Azaria (51 page)

Mystified, Azerban took the second container out and then pulled from his pocket its sibling, holding one in each hand. For several long moments he sat there like that, confused, completely forgetting his rush to leave before Takur returned.

He suddenly heard footsteps outside the shelter. His eyes swept to the entrance, an expression of childish guilt painted on his face. The footsteps ceased and Azerban heard a slap on the leather flaps. He caught his breath, his hands trembling holding Fahim's medicine bag open. It was not Takur, but a visitor. Panicked, Azerban froze. And waited. A second slapping sound, louder now, resonated across Takur's hearth. Azerban dared not draw a breath, until finally the gentle patter of retreating footfalls greeted his red ears.

Safe again, for a moment at least, Azerban turned his eyes back to the twin pouches in his hands. A fresh perspective often presented an advantage, and in this instance, the old adage proved true. The slightest of differences between the two pouches made themselves apparent. He was surprised he even noticed them. The sinew cords holding the pouches closed were twisted in opposite directions, with one following the path of the sun, and the other one counter. So there was a difference, Azerban realized. They weren't just redundancies of each other, as he'd suspected. That would have been the only reasonable explanation, even though it was an inefficient use of space to keep two pouches of the same ingredient in the same bag, and a practice he'd doubted Fahim would engage in.

But if there was a difference between the pouches, then the contents must vary too. His curiosity fully peaked, Azerban opened both. Visually, the ingredients held within were also identical. He sniffed at both bags, and thought he could detect a slightly more acrid odor to one. He poked a finger into each and tasted. It was obvious. There was a definite difference in flavor. One was more pungent. It was a slight disparity, but observable to his experienced tongue nonetheless.

Azerban closed the two pouches, his wonder quenched. Fahim must have been using subtle variations in her applications, hoping to find the most effective treatment. It was an uncommon approach, one he rarely employed, but he was not surprised Fahim had been experimenting. Her confidence in her abilities was unwavering, and deservedly so. She was a Master Healer. Satisfied, he stuffed both of the small pouches back into his tunic pocket and began to pull the drawstring of Fahim's bag closed. Then another find caught his attention. Beneath the second pouch was a small, smooth riverstone with apparent markings. Curious again, Azerban reached in and picked it up, turning it over once and again in his hand, realizing each side had its own similar pair of markings.

Each side had an arcing line, punctuated by a small upward tick forming an arrow like shape. To the right of the first symbol was a diagonally straight line, also ending with an arrow-like tip. Unlike the ingredients inside the pouches though, the difference between the pair of markings was clear. On one side, the arced line ended to the right, symbolizing the path the sun made across the sky. The straight line following it went diagonally up and to the right. On the second side, the symbols were reversed. The arcing line on the other side started on the right, with the tip ending to its left, symbolizing a direction opposite the path the sun followed. The tipped-line next to it also followed a path to the right, but it pointed diagonally down.

The meaning of the two symbols, along with the repercussions, came to Azerban immediately, almost as quickly as his boiling fury. The implication was obvious, and horrifying. The first symbols on both sides referred to the direction the sinew cords were twisted around their respective pouches, and therefore told Fahim which pouch the second symbol pertained to. The second symbols, although perhaps indecipherable to others, were immediately clear to Azerban. They referred to Zephia, more specifically, to her condition. Fahim was using the stone to remind her which mix of ingredients each pouch contained. One marked a beneficial mixture, indicated by the upward leaning arrow. The other side then, with the downward leaning arrow, marked the pouch with a pernicious mix.

Azerban was aghast as he came to conclusion. Even he had trouble believing she could be so evil, so malicious. For a moment, he swallowed his rage, forced himself to rethink. Could there be some other explanation? But no, the meaning of the symbols was as clear as a cloudless sky. Fahim had been controlling Zephia's recovery. That's why her health had oscillated so. When she wanted his mate to recover, she'd apply one mixture. And when it fit her needs to see Zephia decline, she'd use the other.

As the blood within his veins seethed, he had another thought. Perhaps it was the fact she was no longer present to wring his fevered hands around her neck that brought his thoughts to her co-leader mate. Did Takur know of this? Could he have been as equally malevolent as his dead mate? A couple of moons ago, Azerban wouldn't have been able to stomach the idea of suspecting Takur, even despite their past differences. But now, he could barely keep himself from outright condemning his old friend. How could Takur not have known? How could Fahim have carried out such treachery without his knowledge?

Instantly, Azerban's attention was brought back to the first medicine bag, the one on the front end of the small table. The one he'd originally come for. Takur's medicine bag. He tore it open as if it were Fahim’s throat. His hands trembling, the contents dropped to the floor. And there, glaringly obvious, as if all the other strewn-out items were just peripheral interference, were three items that matched the ones in Fahim's bags. Two small pouches, exactly like the one he’d seen Takur treat his daughter with, and a small riverstone, with markings identical to Fahim's.

Azerban stood at the peak of Sunset Hill, where his adored mate Zephia loved to watch the setting sun. He had no idea from where he'd found the restraint to control himself back in Takur's hearth. Instead of raging like a wild bull, tearing the shelter down with his bare hands, he’d remained tranquil, meticulously placing each item of Takur's bag back into its proper position. Before he'd finished, he stole a few bits of the valerian root. He needed them now more than ever. He'd also returned the items he'd taken from Fahim's bag and delicately placed them back where they'd sat upon his entrance. Then, he'd slipped back through the flaps, careful to make sure he left unseen.

But instead of returning back to his shelter to fix his head-soothing brew, Azerban found himself calmly inclining the gentle hill, the tumultuous pain within his head mystifyingly lessening of its own accord. Although outwardly he appeared settled, within a storm of rage whirled. He knew which course his fury would lead him down. There was no denying it. The only matter left was laying the correct path. As he gazed out into the vast horizon, he noticed the great orb's reddened tones bleeding into a white, milky sky. It was a fitting scene. And prescient. For Azerban knew the summer ahead would be a bloody one.

That night, after they’d eaten a late, silent meal, Azaria lay in her furs. Hardly a word had been spoken since she’d returned. Even Quzo was silent, still fearful of his father’s wrath for upsetting the water bowl.

Azaria wished her father would talk to her. She felt it was his responsibility to bridge the chasm. It was too difficult for her to breach the subject. She still wanted to know why she’d been placed on the altar. If Dogahn didn’t know, only her father could tell her.

But she also understood why it might be hard for him. She could see how troubled he was, and that the tempest brewing within him had only worsened since that morning.

In the dim light, Azaria rose and walked to her father’s furs, sitting down next to him.

He turned, startled, "What’s wrong, Azaria?"

"Everything, but quiet, father," she said. "I want to talk to you."

"Now, Azaria? It’s late. This is hardly the..."

"Shhhh... father. I said I wanted to talk to you. Just listen.”

"I don’t know why I was involved in the Equinox ceremony. And I know it’s too hard for you to tell me right now. But I don’t want you to worry about it anymore. I just want my old father back. I love you."

Then Azaria took his arm and wrapped it around herself. She laid her head atop her father’s massive shoulder and exhaled a sigh of relief. She knew it would take more than a few words to mend what had been torn, but she knew they would eventually get there and that they’d do it together, as they always had.