Oath Keeper

“Another one?” The Hordesman’s worn and tired face poked itself up out of the bolt hole next to Sarqi’s embassy, and blinked twice in the light before freezing still—the closest a Gnome ever came to showing spontaneous emotions. The sight before him clearly was unexpected. During the night, and for the early part of the morning, Sarqi had wrestled with his thoughts, trying to plan a way out of his dilemma. And since he always did his best thinking while working with stone, Sarqi had put his hands to the task of improving his accommodations, leaving his brain free to puzzle over his deeper problems.

Building from the original pair of rock slabs, which had leaned against each other like two exhausted books, the Djin Ambassador now had a serviceable, four-walled structure with a roof of overlapping slats. Lacking the tools to make a proper door, Sarqi had left a gap between the walls at one corner, which he had faced directly away from the river, giving himself a dry and comfortable diamond-shaped building in which to receive any further diplomatic inquiries.

“Yes, another one,” he said, trying to keep the scorn out of his voice. “Tell your King that I have news that will change his war plans.”

Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or maybe the jailer was still startled by the transformation that had swept through the rocks above him while he’d slept, but for the first time, Ishnee did not argue. He scrambled up out of his hole and ran off to deliver the message.

“Tell him to hurry!” Sarqi called out to Ishnee’s scurrying back. Then he turned to consider his new shelter. “I think it needs a balcony.”

It was long into the blackness of that following night, much closer to sunrise than sunfall, when the stars were stretched out in brilliant promenade across the sky, that Sarqi heard a scratching sound from inside the walls of his embassy.

He’d completed the balcony that now thrust out over the raging water late that afternoon, and he’d been sitting on it ever since. Waiting. Wondering who would come. Would it be Angiron? He hoped not. Qhirmaghen had said that all Sarqi’s requests ended up going to him, so Sarqi had trusted that the king himself was still too busy for the grumbles and complaints of a Djin ambassa-prisoner. But even if his message had been shunted to Qhirmaghen, would he come? Might he send somebody else? Might he ignore it? Sarqi’s message had been carefully worded to entice the man to come himself. “News that will change his war plans.” It sounded important. Surely anyone who heard that would want to judge the news for themselves, wouldn’t they? But he’d been sitting here for most of the night with no sign of a visitor.

Again a scraping noise reverberated from within the walls of his newly remodeled prison. Sarqi rose up on his long Djin legs and went inside to investigate.

The small stone that Sarqi had used for his dimlight charm now glowed a steady blue-green from the corner of the single-room structure, oozing a cool bath of light around the floor of the room. In the corner, to the left of the doorway, a head-sized hole now glared its black gaze at him from the floor.

“Who comes?” Sarqi hissed. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to be sure Ishnee had not taken a sudden interest in the night air.

“A friend,” came a muffled voice from the hole.

At night there was no buzzing from the airborne crop or any natter of people coming and going along the path, but the river still cast enough of a din to mask casual conversations. If they were careful. Even so, Sarqi did not want to risk any more than he must, so he kept his voice as low as he could and moved closer to the empty void. “I have no friends here,” he replied.

There was a pause. “I have come for more of your… flapmeat,” the voice from the hole said. “I was told you have a very fragrant piece to share.”

Ah. So it was Qhirmaghen. Sarqi felt himself relax a little. “Come up,” he said. “We are alone.” It would be best not to speak his visitor’s name. Ishnee was probably asleep at this time of night, but there was no sense trusting in probably. A moment later, the Gnome’s head pushed up through the hole, followed shortly by the rest of him.

“You waited a long time,” Sarqi whispered. “I did not think you would come.”

“I’ve been here since sunfall,” Qhirmaghen replied, “but I had to be sure your message had not reached… its original target.” Sarqi nodded. That made sense. The last thing they wanted would be for the Gnome King to arrive late and find them plotting together. “You took a grave risk, sending the message the way you did,” the Gnome added.

Sarqi shrugged. “If Angiron had come instead of you, I would have spun him tales enough to worry his war-loving heart.”

Qhirmaghen nodded briefly. “So tell me, Ambassador. What news reaches a man exiled in a house of stone that does not reach a man in my position?”

Sarqi paused to consider his answer, and was surprised to feel a tremor of apprehension clutch at his stomach. He believed that Qhirmaghen was earnest in his opposition to Angiron, but still, what if he was wrong? This whole concept of lying and deceit was still so alien. Without the Dragon’s Peace to ensure truthfulness, how was one supposed to know when a man’s words did not align with rightness? So far, they had been speaking in code, making only veiled references, as each felt for strands of trust delicately reaching out from the other. Time was crucial if there was to be any chance of taking action, but he was also painfully aware that he was gambling with somebody else’s life, and must place his feet with great care on this political scree of oily tongues and slippery agendas.

“Before I give answer,” Sarqi said, “we must speak plainly, you and I. Once said, my news cannot be unsaid. If I trust unwisely, I will have betrayed all. So first, tell me what you intend to do.”

Now it was Qhirmaghen’s turn for silent consideration, and Sarqi watched the Gnome administrator wrestle with his own doubts. Would the Gnome rebel feel that he could trust Sarqi? For all Qhirmaghen knew, Sarqi had been placed here by Angiron for this very purpose—to ferret out those who opposed the King’s war. Sarqi didn’t even know what trust would look like on the face of a Gnome. Their stinginess with emotion made them so hard to read. But whatever doubts or fears might be giving the Failed Contender pause, he must have found reason to set them aside.

“We mean to topple the King, and beg the Wasketchin Crown for peace,” Qhirmaghen said. “This war is wrong, and it can do nothing but ill for the Horde, or for any other peoples of Methilien.”

Surprised, Sarqi drew a deep breath and let it out. He had not expected Qhirmaghen to speak that plainly. But in a way, it was good that he had. Sarqi could feel an almost child-like sense of release relaxing its way through the muscles of his body. Qhirmaghen’s bluntness had been more than simple expedience. It had been a gesture of trust. Both men had much to lose if they were caught, but it felt so good to let the walls and barriers of suspicion down—to be free of the second guessing, the silent examination of every utterance before allowing it breath.

It felt good to be trusted.

And being trusted, so openly and so entirely without reserve, Sarqi realized that the honor of his House would let him do no less. He squared his shoulders and drew himself up to full height.

“Your squads have captured the Wasketchin Queen,” Sarqi said. “And we must free her before your King learns of it, or the Wasketchin King will collapse.”

Outside, nothing could be heard but the crashing of the river.

“I release you from your word,” Qhirmaghen said. “You are free to roam freely, or even to leave the Throat if you wish.”

Sarqi heard him, but did not respond. He was standing on his newly constructed balcony in the late morning sun, gazing out at the hypnotic crashing water that, despite its thrashing violence, seemed almost to not be moving at all. Humps and valleys of wetness bounded over rock while somehow remaining static in their shape just the same. Like me, he thought. Worries and fears cavorting under my skin, but on the outside, still the same, skinny Djin. Which is the real me? The thoughts I think, or the shape I fill?

So much had changed in recent days. So much of him had changed. Where was the acid tongue that had been his shield? Where was the reluctance to risk? He felt so different now, yet still himself. He was a new him, but where had the old him gone? That Sarqi—the one who had been happy to let others make decisions for him, so that he could sit back and criticize without fear of responsibility—that Sarqi didn’t seem to be in here at all anymore. Was he a new river now? Or merely the same old one, with a few of the rocks rearranged?

It had been only hours since they had concluded their quiet scheming in the night, and here was Qhirmaghen, back already. The fact that he came now, openly, in the daylight, suggested that the Gnome had cast his lot and was ready to commit. Everything lay in readiness, awaiting only the two of them to set things in motion. It was a simple plan. The Fallen Contender was known among the Horde, and known to be a trusted adviser at court. If he made a journey now to choose a prisoner to bring before the King, who would argue? All they had to do was go get her, and then flee. But didn’t some of the rocks define the river? Weren’t some of them unmovable?

As he stepped away from the railing, Sarqi accepted the truth. Their plan was not going to be as easy as they had thought. “You cannot release me,” he said, and as he turned to meet the Gnome’s startled gaze, Sarqi realized that he had spoken truly. “I gave my word to the Gnome King, and then again to you, his Aide, but in this, you do not act for your King. The Qhirmaghen who does this is not the Fallen Contender—he Contends anew, and cannot unspeak the words of his former office. I must remain within sight of these walls.”

Sarqi could hear the gnashing of the Gnome’s teeth even from a distance, but to his credit, Qhirmaghen did not argue. After a drawn out pause while they each considered their options, the new Qhirmaghen, Resistor to the Crown, nodded once to the Djin Ambassador, and then turned away to scuttle down the path, toward the prisoner pens, deeper down into the Throat, and toward an act of treason that he would now undertake alone.

Sarqi sighed in frustration as he watched the Gnome disappear behind the bulk of the embassy. At his feet, a splash of water slapped against the new balcony and he looked down in time to see it dislodge a pebble that tumbled into the foam and vanished.

Hopefully it had not been an important pebble.

For almost an hour, Sarqi fumed. Rock dust and splinters! Why had he given his word? To stay within sight of the embassy walls until “summoned by the King or a member of the royal court?” He regretted that promise now, but he had given it, and so far, the King had shown no signs of summoning him, so he would just have to sit here, while another risked his neck to carry out a plan that Sarqi himself had conceived.

Three times, the Djin Ambassador strode down the path, each time intent on testing his own resolve, but every time he approached the point where the embassy walls threatened to slide out of sight behind the curve of the path behind him, his feet would come to a halt and refuse to go on. This was no binding of magic, no charm of family magics. It was simply his honor. He knew, deep within himself that if he willed it, he could continue down the path. But he also knew that it would shame him like nothing he had ever done before. He had spoken his word, had given stony substance to his honor, and that was the true bedrock of his river. It was the weight each Djin must bear if he was to remain himself. A load he must carry on his back.

Then Sarqi stopped, his mouth hanging agape for a moment, before it closed into a thin smile. Yes, perhaps there was a way.

“Hurry up!” Qhirmaghen shouted loudly enough for passers-by to hear him, but his impatience was not entirely an act. It had taken longer to find the woman than he had anticipated. One sky-dweller female looked much like any other to his Gnomileshi eyes, but eventually he had spotted the markings he had been told to watch for. A curled, red line, like a tiny vine, beside her right eye. The Djin Ambassador had mentioned the woman’s distinctive a’dinesh as part of his description of her. And there she’d been, standing vacantly, like all the other fawn-eyed captives, not moving, not talking. Just standing there, as though awaiting an invitation that would never come.

Every time Qhirmaghen brushed up against one of the new King’s magics, it left him feeling too clean, as though all the vims of rot and decay had been flushed from his body by a harsh dunking in the river. He shuddered now, even at the thought of it.

Once he’d found her though, she’d been easy enough to lead. The brilliant wedding mark next to her eye was unmistakable, almost regal in its elegance. But her high rank had given her no special powers to resist the new capture charm, and when he’d tugged at her hand to draw her out from the crowd of prisoners, she had followed placidly along behind him. Vacant, null-willed baggage. For now, that idle complacency was a boon, allowing him to lead the woman quickly through the crowd of both prisoners and guards alike. Her dull-eyed expression was so commonplace that, so far, nobody had asked him a thing. Soon enough though, they’d be away from the prisoner pens, where she would suddenly become entirely too conspicuous. Keeping her hidden would require more than just gormless obedience—she would need to actively cooperate. Hopefully, by that time, he’d have found a way to break the charm that enthralled her, and convince her to take an interest in her own escape.

“Just a little further,” Qhirmaghen said. He didn’t even know if she could hear him, but it made him feel better to think of her as alive and alert and simply ignoring him, the way sky-dwellers usually did. Somehow even that was better than this mindless complacency.

As they climbed higher from the prison yard, the rocks rose steadily on either side of the path, until they were in a deep channel between two facing banks of stone. This section of the trail received only infrequent traffic, and for the moment, they were alone. They were getting close to the branching point, where the trail into Ishig’s Book would break away from the main road, but before they reached Urlech and his precious bones, Qhirmaghen stopped to get a good look at his companion. She did not look in any way harmed. At worst, she had been the victim of indifferent treatment. Her clothes, once made from fine, tightly-woven fabrics, had worn thin and were actually tattered in places. She had a good layer of dirt smudged onto herself, but as much as he himself approved, he knew that neither she nor her people would agree. He suspected that she would be aghast at her appearance if she could see herself, thin and underfed. He wondered how long it had been since she had eaten. But clearly she was not in danger of sudden collapse, so food could wait. He took her once more by the hand and continued up the trail, looking for the way marker that would announce their turn.

But when he found it, he stopped and looked around in confusion. Signposts always stood directly across from the trail they announced, but this one faced nothing but the same, continuous stone bank he’d been following for the last ten minutes. Where was the path to Ishig’s Book?

Qhirmaghen turned a slow circle, as though perhaps the path would appear if he caught it from the right angle of his eye, but after a complete turn, he was still confounded. Could somebody have moved the signpost? Leaving the woman standing on her own for a moment, he trotted up the main trail a bit further, but there were no more indications of a side-path up there than there had been at the post. Almost frantic, he turned and scurried back. He had been to the Book a hundred times before, but now, today of all days, he could not find his way. And their timing could not be better now. The road was completely empty. If they could find the trail and get out of sight quickly, unnoticed by any others, it would make their escape that much more likely to succeed. But where was the rot-sucking passage?

The woman was still standing where he’d left her, and even without the signpost, his memory told him that the passage should be right there! Was his mind playing tricks on him? Cautiously, he took a step forward, reaching out his hand to touch the rock wall. Yes, here was the funny little nose-shaped protrusion. He’d noticed it many times when coming to consult his ancestors, even as a boy. It had always amused him that the last sight he saw before speaking with his elders was a large rocky nose. The nose-rock marked the entrance for him, just as clearly as a bonfire or dancing sprites might have done. “It’s supposed to be here!” he growled, slapping his hand against the rocky flatness that now blocked his way.

And the rock pushed back.

Qhirmaghen stumbled backward, his eyes opened wide, as the rock wall began to press toward him. He quickly snatched at the Queen’s hand and pulled her back with him, away from the shifting stone. A moment later, a great arm poked out from behind the sheet of rock and waved at him urgently. “Hurry! Inside. Both of you!” Then an even greater head poked out, near the arm.

It was the Djin Ambassador.

Not waiting to ask questions, Qhirmaghen pushed the woman ahead of him, through the narrow gap, and then followed her in. Behind him, Ambassador Sarqi set the massive slab back into position. This was the side path that Qhirmaghen remembered—little more than a crack in the surrounding wall of stone, really. It was scarcely two paces wide at the mouth and then narrowed quickly as it zigged its way back into the rock, leading to the shrine of Ishig’s Book.

Qhirmaghen pushed forward, herding his Wasketchin sheep ahead of him, and was just about to round the first kink of the gully’s crooked path, when the Djin called out.

“I can go no further,” Sarqi hissed, keeping his voice low, as though Hordesmen already hunted them in every corner.

Qhirmaghen halted the Queen and turned back, confused at the Djin’s sudden reluctance.

“First no, then yes, then no again… Make up your mind, Ambassador. Are you coming with us or do you stay here? We must get into hiding quickly, and to do that, we must go a good many paces further before we stop.”

Sarqi shook his head. “The path is too narrow. I couldn’t possibly drag it any further, so I can’t go past that corner where you stand. But if you’ll wait a moment, we might be able to solve that.” Then he turned and addressed himself to the woman. “My Lady M’Ateliana, you will not remember me. My name is Sarqi, of House Kijamon. I would offer my services to you and to the Wasketchin court. You have but to summon me into your service.”

The woman stared off into empty space. She didn’t even look at the Djin, and the Ambassador’s face began to slide into a frown as Qhirmaghen watched. How simply they did that—contorting their faces from joy to sorrow, from hatred into laughter. It was all so easy for them, for dark feelings as well as for light. But even though he could not feel it himself, Qhirmaghen knew despair when he saw it. Clearly, the Djin had not seen the effects of Angiron’s magic up close before.

“She does not rebuke your offer, Ambassador. She is still held thrall to whatever magics our King has unleashed. Her mind is not her own, if indeed she still has one left at all. Come with us to the Book. Perhaps we can get her head cleared there, and then I am sure she will accept your offer.”

The Djin shook his head. “No. It must be done here. By my word I can go no further.”

Qhirmaghen looked around, confused. “But, obviously you have set your word aside. Come with—”

The Djin threw back is head and roared his rage at the sky. “I have not broken my word, you snuffling little wound-licker! She must release me, and it must be here, before you round that bend!”

In the storm of emotions being displayed before him, Qhirmaghen felt almost rich, and allowed himself a dismissive chuckle. “Of course you’ve broken it,” he said. “You yourself said that I could not release you. I doubt that King Angiron has done so, and I don’t see your embassy around here, so clearly, you have broken your promise. But what of it? They are just words. Let’s get into—”

A loud thump shivered the air. “This is my embassy wall!” Sarqi shouted, forgetting to keep his voice low as he pounded his fist against the great slab of rock that blocked the gully entrance. “I have not left sight of it, nor will I. Not until I have been released.”

The Gnome walked slowly toward the Djin and the rock wall that hid them from prying eyes. It was impossible. How could he…? But now that he looked closely, Qhirmaghen could see that the color was wrong—it did not quite match the walls of the crevice around him. “You… brought the walls with you?” Qhirmaghen could not imagine how he could have done such a thing.

“One wall, yes,” the Djin replied. “And it very nearly killed me, but I can go no further. The slab is too big for this narrow passage.” To demonstrate his point, Sarqi reached out to either side, but his palms met the walls of the gully before his arms were even half extended, and he dropped them again in disgust. He stood there, fuming for a moment, but his anger soon passed and he looked again toward the Queen. Sarqi stepped forward and took her hand in his own. It lifted easily in his grasp, effortlessly, as though she neither permitted nor opposed the action.

“Is there no way we can return her to herself?” Sarqi asked. He was speaking quietly now, as though the woman’s presence had calmed him. Qhirmaghen could see no rage left. No frustration. Only sorrow.

“I don’t know the manner of this magic,” Qhirmaghen said. “And even if I did, it’s more powerful than anything I’ve seen. Perhaps the shrine keeper will know of something.” But he didn’t believe that, and his words rang hollow for all to hear. Sarqi didn’t believe it either.

“Then I must remain,” Sarqi said. “Go. I will keep the passage blocked to delay pursuit. Get her out of the Throat and back to her own people.” Still he clung to her hand and stared into her vacant face, hoping she would awaken. But she did not.

Qhirmaghen edged past them both, taking the Queen by her free hand as he did, and pulling her to follow after him, further up into the crevice. For a moment, the Queen stood there, her hands pulled to either side—one by the Gnome trying to lead her to safety, and the other by the Djin begging her not to leave him behind. But at last, Qhirmaghen gave a final tug, pulling the Queen’s hand away from the Ambassador’s, and then she followed him easily down the path toward Ishig’s Book.

Sarqi watched as M’Ateliana and the Gnome disappeared around the bend of the gully. He hadn’t wanted them to leave, hadn’t wanted to be left behind, a prisoner of his own conscience. His place was with them. With her. He knew it, he could feel it, like the swirl of grain in a granite beneath his fingers. He could not see it, but he knew it just the same. M’Ateliana needed a guide. She needed a Djin at her side—him—or this entire escape plan would come crashing down before she could reach safety. But she had just left.

Sarqi twisted around to glare at the stone wall of his embassy, furious with himself. He’d come so far, and now, to be trapped here, helpless, bound by something as insubstantial as a breath of words. Words that had forced him to stagger and drag an enormous slab of rock two hundred paces down the Gnome road, and even that had not been enough. It was never enough, and now he was here instead of there, and just as trapped by those words as he’d been when he’d started. There was nothing more he could do. It had taken two hours and all of his strength to come this far, and that had been with a wide path and no traffic. There was no way he could bring the wall in here—not even as far as the first corner. The crevice was too narrow, and even if it were a thousand paces wide, he doubted that he had enough strength left in him. He was near to exhausted.

Yet still that truth burned at him. He wanted to snap off a piece of the rock and run after them, carrying a fragment of the wall with him where he could always see it, no matter how far he might go, but he knew that such a ploy was a stretch beyond reason, and that it would shatter the very soul of his honor. He’d already strained it beyond caution by coming even this far. When he had promised to stay within sight of his shelter walls, he may not have promised to leave them where they were, but his honor nagged at him that even this was scree-talk, slippery words that seemed sound, but would only shift under weight and plunge him to his ruin.

He knew what his word demanded of him, but word or no word, he also knew where his duty lay, and it was not in bowing to the whims of a faith-breaking Gnome kinglet. His duty had just marched off into darkness, vacant and heedless, led by a shift-cloak Gnome. Sarqi’s duty was to go to the aide of the only true Djin-friend he had seen since being brought here. A real queen, leading an honest people, with dignity and poise. Or so she would be once more, once he had discovered how to release her from the Gnomish magic that now clouded her. Sarqi could still feel her need, the warmth of her hand, tugging at his while the Gnome had tugged at her. But honor held him fast in this place, anchored to that thrice-blasted wall of stone.

“Grind me to dust!” Sarqi bellowed in frustration as he whirled to face the wall-slab behind him, his lungs heaving with the ferocity of his shout. Then, with a snarl of purest rage, Sarqi punctuated his fury, slamming both of his great Djin fists into the middle of its span. Whether he was overcome by a great power, or merely lucky, striking the stone upon a vulnerable twist of grain, the stone wall shattered under Sarqi’s rage, and collapsed into great shards at his feet.

But still, honor would not let him leave its sight.

No son of Kijamon had never dared to hate their father’s honor before, but Sarqi did so now. There was right and there was wrong, and this was wrong. Duty and honor were meant to serve rightness, not to obstruct it. Yet here he was, bound by that honor to watch over a pile of rock chips and to reject the full-throated scream of his duty.

Sarqi was miserable. He stood there in the stony corridor, oblivious to whoever might pass by and see him, head bowed, as though he bore the weight of his entire embassy upon his slender neck. Who will guide her to her people? The Gnome? And would he also free her from the bewitchment that was upon her? If only she hadn’t pulled at him. If only she had just let her hand slip placidly from his own…

The thought hung there, echoing in his bowed head for a long second, daring him to think about what he’d just thought. And then, slowly, his head rose, eyes widening in a bloom of pained realization. Oh, rock splinters!

“Wait for me!” he yelled, and then Sarqi, Djin Ambassador to the Gnomileshi Horde, abandoned his embassy without any further thought and bolted down the path in pursuit. The Queen of the Wasketchin had summoned him. With every fiber of strength she could muster, she had begged for his help.

Chapter 17