Eridan fulfilled his duties well, and he took immense
pride in that knowledge. His eye
surveyed the orderly scene before him; the tables were set, the seating
arranged, the cushions plumped, the pitchers ready to carry their load and the
torches were lit, pushing back the shadows.
He knew that in the kitchens the feast was being prepared as according
to his instructions. The windows were
open to provide a refreshing breeze so that the guests would not stifle in the
season’s heat. He looked out into sky
and judged by the orb in the sky or ‘Great Masa’ as it was known, that the
afternoon was waning, and he knew that he should soon hear news of his master
and the feasting would begin. Eridan
looked again looked at the room and all his eye purveyed was to his
liking. He had made every effort to
ensure that this founding day, the most important feast day on the calendar
would be the best yet. He directed a
servant’s attention to a plant that needed watering and strode out of the room
towards his chambers, confident that his instruction would be immediately
carried out.
Not
that his master would notice the preparations.
As
Jahadreel waxed older in years he seemed to becoming less concerned with the
details of running his household, which was large and prosperous but much
diminished in recent years, especially with the departure of much of his
family. Only his wife Mizrame and his
youngest son Hamun remained here in these dark and empty halls.
The house was
located within the central quadrant of the city; home to merchants, bankers,
government officials and of course, many of the Sanctuarist order. It was one of the oldest houses in the
ancient city of Naggarr-Rysh and it required many servants to keep it, among
which Eridan was chief. Yet its running
seemed to be falling more and more on his shoulders. Jahadreel was often absent or preoccupied. As Eridan walked, he looked about him and saw
prestige, honour and wealth, a testament in grey stone to his master’s former
status. Eridan found it a challenge to
equate in his mind’s eye the legend of Jahadreel Raheed - war hero, a great
Sanctuarist Lishu or teacher, successful businessman and friend of politicians
with the old man he knew.
Yet, if the
onset of his master’s old age was the sum of his worries, then his mind could
be at ease. However, his master nowadays
considered himself something of a holy man, or prophet.
‘Eridan!’ He looked up towards the sound of the beckoning
call.
‘Eridan!’ It was his master’s wife, Mizrame, standing
on the balcony above him.
‘Yes
madam?’ Eridan’s voice resonated up
towards the distant figure in the lofty shadows.
‘Are the
preparations complete?’ She appeared
anxious to Eridan’s eye and was fiddling with her necklace.
‘Yes,
madam.’ He affirmed. She nodded gratefully.
She lingered
on the balcony; a question seemed to be stuck in her throat. Eridan remained motionless in the gloom.
‘Any
news?’ She finally forced out.
‘None, yet’ he
replied. Mizrame’s posture sagged
noticeably.
‘Sorry…’
Eridan offered as consolation. It
sounded pathetic and hollow in that great hall.
With that, Mizrame moved away out of sight.
That was why
Eridan was also particularly anxious today; he was awaiting news of the end of
his master’s self-imposed exile up in the caves of Mount Zaggrathrim, outside
the bounds of the city. He had been,
supposedly, fasting and communing with the divine for the space of almost one
lunar phase. It had become the subject
of much excitement (and amusement on the part of many). Many of Jahadreel’s strangest associates had
been maintaining a vigil at the foot of the mountain for the duration of his
hermitage. Eridan’s master had said to
prepare for his return and invite his friends to come and feast with him. Eridan moved on down the hall.
It was
actually quite doubtful that many of his former colleagues would come to the
feast; Jahadreel had alienated a lot of them in recent years through his
bizarre activities. Eridan had seen many
powerful men over the years turn away in shame or embarrassment, shaking their
heads and mourning the waste of it all.
One of the greatest blows to his master had been his public denouncement
by Zalphorban, lifelong friend and Master Lishu of the Sanctuarist First
Central Cabal of Naggarr-Rysh. That was,
to a degree understandable, as he was purely trying to save face by
discrediting Jahadreel. But it also meant
that his master was now walking a very fine line between being a nuisance and
being an outlaw, and this was a potentially dangerous time to be in the sights
of this new government in Arnak. Barely
two years had passed since the president inaugurated the third Arnakian
inquisition in living memory, under Zalphorban’s direction. Then shortly after Zalphorban turning his
back on Jahadreel, came the even greater heartache of Jahadreel’s two older
sons and daughter leaving him and the humiliation that followed as they
criticized him publicly. They had been
extremely vocal during the last few weeks, saying that their father had gone
insane, ignoring all sound advice to receive healing and had descended into the
caves of Mount Zaggrathrim to seek counsel from his own babbling echo.
Eridan slid
open the door to his musty chambers and went in. The room was quite austere, as Eridan liked
it. He did not go in for much in the way
of augmentation but what was there was deeply personal to him and relevant. Stopping for a moment at his mirror he
examined his appearance. Wanting to look
his best for the occasion he was wearing his best suit. Its finely pressed lines and light hues
seemed frustratingly at odds with his own, deep set features and dark
complexion. Two weary eyes leered back
at him from under critical eyebrows. It
had been a long day and he wished to rest whilst he could. He went to sit, reclining on his window seat
to get a good view of the street and the approach to the house. There was not much activity outside; this
part of the city was far removed from the bustle of the market places and
entertainments. A solitary child played on the corner. He looked totally devoid of any care, as only
children can be. Eridan’s thoughts went
back to his childhood, troubled by the intrusion of the Great War with the
Cenothali, once a sister-nation to Arnak but greedy for new lands and glory. It
was a dark and terrible time for families, sundered from their fathers and
husbands, sons and brothers. He still
remembered vividly the pale shawl of horror on his mother’s face that descended
on her at the news of his father’s death, and stayed there during her steady
decline into fatigue, sickness and finally saw her to the tomb. The young Eridan stood there with his little
sister, sensing the pity of all around him but inwardly his small heart was a
barren wilderness. He saw a man in full
ceremonial war gear, an officer, who addressed him tersely and announced that
they would come under his roof and eat from his table. With that statement he gave a well-meaning
but awkward smile. It was the least he
could do for the orphaned children of one of his company; his own personal
entourage, he explained. From that day
on, Eridan was of the house of Raheed and he learned to love that man. He remembered still, how despite Jahadreel’s
many responsibilities he made an effort to take time for all in his household,
even for a young servant like himself.
He was included, along with others, in family gatherings, celebrations,
meals, councils and, as was Eridan’s favourite memory of his youth, in the regular
story-telling in which Jahadreel relished.
This was considered an art form amongst the Arnak, who loved the telling
and hearing of stories, and Jahadreel was, in the young Eridan’s eyes, a
master. Among the heads of such great
houses his manner of rule was unique, if experiences he heard from others of
his social caste were anything to go by.
Consequently Eridan felt as much a son as any who called his master
their father. He was bemused by
Jahadreel’s bizarre mental state now but he did not want to see him humiliated
any more, or indeed belittle the cause of the Sanctuarists of whom Jahadreel
was once a prominent figure and Eridan’s father a loyal devotee. By the great Maker, he would ensure it.
As Eridan
slumped into the seat he began to drift into an afternoon slumber. His immediate surroundings began to darken
and smudge around him, with his resolve echoing around his mind. To the shadows
stealthily passing his window Eridan was oblivious. He suddenly became aware of
a bell ringing and his world began to solidify again. As Eridan struggled to wipe away the
weariness from his eyes, he staggered towards the door. He knew that this was the word he had been
waiting for. He had no sooner got his
door open than he was met by another servant, the youngest in Jahadreel’s
House.
“Yes
Tumilir….what news?” Eridan blurted out.
“Ah,
Eridan. We meant to come quickly
but….” He seemed abashed. Eridan was short on patience for this. “Uh – Huh?”
He nodded with his head at Tumilir.
“Well, we lost
ourselves in the back streets of the second quadrant trying-to-find-the
shortcut-through-the-innerwallatthegateofJophar.” Eridan just gaped at Tumilir.
“Yes….the em,
master has risen from his fasting and is proceeding into the city.”
“Ah
Tumilir!” Eridan’s face contorted into a
smile. “Good. Is he near?”
“Err….no. He’s not coming here”
Tumilir’s
revelation was met again with a blank expression; the smile had fallen away.
“He’s
proceeding with great haste to the Ziggurat, or at least he was when we gave up
on pleading with him.”
“What? The government seat?” Eridan asked.
“Yes. And he said that he has a message of great
importance to the people.”
Eridan put his
hand over his face and pushed his fingers through his hair whilst inhaling
through gritted teeth. It was a few
seconds before his mouth could form words.
‘Tell our
mistress the news’, he said grimly.
The old man
was about to do something foolish; he just knew it. He jerked on his shoulder mantle and thrust
past Tumilir.
“Shall I
inform the guests that the master will be delayed?” he asked.
“They could be
waiting for twelve seasons if the government or any Sanctuarists there take
offence at his ‘message!’” Eridan replied as he hurried down the great hall.
Eridan raced
out of the servant’s gate into the streets of Naggarr-Rysh. The great orb overhead was already low in the
heavens as the deep blue sky of the afternoon daubed into the warm and fiery
orange of evening like colours mixed on some artist’s palette. The shadows were lengthening and the great
mountains of the Hiddotereth range of which Zaggrathrim was the promontory
gaped like a behemoth’s maw over the dwarfed city, as if threatening to devour all and plunge them
into a long, black night. Eridan’s eye
was drawn automatically, however, up towards the man-made edifice of the mighty
Ziggurat, which rose above the central quadrant of the city. Its famous nine great stages or steps hugged
the side of the valley opposite to the Hiddotereth so tightly that it almost
appeared to have slid off the mountains against which it rested, known as the
Asotereth. In the illumination of early
evening, its walls of polished obynyx appeared to be aflame, as if heralding
the imminent arrival of some demon avatar from the outer world. It was to this imposing structure, some
several thousand footfalls distant that Eridan began to trudge towards.
Great houses,
palaces, banks, merchant’s guilds, storehouses, government buildings and the
occasional Sanctuarist chamber passed rapidly by as Eridan ran unheeded towards
his goal along a route he knew well. He
was descending deeper into the heart of the city towards the new government
seat at the Ziggurat. Why the
politicians needed such monolithic quarters, he did not know, but to him this
grandiose public structure was an indication of a new direction in the
regime. For a serving-man Eridan
considered himself, politically astute and he was quite active in his local
Sanctuarist lodge, although the truth was that power in Arnak was becoming
highly centralized and was increasingly disenfranchising the hoi-poli. This was a partial explanation for the
casting off of old war veterans like Jahadreel from the ranks of the scribal
elite, which was firmly entrenched in all political matters among the
Arnakim. At any rate, the Eridan did not
trust the Ziggurat, and the sooner he could get his master away from it, the
better.
Shortly,
Eridan became aware of another runner as he discerned a soft padding sound
coming up from behind. He tried to
ignore it but it got closer and then a gasping voice cried out for his
attention.
‘Eridan!’ It rasped.
Eridan slowed and turned to see Ramathjeel; a junior scribe who
frequently visited Eridan’s lodge to speak and was a good friend. Apparently, Eridan was not the only one to
hear the news of his master’s intentions.
This would make for an ugly scene at the Ziggurat, if Eridan had to
extricate his master from an angry mob of Sanctuarists.
‘Eridan!’ Ramathjeeel croaked again as he drew up close
and stopped, catching his breath.
‘Are
you..?’ He motioned towards the
Ziggurat.
‘Yes, how did
you hear?’ Asked Eridan. Ramathjeel inhaled deeply.
‘Not just me
brother, the whole quadrant is alive with the news of your master! There is not a beast within the inner parts
of the city that have not heard his followers shout ‘Come and hear the words of
the prophet!’’
‘By the
Maker!’ Eridan exclaimed, pulling at his
hair. He span around on his heel,
staring wildly in the direction of the Ziggurat and started again for it with a
lengthened stride. His mind was now
racing with implications.
‘I’ll come
with you!’ Ramathjeel offered but Eridan
was already halfway to the next gate.
Wearily, he trudged on after him.
