Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (18 page)

She then vanished into the night. Ahiram stood there for a moment rubbing his lips. He scratched his head and sat back on a nearby bench. He forced his emotions to quiet down. He refused to think about her; he needed his focus for tomorrow. A vague sense of regret formed on the surface of his consciousness before disappearing. “Regret? Regret for what? You saw an incredible light. You have at least one faithful friend, so what are you regretting?” Ahiram was now muttering. The answer solidified immediately in his mind: “The chicken, it’s cold.”

“The Games were initially conceived to honor El-Windiir’s remarkable victory over the Lords of the Deep. The team with the greatest endurance, physical stamina, perfect self-control, determination, and focus would win.”

–
Principles and Rules for the Games of the Mines, The Great Judge Bayrul III

“The Games? A paradox, I say. A rigged cry of freedom, a deadly doorway to freedom, an illusion of reality, a concrete illusion. A marvelous remembrance of El-Windiir’s fate, the Games would kill any participating slave. After all, if the King sets all the slaves free, who would cook the chicken and clean the parsley?”

–
Soliloquy of Zuzu the Hip, Jester of the Royal Court of Tanniin

Ahiram opened his eyes just as the sun’s rays splashed over the rough, wooden floor in his small room. Two narrow rectangles of light lit the usual spot, the only one the sun could briefly reach as it lurched sideways between the high guard tower opposite the slaves’ wing and the branches of a nearby oak. His gaze strayed to the tiny particles floating aimlessly in the shaft of light. Other slaves he shared this wing with believed the strange, shiny specks were remnants of the souls of the dead. Makombians, the gentle slaves from the Kingdom of Makombé, who worked the kitchen, feared to touch a shaft of light, preferring to wait until the light moved away before entering the premises.

Ahiram rolled onto his back, cupped his head with his hands, and absentmindedly watched the shiny particles go through their chaotic dance. He felt the familiar sadness linger around him for a while before dissipating right when the sunrays moved away from his window; the same sadness he had felt ever since Master Kwadil brought him to Tanniin. But today, the veil of sorrow was heavier.

I woke up crying last night, but over what?

A thick curtain lay over his childhood memories in Baher-Ghafé, preventing him from recalling the tragic events that led to his exile in Tanniin. A knot of sorrow mixed with apprehension filled his heart.

Noraldeen must be gone by now.

Her leaving left a gaping hole in his heart, but her absence was not the main source of his sadness. He could no longer remember his father’s and mother’s voices. He relied now mainly on forged imagination; he could still see them, as in a faded dream. Only his sister Hoda stood clear and bright in his memories, as if he had seen her the night before.

I was certain I had seen Hoda yesterday. What is wrong with me?

Firmly, he drove these thoughts deep within—below the Silent’s iron-fisted discipline, deeper than the layers of generosity, magnanimity, and courage his family had instilled in him, and deeper still than the raging magma of his anger. There, in the depths of his soul, the sense of despair and abandonment lurked and festered, feeding the anger and fury above. Still, these were not the dominant forces in Ahiram’s life. His enduring love for the sea, his hunger for freedom, and the care he had for the weak and downtrodden were powerful drivers. Ahiram knew the dark rage within, a rage he carried with him from Baher-Ghafé; fueled and strengthened by six years of slavery. This darkness frightened him, which is why Noraldeen had become his anchor. She had become the light of day, the faithful guide that brought him back to sanity. He knew he was broken, and he loved to see her whole, radiant and full of life.

Ahiram knew he would never be like Noraldeen or Jedarc, another Silent and great friend of his; but he simply rejoiced that they both existed and felt privileged to be their friend. Observing them, he came to believe that a wrong could be righted, that injustice would end, and that one day, he too, would rejoice the way they did.

Cut it out, Ahiram
, he thought.
Enough with the sentimentalities. Let’s go win this game.

Still tired, he rose effortlessly to a sitting position and after a rigorous round of stretching, he rolled off his sleeping mat and performed one hundred and sixty slow knuckle push-ups. With one fluid movement, he raised his body to a vertical, upside down position and stood on his knuckles. He stretched his legs to a ‘V’ and raised his right arm, now supported by his left knuckles alone. Slowly, he lowered his raised hand, and now stood only on his right hand’s fingertips, then alternated between left and right. Next, he balanced on the palms of his hands, arched his back and moved his feet over his head. Ever so slowly, he lowered them until they rested on the ground. Bending arms and knees, he sprang up, flipped one hundred and eighty degrees, and landed silently on all fours.

Continuing his regimen, he got up and stood in front of a wooden, vertical pole holding a dozen short rods pointing in different directions. He took a thick, linen band hanging from a rope on a nearby hook, and blindfolded himself. Standing in front of the striking pole, he completed the one hundred and one daily, precision strike exercises required of every Silent. The pole shook under the heavy rain of blows. Fists, elbows, shoulders, knees, and feet all struck the wood with frightening power and accuracy in a flawless dance, beautiful, yet deadly.

Next, he turned his back to the wooden contraption and performed another set of side-kicks, back-kicks, and elbow strikes. Although shorter, this sequence was just as deadly.

Ahiram yawned.

I wish they would have started these Games at ten o’clock instead of seven
, he thought, for he was not an early riser. He took off the blindfold and jumped rope, building speed as he went until the rope became a blur.

“Six hundred,” he said, as he slowed to a full stop, then hung the rope back in its place. Standing with his feet side-by-side, he bent down and pressed his palms fully on the floor. Slowly, he slid, moving his legs further apart and landed in a split. He leaned his body forward until his nose brushed the ground, then leaned back until his hair was a few inches above the ground. He straightened his position and got up, having completed his morning routine in a little over an hour.

He had not broken a sweat.

Quickly, he changed into his uniform and buckled the famous Silent’s belt around his waist over the thick, linen undershirt and beneath his crewneck sweater.

The belt held an assortment of fifty specialized darts. Quickly, he inspected its contents, counting five loop darts—used to loop ropes around a target when climbing or when needing to immobilize someone.
Ten arrow darts, five thin stunt darts with needle heads
, he counted,
and another five with suction heads
. The former injected their contents, mostly soporifics, into their targets, while the latter delivered a slow acting poison through the skin.
Let me see now, do I have the escape darts? Yes, all ten of them.

These darts carried explosives or corrosives in their large heads. The Silent used them to blow up obstacles or dissolve iron.
The smoke darts
, he muttered.
I wish I had a few more of these. They’ll certainly come in handy against the team of Baal.
These darts exploded loudly in a billow of thick, dark smoke that induced coughing and itching. He checked that the five vanishing darts were strapped tightly in place. When thrown against a solid object, these darts would instantly burn, leaving only a discreet streak invisible to all but the trained eyes of a Silent.

‘
These darts burn only in the horizontal position,’
Commander Tanios had explained on several occasions. ‘
Before you put your belt on, make sure they are stowed and tightly strapped in the vertical position. If you try to throw them like the other darts, you will end up with a severe burn. Hold them by their tip,’
he explained
, ‘and throw them the way you would throw a knife so they begin to burn once the tip has slammed into the wood.’

Besides these, Ahiram counted one dozen smoke pellets whose effects were identical to the smoke darts but were easier to use when he needed to create a smoke screen around him. He pulled at the two foldable crossbows and checked that they were in good working condition. A marvel of dwarfish engineering, they could hit a target one hundred and fifty feet away. Lastly, he slid his curved dagger into one of the belt’s sheaths.

Heaving a deep sigh, he opened his bedroom’s door that creaked, just as it did six years ago when Commander Tanios brought him to this room for the first time. Ahiram glanced at the gray walls with the small window up high, next to a ceiling of dark beams.
Soon
, he thought
, soon this will no longer be my room. Soon I shall be free.

He donned his lightweight, white coat, closed the door, and quickly crossed the long, narrow passage where nineteen of the sixty-nine slaves’ bedrooms were located. Most slaves slept four to a room, attending to their tasks long before dawn. They did all the menial jobs in the kitchen, garden, and castle. He was one of the few who slept until sunrise. He reached the gate to the slaves’ quarters, crossed the guards’ hallway, and went down a narrow set of stone stairs, zigzagging as he did through a maze of crates filled with fruit and vegetables. The head cook had managed to flout the repeated demands of the Royal Guard’s headmaster to keep the stairs free from any obstacles. The cook contended that fresh produce was preferable over tidy stairs, and since no one confiscated the crates, Ahiram concluded that the head cook was more powerful than the headmaster of the Royal Guard.

The thought of Prince Olothe tumbling down the stairs and landing in a crate of rotten tomatoes flashed luridly in his mind, but he stayed it. Commander Tanios taught his Silent that “Fantasy weakens the mind and dissolves the will,” (
Book of Siril
, chapter 9, verse 12). He told them to avoid it like the plague.

The delicious taste of chicken lingered in his mouth. “Cold chicken,” he muttered as he entered the servant’s kitchen. It was already buzzing like a busy beehive, so no one took notice of him, save Habael, the royal gardener who had just come back from the garden.

“Lad, come and eat,” he said, gesturing for him to sit at a large table.

“I cannot, Master Habael, I must be at the mines.”

The old man, who walked with poise, came to him and gently took him by the arm. His tanned and smooth face housed two eyes of light, as Ahiram called them, because of their peaceful gaze. Habael was the one who kept Ahiram going, even during the worst moments of his training.

“Come on, lad, there is warm bread, the way you like it, with eggs, roasted ham, goat cheese, grapes, and figs. Come and eat before you go.”

These were Ahiram’s favorites.

“All right, Master Habael, all right.”

Ahiram sat down and ate with great appetite. As his teeth sank into a thick piece of bread, he realized how hungry he was.

“You know, lad, the other night I had a dream. I was crossing a suspended bridge and looked down into the water when, lo and behold, I saw a bird, a big, beautiful, crystal bluebird. But when I drew closer, I noticed the bird was dead and decaying.”

Ahiram looked at the old man, waiting for the rest. He wondered once more how Habael managed to have such thick, white hair and eyes as blue as the bluest sky. The gardener was six feet two inches tall, but at times, he could appear even taller in his oversized, light gray sweater and pants. He had wrapped a dark-blue, wool scarf around his neck. His sturdy, leather sandals were a source of mystery, for the Silent had never seen them dirty despite Habael’s long hours in the garden.

Habael seemed lost in his thoughts. Ahiram realized that what the old man told him must have been a disguised warning. He glanced at the servants, but no one was eavesdropping. Still, the Temple had spies everywhere. He wanted to ask questions, but refrained from disturbing the old man. If Habael had more to say, he would have said it. The food was delicious, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than eating a good breakfast in silence. Habael stirred and smiled.