earth above him. It was the
Soon enough, a small transport ship docked before him. It was a smaller ship, holding only two hundred people. It’s sails billowed in the wind. It’s flag flapped and snapped like an excited horse ready to bolt from the gate. A man stepped out of the vessel and signalled to the passengers that they could enter. D’Han then motioned to his servant to help him carry the box onto the ship. When he had found a suitable seat and a place for his box, he dismissed the servant with an extra copper for his trouble.
The transport lurched once, then slid forward and rose up into the sky. D’Han watched the city below as he rose higher and higher. His fingers played over the box, tightening around it, plucking at it absent-mindedly. His heart pounded in his ears as the ship drew nearer to the palace. The time of his trial was nearly at hand. Would he succeed? His face was flush as he considered the coming encounter. Sweat beaded on his head.
Then, the ship docked and the passengers filed out. D’Han dragged his box down the plank and onto the landing before the palace. The courtyard before him was crowded full of men with high-backed collars, court officials and dignitaries. Though many of the new arrivals mingled with the myriad, lingering hoste, D’Han noticed that most of the passengers were making their way over to a large podium where two pixies were jotting down notes into a large book atop the podium and allowing the entrance of those first in line. He hastened to pull his box into line and waited. The ship pulled away from the landing behind him, making way for a roc that swooped in low and landed amid a turbulent breeze.
The line moved quickly and he soon found himself before the pixies.
“Name?” asked one. “Business?”
“Master D’Han,” he said. “I am here to see Utar’rah, the Chief Librarian.”
One pixie flew forward, his gossamer wings buzzing at a dizzying rate. “And you are carrying---?”
“A delivery. One box.”
“One box!” he called back to the other.
The other pixie made note of the box in his book. “D’Han. One box!” repeated the second
“Thank, you,” said the first. “You may enter. A guide will meet you within. Good day, and be well. Next!”
D’Han allowed himself to be bustled inward amid a swirl of confusion and people. Within moments he had lost his way. He glanced about him worriedly, wondering how he would ever get to where he was going. Where was the guide the pixie had promised?
Then---
“Master D’Han?” came a voice behind him.
D’Han turned to see a tall man with a gaunt, pale face staring down at him. The man’s eyes were black as ebony and slanted unnaturally.
“Y- Yes, that’s me---”
“I am your guide. Follow me, please.” The man snapped his fingers. Two short, grotesque, muscular imp-men appeared suddenly, seemingly from thin air, and without a word lifted D’Han’s box and followed the tall guide.
D’Han followed without a word, unnerved by the order which seemed to underlie all the seeming chaos around him. This was not how he had pictured his visit. In his mind he had been much more in control. As it was, he felt totally disarmed by anyone who seemed to know a shred more about the workings of the palace than he did. All he could do was follow his guide like a frightened pup.
The guide led him through the main cluster of people that had gathered nearer to the entrances, then passed out of the inner receiving area into a marble floored hallway. The crowds of people here were seriously reduced and D’Han began to breathe easier as he felt less stifled and overwhelmed.
Men with slippered feet appeared, then passed them by. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. Opulent furniture, serving no apparent purpose, lined the walls of the hallway. An ornate rug ran the length of the hall. The rug was sewn from the hairs of giraffes. Throughout the hall there was a smell of cinnamon and sandalwood. But, again, D’Han took no notice. His thoughts grew more feverish with every step he took. Like a man who watches the lengthening of the shadows in his prison cell, waiting for the day of his execution, so D’Han anticipated the meeting with Utar’rah.
They ascended a flight of stairs, then turned down a hallway, the floor of which was decorated with ebony and lapus lazuli inlay. The hall was filled with statues and crystal golems. A multi-tiered chandelier hung halfway down the hall, casting emerald light over the walls. D’Han’s guide stopped, then, and opened a door. The two imps hastened D’Han’s box in, then reappeared, capering and squeaking in the hallway like two monkeys.
“You may wait within,” the guide told D’Han. “The Head Librarian will be with you shortly.”
The guide and the two imps left him, then, and disappeared down a side hall. D’Han stared after them, then turned and entered the room. He went over to his box and checked it. Seeing that it had not been harmed, he studied his surroundings.
He found himself within a large library. Books lined the walls so high that he could not see the end of them. He felt certain that some magic was at work, for he knew that the palace was not so tall, but how anyone had been able to create such a limitless space within a finite one was beyond him and the thought of it frightened him just a little. He began to wonder just how powerful Utar’rah himself was. Had he created this room?
Several desks and chairs were scattered throughout the room. One large counter with several quills and ink wells stood off to the side. There were no patrons that D’Han could see; no students or scholars--- no one. The contrast of the earlier halls and the library was not lost on D’Han. It was quiet enough to hear the dust settling. His treacherous thoughts toward Utar’rah seemed to echo off of the walls around him like the voices of a thousand hateful phantoms. His malice and his ill intent reflected from all around him and he began to detest the silence. He felt the sudden need to cough or grumble or say anything to break the somber air, yet at the same time, he found that he could not do it. He began to pace around the box. He chewed on his bottom lip. He could not seem to stand still. He fingered a coin in his pocket, took the coin out, examined it, flipped it, dropped it onto the carpet then bent down to pick it up.
Just then, a door behind the counter opened and Utar’rah stepped into the room. He saw D’Han and smiled warmly. “Good morning!” he said “It’s wonderful to see you!”
D’Han fumbled with his coin, then returned it to his pocket. “Yes,” he said, somewhat startled. “You too, sir.”
Utar’rah walked around the counter and came to stand beside D’Han. He smiled as he saw the box. “So, this is it?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, his voice cracking hoarsely. “Let me show you.” D’Han bent down and put his trembling fingers to the straps. He noticed the shaking of his hands and tried to cover it up by moving faster, but the result was that he lurched about the box like a tightly wound toy soldier. He tugged at the straps, but his fingers would not take hold of the buckle. He became angry and jerked at the cloth itself. The linen tore, but it did not come all the way free. D’Han swore beneath his breath and pulled again and again until his face turned red.
Utar’rah, seeing the young blacksmith’s anxiety, came up beside him and put his hand on D’Han’s shoulder. “There, now,” he said. “I can see that you are a bit nervous, but let me assure you that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about or fear here. Now, let’s have a look at this box.” He set his hands to the buckles and gently removed the straps. “There, now. That will do it.” He lifted off the sheet and examined the box. He ran his hands along the edges of it and nodded to himself. After a moment, he straightened and patted D’Han on the back. “Well done!” he said. “Capital!”
The old man reached into his robes and brought out a bag of coins. “And here is your payment, Master, and well deserved it is, too. I’ve never seen such care and workmanship before! Excellent!” He placed the bag into D’Han’s hand.
D’Han shook his head fiercely. “No!” he exclaimed. “Not yet!”
“What is it?” asked Utar’rah with concern.
“Well, sir,” D’Han stammered. “We should see--- we should see if the book fits, shouldn’t we? I mean, if it doesn’t, then, well, I would feel terrible---”
“No, there’s no need for that,” Utar’rah said. “I have every faith in your skill.”
D’Han frowned. “But---”
“No, no,” said Utar’rah. “Don’t you worry about it. I thank you very much for a job well done. Now, I am a busy man. Let me show you to the door.”
D’Han let himself be led to the door, shocked that he had not even gotten to see the book. His moment of opportunity was withering like an apple under heavy frost. His chance was slipping from his grasp! He had to do something! He continued toward the door even as his mind raced feverishly for some reason to stay. He could not leave without the book. Fate had brought him to this point to test him, to test his resolve, to test whether he was weak or whether he was strong. But he was not weak, he told himself. He was strong and he deserved to reap the spoils of his strength and his superiority. He had to see the book, to touch it, to claim it for his own. He could not leave it in the hands of the librarian. Fools had no business with things of power, and like a fool, the old codger would frivolously store it away so that none would ever know of its existence. But D’Han knew of its existence, and he knew that he had been shown for a reason, like a man who is touched by the sudden beam of enlightenment, he knew that he could not return to the life of an ordinary man, the life of unenlightenment and slavery.
Just as they reached the door, D’Han rounded desperately on the old librarian. “Please, sir,” he said, his voice was cold and flat. “What if the book doesn’t fit? You would have paid me for nothing, then. I couldn’t abide it. I will not leave until we see that it has really been a job well done. I am a business man, after all,” he said. “It would be very unprofessional of me not to at least test the fit.”
Utar’rah paused upon the threshold of the library, then turned. He said nothing for several seconds, but only studied D’Han as though he were looking into the face of a total stranger. After some time, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. It would be a shame if I had to call you all the way back from the forge to redo it all.”
D’Han smiled, feigning joviality. “There you go,” he said. “Now we are talking reasonably.”
Utar’rah turned and walked back to the counter. He went to the door, but he did not go in before turning once more to glance at D’Han. He shook his head, then disappeared into the other room.
“The old man suspects me,” whispered D’Han. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s bringing the book, which is all that he needs to do.”
A short time passed before Utar’rah returned carrying a large white book. “Here it is,” he said, coming before D’Han and the box. “Now then. Let’s see how it fits.”
D’Han watched in dreadful anticipation as the librarian lowered the book into the box. It slid in perfectly.
“Excellent!” Utar’rah exclaimed. “I knew that it would.”
D’Han nodded. “It fits very well.”
“Well, then. I believe that is all---”
“Before I go,” D’Han interjected. “Do you mind if I make you a proposal?”
Utar’rah smiled politely, but he could not keep the sudden fear from his eyes. “Of course,” he said, suspiciously. “Please do.”
D’Han saw the librarian’s fear and savored it. Encouraged, he continued. “It would be a shame to hide away such a treasure,” he said. “What if I stored it for you at my forge? Surely no one would suspect a lowly blacksmith of holding a book of magical power. I would keep it very safe. What do you think?”
Utar’rah did not answer immediately, seeming to choose his words before he uttered them. “I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” he said, his voice condescending. “Surely you would make an admirable guardian, but I do think it would be best if left here, in the palace, where I have guards and wards to protect it. I do appreciate your kind offer, however, and I will think on it.”
D’Han flinched at being so blatantly patronized. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sure you’re right.” He laughed. “It was silly of me to think of it. Here,” he said, lifting up the box. “Let me help you to move it.”
Utar’rah’s eyes grew wide as he saw D’Han lift up the box with the book still inside. “That’s quite all right,” he said nervously, moving quickly toward the box. “I have plenty of help here. There’s no need for you to strain yourself.”
“It’s no strain,” said D’Han. “Honestly.”
“No, really,” said Utar’rah, putting both hands on the box. “Let me. You’ve done enough.”
D’Han felt the old man trying to pull the box from his grasp so he jerked the box backward with a growl of warning. “I said: Let---me---help---you---”
Utar’rah lurched forward again, reaching for the box as though it were about to fall from a cliff. D’Han reacted violently, lifting the box above his head. Then, as the old librarian fell forward and clutched at the blacksmith’s shirt, D’Han brought the box down again and dealt the old man a savage blow to the top of his head.
For a moment, the librarian stood there as though nothing at all had happened, as if he might go and shelve a book or tidy his desk. A great hole had been opened in the top of his head by the corner of the steel box, and from it blood flowed miserably down his brow and into his eyes and over his cheeks. Yet he did not fall immediately, but wavered there as if gravity had momentarily lost track of him. Then, in a sudden and heart-wrenching instant, he crumpled to the floor, and there rested in a pool of his own blood.
D’Han stood over him, breathing heavily. He watched for a moment in grim fascination as blood poured from Utar’rah’s head and formed a red lake on the carpet. “Stupid fool,” he hissed. “It didn’t have to end like this, did it? No. I offered you a way out, but you refused, and I daresay I can’t be held responsible for the choices made by every fool in this city. Now, look at you. You look very silly, sir. Your brains are all out. You’re spent. I know, I know what you are thinking, but I should warn you against judging me or my actions. In the face of such reckless foolishness as you have displayed here, today, I should think you would understand and even find a bit of gratitude in your heart for the man willing to take such daring steps. If you reflect on it, I’m sure you will come to appreciate what has happened here today. Now, if you will forgive my haste, I really must be going. Thank, you for everything you’ve done. No, no, don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.”
D’Han turned, with the box still crooked beneath his arm, and walked toward the door. He reached out to take hold of the handle when he realized that his hands were covered in blood and trembling as though he suffered from palsy. He fumbled at the door knob for a moment before he finally turned back to the library and walked back to the body of the old man. He set the box onto the floor next to the body then wiped his hands on the old man’s robes. Standing up, he hastened around the counter to the door through which Utar’rah had entered. He opened the door and found a small office beyond. He stepped into the office and, looking about, found a wash basin and looking glass standing atop a high chest of drawers. He went over to the basin and dunked his hands into the water. As he rinsed the blood from his hands he glanced into the mirror. The face of a lunatic assassin stared back at him. His lip was twisted in a haughty sneer. His brow was mean, his lips thin and cruel. Without thinking, D’Han swiped at the mirror and knocked if off of the chest. Then, with a strange sort of lurch, he left the room and re-entered the library. He grabbed up the box once more and headed for the door. This time he had no trouble turning the handle. He pulled the door open and dashed into the hallway.
Closing the door behind him, D’Han turned and scurried down the hall. He ran past a maid, then turned and descended the stairs. He met three men upon the stairs. The three men were engaged in some heated conversation and, though it felt as if they were studying him with suspicion and accusation, they passed by D’Han with scarcely a glance in his direction.
“They know,” D’Han whispered to himself. “They’ll be checking the library soon enough.”
He was met at the bottom of the stairs by the familiar scent of cinnamon and sandalwood, and a great throng of people that were still milling about within the main foyer. Their voices were like a great audience in his ears, as though the first act had ended and they were discussing the play during intermission. Every person he passed seemed to whisper his treachery. Every couple that laughed, laughed at him.
“Did you see the look on his face...?”
“Horrible, just ghastly...”
“He is sick...”
“He suffers, oh, how he suffers, but he will pay...”
“He already pays...”
D’Han tried to shut the voices out by clamping his teeth together and gouging the corner of the box into the palm of his hand, but it did not help. Business men and suitors to the Chaos Lord crowded around him. It felt as though they were all trying to grab and catch him. He could not breathe. He pushed his way past the many people as though he were running from a burning building. He barreled past a group of Saurial dignitaries then pushed his way over the threshold of the main entrance. He emerged onto the main landing next to the two pixie clerks. One looked down at him and said, “One box!” The other pixie scribbled this note into the book. D’Han became alarmed and nearly said something, but before he opened his mouth the pixies were already concerning themselves with the contents of a new man’s backpack.
D’Han took this opportunity to slink away from the pixies. He bled back into the crowd on the landing until he was able to maneuver his way back to the ship platform. A group of men was waiting there for the arrival of a distant ship. D’Han gave a sigh of relief as he saw the craft hovering nearer. He set his box onto the ground and waited.
D’Han stood there for a minute feeling naked and exposed. He could not keep himself from turning back to the palace and studying the people anxiously. How long would it take them to discover his malice? How long would it take them to find him out? Every man that looked in his direction sent chills of fear through his body. Every flash of metal seemed to hearken the coming of the palace guards to arrest him. He knew that he was sweating, but he could not help it. His stomach was roiling and his skin clammy. He turned back to the dock and set his attention to the coming ship.
“I hate flying on these things too.”
D’Han looked down to see a gnome beside him.
“Gnomes weren’t meant to fly,” he said in a nasally, high-pitched voice. “I fly regularly, but it’s always the same for me. The minute I set foot on the deck of one of those crazy things, my stomach turns upside down and I puke for three hours.”
“Yeah,” D’Han nodded, moving away from the little gnome. He walked to the eastern corner of the landing and waited there, looking back to make sure that the gnome had not followed him. Then, the ship arrived. Everyone clambered aboard. D’Han lifted up his trunk and got on behind the others. Within moments, the signal for moving was given and the ship pulled away from the dock. D’Han watched the palace recede above him, but he did not feel any more relieved. If anything, his anxiety grew worse. It was only a matter of time, he knew. But when? When would they catch up to him?
* * *
D’Han arrived at his home. He dragged his box through the stable door, then locked the door behind him. He was grateful to find that the forge was empty. He set the box down, then checked all the windows and doors. He locked everything and hung burlap sacks over the windows. When he felt reasonably certain that no one could see him, he went back over to the box and lifted the lid. He stared at the white book within for several seconds before he dared to touch it. Then, he reached in and pulled the thing out.
He sat down upon the edge of his bed and laid the book in his lap. He whispered the title to himself: “’The Book of Apa’nangati’,” he said. “Interesting.”
Reading further, he discovered that the book contained spells of ancient magic and power, power that had not been seen since before the dawn of man. The prospect of learning and using such power made him tremble with excitement and fear. He quickly hastened about the barn and began pulling beams and anvils and furniture against all the doors. When he was satisfied that he was barricaded safely within the forge, he took the book into an empty room. He stocked the room with whatever small provisions he would need, then shut and locked the door. There, alone, with only the light of a candle to read by, he opened the book and began his training.
He had to learn the power quickly, he knew. It was his only hope of avoiding the consequences of slaying the librarian. He knew that, chaos city or not, the Chaos Lord would desire to know who had murdered Utar’rah and would come looking for him in due time. But, if D’Han had unlocked the secrets of the book and gained power enough to rival the Chaos Lord by then, what could anyone do? They would be at his mercy, not the other way around. And so he studied.
He felt safe there, alone in the dark with his book. For three days and nights he heard nothing, saw nothing, ate nothing. He barely slept, but spent his every waking hour memorizing, reciting, and chanting. Then, upon the third day, he finished the book. He opened his study door and went out into the forge. As soon as he exited the room, he heard knocking at the main doors. The sound sent a lightning flash of fear through his veins and he scampered quickly to the door to see who it was. Then, he heard her voice:
“D’Han!” cried Il’Asha. “Please answer! D’Han, are you in there? We’re very worried!”
At first D’Han shrank back from the voice. Fear of being seen by his lover filled his soul with shame. Fear of hearing her gentle and loving voice made him recoil in horror. Yet, it was fear of discovery that nevertheless prompted him to go to the door and listen.
“You haven’t seen him for three days?” asked Il’Asha.
“Nay,” said Pran’yana, his voice full of doubt and sadness. “Not since he left to deliver his box.”
“Oh, dear. Do you think we should tell someone? What if he’s in trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you worried?”
“No,” Pran’yana said in a placating tone. “I’m sure he’s fine. You know how he is. He’s not been himself lately, but I’m sure he’s well enough.”
There was a silence beyond the door---- then:
“I’m terribly worried. I think we should go to the authorities. Or maybe Utar’rah knows something...”
“Yes,” said Pran’yana. “It can’t hurt anything if he is well, and if he isn’t... Let me go with you.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Il’Asha. “Thank you, Pran’yana.”
D’Han listened to their footsteps as they trailed away and joined the other city noises. Then, he spun away from the door and balled up his fist. “Curse me!” he groaned. “That’s just what I need.”
He paced over the floor as he thought of what to do. “They’ll come for me. They’ll take the book. They’ll take everything! But I have power now! Or do I? I must test it! Yes, and I’ll make certain they take nothing from me again.”
D’Han removed the barricade from the front door, then raced to the fire pits and loaded and started the flames to burn. He heaped on wood and coal and sent the sparks flying. Then, he fashioned a great length of chain and fastened the chain to the box. He fashioned a clever manacle and set it to the other end of the chain. When this was finished, he clamped the manacle about his right wrist and set it there with fire. He howled in agony as the hot metal burned his own flesh, but as the pain subsided he laughed. “They’ll never take the book from me, now!”
It was not long after he had accomplished these tasks that he heard the inevitable rapping at the front door. D’Han, to allay suspicion, set the chains and the box in his lap, then covered them all with a thick blanket. He settled down into a chair, then called out: “Yes? Who’s there?”
“The city guard!” came a reply. “Open this door, please!”
“It’s open. You may come in!”
The door burst open. Four armed men wearing golden breastplates entered. Il’Asha and Pran’yana were just behind them. Il’Asha saw D’Han sitting there and ran to him. “Oh, D’Han, you are well! Thank the gods!” She threw her arms about him and kissed him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked the captain, stepping forward.
D’Han looked up innocently. “Meaning of what, sir?”
“This lady claims that you had disappeared for three days. Your servant could not find you, nor get into the forge.”
“Oh, you’re so pale,” said Il’Asha. “You’ve lost weight, too, I can tell.”
“Yes,” said D’Han. “I’ve been sick. I haven’t been out for three days. I’m afraid that I was feverish. It appears that in my fever, I must have barricaded the doors. I’m terribly sorry if I caused any alarm.”
“Oh, you poor dear!” Il’Asha gasped. “I would have taken care of you if I’d known!”
The captain stepped forward suspiciously. “Sick, eh? Your lady friend tells that you were on your way to see the Head Librarian three days ago. What can you tell me of that?”
D’Han swallowed hard to keep down his fear. How much did the captain know? “What do you want to know?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.
The captain studied him for a time before speaking. “Did you go to the palace?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I delivered a box.”
“A box, eh? Anything in the box?”
“No, sir. Just a box.”
The captain paced in front of him for some time. D’Han glanced over to Pran’yana, then to Il’Asha. He shuffled his feet nervously.
“Did you know that the librarian was killed three days ago?” asked the captain.
“Killed---?” D’Han gasped. “No--- I--- didn’t know that.”
The captain glanced down to the blanket in D’Han’s lap. “Are you holding something there?” he asked.
“No, sir. I’ve just been cold.”
The captain moved as if to take a closer look.
D’Han reacted. He spoke a word, a word so vile and sinister that the very air turned foul as it was uttered. The word hovered outward like a green, noxious gas, reaching upward, seeking the captain out. The captain choked as the gas clouded about his face and head. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. He waved his hand, then fell to his knees. Suddenly, his beard and hair caught fire. The flame burst forth in a terrible green implosion, working its way inward. Seconds later, the captain lay dead, his head a charred and smoking husk.
Il’Asha screamed.
The remaining three guards turned and started to run, but D’Han raised up his left hand and held them all. Then, he slew them.
Pran’yana stared at the bodies, then looked to D’Han.
Il’Asha was crying. She screamed again and backed away from D’Han.
“Close the door,” D’Han ordered Pran’yana.
Pran’yana did not move.
“Close it!” he roared.
Pran’yana stumbled backward and flung the doors shut.
“D’Han!” Il’Asha cried. “What---?”
D’Han sneered at her. “Well, this is what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Il’Asha covered her mouth with her hands in surprise. “Me?” she stammered. “I didn’t want this!”
Pran’yana moved over to the girl and put his arms around her. D’Han, for his part, did not move or get out of his chair. He only looked at them both with a haughty and disdainful air.
“You wanted to be free, didn’t you?” said D’Han.
Il’Asha shook her head. “This is what you wanted,” she said. “I just wanted you. We could have been happy with nothing!”
The smell of charred flesh was thick in the room, but D’Han rather enjoyed it. He was pleased at how well his spells had worked. No one would stop him, now. No one would bully him. No one would take from him. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. This is what I wanted. But you are wrong, also. I could never have been happy living like a slave. Now, I am free. I have power at last, and no one will dare to challenge me!”
Pran’yana took Il’Asha by the shoulders and began to lead her toward the door. Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks as she gazed for the last time upon the remnants of the man who had once been her lover; his emaciated body, his gaunt cheeks, his wild, homicidal eyes. Then, she could look at him no longer and buried her face into Pran’yana’s chest.
D’Han laughed at her. “Pitiful woman,” he spat. “You do not deserve me. Leave me, before I decide to test my power again.”
Pran’yana did not hesitate, but flung open the doors and pulled Il’Asha through. Together they crossed the threshold of the blacksmith’s forge and disappeared into the streets of Oard.
D’Han did not watch them leave. It was time to institute the last phase of his plan. He thrust off the blanket, opened the box, and pulled out the Book of Apa’nangati. He turned to the proper page and spoke the appropriate chant. Seconds later, he spasmed violently. The book fell from his fingers into the dirt and he collapsed upon the floor, writhing in convulsive torture. The bones of his body cracked and popped. His skin stretched here and gathered there as his entire body changed. Minutes later, the gruesome ritual was finished and D’Han, with a great effort, rose to his feet. Pain and exhaustion racked him, but he was able to steady himself against the chair. From there, he slowly bent down and returned the book to its box, then shut the lid. Then, with what remained of his strength, he lifted his shackled arms and dragged the box across the room to where a mirror stood upon a distant table. He lifted the mirror with shaking hands and gazed at himself.
A terrible, rasping laugh croaked from between his lips as he gazed into the mirror and beheld the face of a total stranger. “They will never find me now,” he grinned. “D’Han is dead.” Finally, exhaustion overcame him and he fell to the floor unconscious.
* * *
Several years later, while passing through the market district in a noble carriage, D’Han heard a distinctive voice and ordered his driver to stop. There were many people in the square that day, and much noise, but one woman’s laughter had risen above the crowds and caught his attention. He stuck his head out of the window just in time to see a poor, yet lovely, woman laughing at her youngest daughter. The woman’s husband was beside her also, buying apples for their three children.
So drawn was he to the beauty of the woman that D’Han opened the door of his carriage, pulled down the box that was shackled to his wrist, and stepped into the crowd of people. Those who saw him, hastened to move away from him, for his face was twisted and ugly. His hands were gnarled. And years of dragging the box behind him had deformed him, giving him the appearance of a hunchback.
He was able to move quite near to the woman who had so attracted his attention before one of the girls spied him and said to her mother, “Mama, there’s a strange beggar over there.”
The woman looked up and saw D’Han, saw the chain around his wrist and the box, which was now terribly scuffed and beaten. “Oh, you poor creature,” she said. “Is there no one to care for you?”
The three girls backed away from D’Han as he approached, staring up at the lovely woman. “Take no pity on me,” he said. “I have no need of it.”
At that moment, the woman’s husband turned and saw the wretch at her feet. “What is this, Il’Asha?” he asked.
D’Han heard the name like a dagger in his heart. “Il’Asha?” he gasped in horror.
Il’Asha gazed down upon him and studied him intently. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“Know me---?”
“You do seem---”
“He doesn’t look like a beggar,” said her husband. “He’s dressed well enough.”
“But, lovey---”
“Come on, now,” he took her protectively by the shoulders. “Here,” he said, throwing D’Han a coin. “Let’s be away.”
D’Han watched as Il’Asha was hastened away from him. Her three daughters followed, laughing to one another and talking gaily. They had only gotten a short distance away when the whole family began to laugh. Then, they were gone.
D’Han blinked at the image of them in his memory and his face contorted with hate. “They’re laughing at me...” he growled. “How dare they laugh at me? How dare they pity me! I could buy and sell the lot of them!”
He turned and spat, then kicked the ground with his black leather boot. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, then picked up his box. He shuffled back to his carriage and lifted the box inside. Placing the box onto the seat cushion, he then put his foot to the bottom step, and prepared to climb up. But before he did, he turned and gazed back out to the market. He searched the crowds there for some time, so long, in fact, that the driver turned back to him and asked whether or not he would like to continue on.
D’Han looked up to his driver and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Please... drive on. And let’s not come through this district again, shall we? ‘Tis a vulgar place...”
“As you wish, sir,” answered the coachman. He clicked his reins and started the carriage forward.
Any mention of Inzeladun, Oard,T'Bor, Psi-Gates, or any other element of Inzeladun is Copyright Vincent N. Darlage, 2003. Copyright of the story itself and all rights therein are maintained by Mark van Dyk, notwithstanding that he has offered his works here electronically. It is understood that persons copying this information will adhere to the terms and constraints invoked by each author's copyright. These works may not be reposted without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.
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