War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) (18 page)

“Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t, but that is beside the point. It should never have happened in the first place. Darius should never have been king.”

“Yes, but he is king now.” The prince raised his voice and in that moment he almost sounded kingly. “I chose him on the counsel of a holy magi, if I recall.”

“I was wrong!”

“More’s the pity for you, but it’s no concern of mine now.”

“And if he comes for you? What then? Can Jengo protect you from all of Darius’s armies by himself?”

Jengo cleared his throat. “Of course the prince knows that I cannot.”

“What would you have me do?” Faris turned and walked slowly back toward his bed, where the sheets lay twisted and piled on the floor. “Demand the crown at sword point? Challenge him to a duel? Or do you imagine I might just shake a proclamation at my cousin, that he should be cowed by a mere roll of parchment in my mighty fist?” Faris chuckled.

“Go to your generals and demand their support,” Iyasu said. “You know which are still loyal to you. Digna, Taharqa, Alara. With them at your side, Darius would have to stand down.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Faris eased down onto his bed. “I’d be dead in a matter of seconds. Thank you, no. I think I’ll stay here.”

Iyasu came inside and nudged one of the silver platters with his toe. “Your house is empty, Your Highness. In fact, your entire neighborhood is empty. How long until you run out of food? A month, a week? Then what will you do?”

Faris sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I think you should—”

“I think you should be silent!” Again the prince’s voice roared with power. “I never wanted to be a prince, and it has been impressed upon me time and again that no one else particularly wants me to be a prince either. You seem to be the only person who thinks otherwise, O holy magi. But the matter is closed, and has been for months. Darius Harun rules in Tagal now, and any objection you have to his reign should be taken to him, not me!”

“But people are dying!”

“I don’t care.”

“Innocent children.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Iyasu clawed at his hair and then looked up with reddened eyes. “The Angel of Death is stalking the streets of Tagal as we speak. I met her. I spoke to her. She hates all of humanity, and she’s come here, to your country, to punish us for our sins. Here, of all places. She could go anywhere in the world, and she chose Tagal. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Faris wiped the sweat from his cheek. “I don’t know what it means.”

“It means that Tagal is the most corrupt and hateful place in all the world,” Iyasu said. “Your country, under the rule of your cousin, whom you crowned with your own hands, has attracted the wrath of the Angel of Death herself.”

The prince’s fingers trembled slightly on his belly. “So?”

“So heaven has noticed how miserable, how terrible, how evil this place has become,” the seer said. “So even if Darius doesn’t kill you, even if you don’t starve to death alone in your little palace by the water, what will happen to your soul when you do die?”

“God is merciful and forgiving,” Faris whispered.

“Is that what you intend to tell him when he asks you why you put a butcher on your throne and then stood by and did nothing when your palace floors ran red with the blood of innocents?”

The prince’s eyes darted to the seer. “You. You were there too. You played your part.”

“And I hate myself for it!” Iyasu screamed so loudly that even Jengo started and half-raised his hand as though to shield the prince from that vicious sound. “I stayed in that cursed city for weeks, trying to make him stop, being forced to watch as he killed again and again, watching good people suffer and die right in front of me!”

Veneka strode forward and grabbed the young man by the shoulders, turned him away from the prince, and took his face in her hands. “Iyasu? Iyasu, listen to me. You tried to help these people. You tried to do the right thing. And when you made a mistake, you tried to fix it. You are still trying. We all know that.”

She kept talking as she tried to pass whatever healing grace she could summon into her hands, but there was nothing wrong with the seer’s body. No sickness to banish, no wound to close. All of the injury was in his mind, his heart, and his soul, where she could do nothing for him.

Iyasu went on shaking and crying, his face growing redder as he tore away from her and turned back to the huge man on the bed. “How can you live with yourself, day after day, knowing what evil you unleashed on the world? The men he killed, they were your friends. They’d served you for years, for your entire life, some of them. And he killed them. And you let him.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Faris covered his eyes, but then dragged his hand away to reveal a face that looked suddenly haggard and exhausted. “I know. And I’m sorry. But it’s done. And there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Yes, there is. Come with me into the city.” Iyasu grabbed his arm. Jengo started to reach for the seer, but Veneka gently touched the huge warrior’s hand and stayed it. “Come with me. We’ll find General Taharqa and the others. We’ll raise your army and go to the palace and take back your crown from Darius. We can do it now, right now. By the end of the week, this whole nightmare will be over. Tagal will be at peace, the killings will stop, the wars will stop.”

“And the Angel of Death?”

“She… she may be appeased.”

“And heaven, too?”

Iyasu smiled weakly. “And heaven too.”

Faris sighed. “Fine. Damn you. Damn us both.”

“You’ll do it?”

He nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll try.”

Iyasu exhaled and Veneka saw him shiver so hard she thought he was about to collapse, but the young seer turned and shuffled away, rubbing his head.

Jengo cleared his throat. “I’ll gather a few things. We can leave this evening after sunset.” And he left.

“I’ll fix the fence,” Samira offered, and strode out of the room.

“Tonight.” Faris closed his eyes and leaned back on a heap of bare pillows at the end of the bed. “Not tomorrow?”

“We cannot wait,” Veneka said. “Azrael, the Angel of Death, she is already here. When she begins attacking the soldiers here, Darius will think he is under attack from some other nation, and then it will be open war from Ovati to Elladi. Thousands will die every day.”

Faris nodded and sighed loudly.

The room fell silent and still. Petra and Edris stood in the corner together, watching the prince. Iyasu stood on the stairs leading down to the water, and he sank down into a crouch to watch the river flow by. Bashir leaned against the wall, staring at his feet.

Veneka hesitated a moment longer, and then caught Zerai’s eye and led him out of the room. “I think Iyasu should stay here.”

“Are you serious? He’ll never do that.”

“He is exhausted.”

“I know. Still, you’d have to tie him down to make him stay behind.”

“I know.” She turned a corner, following the faint scent of pepper.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason.” He paused. “Listen there’s something I want to ask you.”

Veneka sighed.

Now? Again?

“Zerai, we can talk about it when we get home, I promise,” she said. “But we are not going to discuss that now.”

“What?” He smiled, but she could tell it wasn’t genuine. It was the fake smile he used to hide what he was really thinking or feeling. “No, not that. Nothing about that.”

“Oh. Then what?”

“Bashir.”

She frowned. “What about him?”

“We talked. Mostly about his wife.”

“The dead wife he is carrying around with him in a bag?”

“Yeah, he’s… well, he’s not what you think he is.”

“He is a poisoner, a killer.”

“Yes, yes he is. And he saved thousands of innocent lives in Lashad with his poisoning and killing.”

“What?” Veneka looked at him. “He said that? And you believed him?”

“He said his masters were planning to poison all of Lashad, and he killed them to stop them.”

“Because he loves humans so much?”

“Because he loved Talia so much.” Zerai shrugged. “That I can believe.”

“I wish you would not trust him so much. We know nothing about him.”

“We know he’s carrying around a skeleton on his back, and we know he begged the Angel of Death to bring back a soul for him, so, yeah, I think we know him a little bit. He misses his dead wife, and he wants to bring her back.”

Veneka turned the corner and wandered into the kitchens. Before her were countless empty shelves and bins, but she slowly circled the room anyway, peering into and under and over everything in search of food.

“So he loved his wife, and he killed some djinn to save her. Fine.” She moved a little faster, banging wooden platters and silver trays and glass decanters about in their alcoves as she searched.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Zerai asked. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand why you have such a problem with him.”

She stopped and closed her eyes for a minute.

Because of the way he kills, using poisons to rot and torture living creatures from the inside out.

Because of the mad desperation in his eyes that apparently only I can see.

Because he wants to raise the dead.

Because Raziel told him no.

“I am sorry he lost his wife,” she said softly, still facing the jumbled contents of an alcove. “But he is obsessed with her, with death itself. You saw the way he picked over the dead bodies as we came down the river from Naj Kuvari. The way he ran off this afternoon on his own. He is a danger to everyone around him. We cannot trust him. No matter his intentions, he is too lost in this obsession.”

Zerai nodded. “I guess. But who wouldn’t be? If you died, and I thought there was even a chance I could bring you back…”

“Stop. Please.”

Do you think I have never asked myself that question? What would I do if you died? If I found your body cold, if I arrived just a little too late? Would I try to do more than heal you? Would I reach deeper, would I twist the nature of all living things, would I ask God to…?

Zerai cleared his throat. “Look, you’re right, maybe we can’t really trust him, maybe he is too obsessed with this idea. So we won’t be best friends, fine. But we can still help him. You can help him. Bring Talia back.”

“You do not know what you are asking.”

“Then tell me.”

She sighed. “This business… it is what the ancient clerics did. The old Razielim that destroyed Naj Kuvari three hundred years ago. They wanted more power. They wanted to play at being gods. And you know how that ended. Raziel dead. Thousands of innocents transformed into demons. Centuries of death and terror. You know better than anyone, you lived in that hell all your life.”

“I know. But this isn’t about power. This isn’t about you. It’s about him. It’s about her.”

Veneka sighed.

It is about her. But I know nothing about her. Did she even love Bashir? Would she want to come back? And if so, is he still the man she loved all those years ago?

Regardless of him though, what about her life? She died young. She was robbed of her life. All those years, all those choices, all those moments and memories that she should have had, stolen.

Raziel said no.

“Even if I could restore her body, I cannot restore her soul.”

Zerai touched her arm. “I know. But if Bashir figures that part out, he’ll still need your help.”

Veneka shrugged, not knowing what to say, not wanting to say anything. She just wanted the whole conversation to stop happening.

“Just think about it, please.” He squeezed her hand.

“All right.”

He wandered across the room to peek into the pots and jars on his own. Veneka turned her back to him and closed her eyes.

Absolutely not. Not ever.

Chapter 13
Samira

Moments after the sun set behind the walls of Tagal, Samira and the rest of her companions sat down in the smallest of the prince’s three barges. Jengo deftly cast off the lines, and they moved out into the channel to join a handful of tiny fishing boats scurrying across the river in search of a few more fish before darkness claimed the waters.

Samira sat quietly and watched the crocodiles gathering on the far shore of the Leyen.

This is exactly what I didn’t want. More humans. Politics. Debates. War.

“It was supposed to be simple,” she said to herself.

“Nothing is ever simple.” Petra smiled at her. Her hand absently caressed her flat belly. “Especially the things that should be simple.”

Jengo stood at the rear of the barge and carefully guided them with a few powerful sweeps of his oar. As they passed into the shadow of the city, the darkness consumed them so that all Samira could see was the waving grasses on the opposite bank.

A labored wheezing rose above the soft rippling of the water, and Samira slowly turned to look at the enormous figure of Prince Faris reclining on a dozen silk pillows on a wide bench.

How does a person do that to himself? He can barely more, barely breathe.

Moments later the barge eased against an old, weathered landing of split planks and cracked stones. Jengo and Zerai lashed the boat to the anchor stones and helped everyone to step off. Samira watched the prince struggle across the narrow gap between the ship and the land.

And the seer wants to put him on the throne? If this is their best option, I’d almost prefer to keep the warlord. Better to be destroyed intentionally by someone who hates you than to be destroyed accidentally by someone who can’t even dress himself.

“This way.” Jengo set out down the long stone walkways that seemed to run the entire length of the city along the river’s edge.

Samira paused, and then chose to walk at the huge warrior’s side and let the others follow as best they could. With a glance she saw that Iyasu and Veneka stayed by the prince’s side, and Zerai stayed by them, so that they all quickly fell behind as Faris limped at the rear. Petra, Bashir, and Edris kept to the center, their eyes darting everywhere, their lips sealed.