Curse

OlMurraniKasale · Jul 14, 2006, 03:51 AM // 03:51

The Nameless headlands felt the lash of the turning of the world’s seasons despite the fact that truly one season alone existed on the Isle of the Nameless – summer. Waves two hundred meters high beat against the Titian Cliffs, the thunder of the water never quite as loud as the cracking of the granite rocks under this onslaught. The desolation of the ocean reminded the Zaishen woman of gray fabric undulating with the force of a summer’s night breeze. She stood at the edge of the Cliffs, water spraying her face and her eyelashes caked with salt.

Armored for the worst the Nameless singular season could throw, she waited until the light of the sun became rays that skirted the receding clouds. This dawn would bring the foretold Three Voices of Darkness. Cold, even the smallest temperature drop, felt good to her as the sunlight hit her face, and she smiled as the Three Voices ritual began.

Turning from the dawn, she trudged along the sandy cliffs toward the northern Mount. A brazen granite rock breached the surf, refusing to move or be diminished by the roaring waltz of the sea, and this tall spire of gray-freckled quartz beckoned the Zaishen warrior forward. Sandy waste and bright sunlight reflected the energy back into her eyes, but her helm kept the glare from burning out her retinas. The topmost sand became slippery smooth as she approached the Enclave, the amphitheater at the base of the Mount, carved from the Mount.

Entering the Enclave was by one small corridor cut through the rock, each wall completely smooth and often polished to keep it so. She took the thirteen steps of Balthazar down the corridor, moving from sand into a cooler oasis.

Shielded by a wall equal to the height of the seasonal waves, the Enclave had already been prepared for the First Day’s Ritual. Staggered terraces were polished smooth, and led downward into the wading pool. This Enclave was used only for this one event, the furthest jut of land away on this Isle - oddly pierced with granite Mounts and geysers of steaming mineral waters.

“Be welcome sister,” a monk said as she passed, never turning from his duty of lighting the torches.

“Thanks from Balthazar for your welcome, brother.”

The amphitheater would soon be alive with Zaishen, all filing in through the corridor. Despite the ritual, ceremonial armor had no place here. All of that would have been discarded in favor of the traditional daily armor of a warrior. Soon, Zaishen with runic tattoos and some without would walk these terraces again to welcome the Three Voices of Darkness.

“Be welcome sister,” a monk said as she passed him on her way to stand on the dais in the wading pool, never turning from his duty of lighting the torches.

“Thanks from Balthazar for your welcome, brother.”
The wading pool created the bottom most terrace of the Enclave, barely twenty meters in diameter, butting up against the Mount itself. Clear as deepest space, the pool reflected the Mount perfectly, and the Mount’s reflected Sky Spire rested dead center of the granite dais at the center of the pool. She took the walkway to the dais, and settled her feet to straddle the Sky Spire’s shadow.

A drum thumped back along the topmost terrace, hidden in one of six cutouts within the wall of granite. In their earliest days, the cutouts had served to provide cover for repulsing foreign invaders, now returned to service as echo chambers for the ceremonies of the Zaishen.

The drum thumped thirteen times, deep bellowing that reverberated in the Enclave. As that first drum stopped, another started, in succession, beating out thirteen taps. That first drum cued the Zaishen to enter the corridor, and as the second drum began, the first of the warriors appeared in the Enclave. A man whose age was unknowable, whose visage was scarred and worn into softest fabric, lead the other Zaishen smartly along the staggered terraces down to her. Each drum tap brought in another ten warriors, each new drum filling a terrace completely with strong warrior bodies from the very oldest to the youngest.

As the sixth drum ended its tap, the last warrior stood in his place at the entrance to the corridor, the youngest of the tribe to attend the Three Voices of Darkness. Though the most revered and ancient Zaishen stood on the walkway to the dais, the First Voice, the position of honor was that young man in front of the corridor. Barely six, the warrior’s duty was to prevent an attack on the ceremony by any invader, a duty that young man took without reservation. He gripped a katana in his right hand and stared with determination into the Enclave, down the terraces to her. What destiny would the Five Gods reveal for him, this youngest Second Voice?

“Be welcome sister,” the entire assemblage said to her in one voice, the Third Voice of the ritual, as the last drum ended.

“Thanks from Balthazar for the welcome, brothers and sisters.”

The drums began the Song of Balthazar, from the Faith of Balthazar, and the warriors danced and gyrated in place. Only she, the oldest and the youngest did not move or sing. The sunlight became a beam of light that peered down into the Enclave, and the sky was the deepest blue. Soon the beam would strike the dais and the Ceremony would end, fulfilled.

“It is foretold,” she started as the Song of Balthazar ended, “That the Three Voices of Darkness would come.”

“And so it was,” came the answer as one voice.

“And so it was,” she affirmed. “Every year, for all the years that even Balthazar can count, our Father of all Warriors, the Three Days came. We welcome Balthazar and we welcome the Three Days.”

“Balthazar bless us,” came the answer as one voice.

“Balthazar bless you,” she affirmed, waving the first of the warriors to cross the walkway and receive the blessing. The old warrior strode to her, turning and bowing his head as she touched his hand. She marveled at his strength, older than any in all of the Zaishen Order, a warrior who after today would return to his ship and follow his Destiny into the continents beyond. His traditional armor, underplayed with woolen shirt and pants, smelled clean and natural, and she smiled. She wore the red armor of her forebears, the symbol of Kasale, their family line. How old the armor, she did not know. Even before the Coming to these Isles, even before her family could remember living on a continent of sand. This armor would go to her daughter today, as it must.

Each warrior stepped across the walkway to the dais, and received a blessing. The warrior would then walk off the dais over the walkway opposite, first bending to scoop a bit of the cool water to drink. The sun had blessed this water for a hundred ages, every day that could be counted with the exception of one – just one day every year when the moon covered the sun. The procession would continue until the oldest Zaishen stood behind the youngest, with hands resting on his shoulders as a mentor.

Halfway through the procession, a Zaishen stumbled and fell at his feet. No one said anything, but the whole assemblage stopped in astonishment. He got to one knee and stayed there, shaking . . . crying.

In all the rituals of known memory, no one had ever stumbled, certainly no one had ever fallen and then began to cry. The beam of light approached the dais, a juggernaut that kept the timing of the ceremony. She withdrew from her armor, and the Zaishen as one gasped. To stand thus naked on the dais was unheard of, and she knew that perhaps some even considered it sacrileges. She would not allow this man’s pain to be visited by anything that pure naked innocence.

She bent down and took the warrior’s hand in hers. He stood, but only when she lifted his head up did she see the horror in his eyes. He was a strong Zaishen, a warrior with runes that spoke of won battles and journeys yet to be. Yet he was crying, shaking.

“Brother . . . “ she said, whispering.

“The faces! The faces of the children!” He said in whispered reply, then turning and shouting up into the sky, “The children! Damn Balthazar for this!”

The shouting from the assemblage became so loud that even the waves against the Cliffs were drowned out. The warrior cried into the heavens and fell to his knees. Only when she raised her hand did the whole Enclave become silent. She felt heat on her raised fingers, and turned her head to see that the beam of light was now touching her hand. “Brothers and sisters, this warrior is searching for his soul.”

The assemblage became a mass of nodding heads, and strong statements of outrage that their Zaishen brother had come to such a troublesome spot. Not angry at him now that they understood his plight, but angry at themselves for not helping him earlier. No warrior in such a condition suddenly became a ranting mindless body, rather a long series of tragedies and resultant outbursts were the indicators of pain that had ripped out the soul.

Angry that they had betrayed their brother.

“Warrior, you must tell me your tale.” Without his soul, she could not call him brother. She had to act or he was lost.
He stayed on his knees, crying, but speaking earnestly. “I am there for my warrior brothers and sisters. I do not delay in battle, and often have I fallen to rescue the innocent from their tormentors.”

“As you must,” she answered.

“But in these last few moons, I am witness to slaver ships set afire lest we free those within, ships set on fire as retribution against our Faith in Balthazar . . . I can hear the screams of the trapped slaves deep inside me. I feel them!”
Affirmations of this echoed in the Enclave as warriors saw similar things recently. “The foreigners set the fire to warn us our attacks are futile!” One warrior shouted, and angry threats of invasion and tortured death became the sound of the ceremony.

“No!” The warrior said, standing and pointing. “Despite knowing the slavers would not allow us to free their cargo, I and my crew attacked a slave ship last week – the fire of my zeal burned as brightly as that ship, only for me to hear the screaming of children from within the holds. Children! I murdered them!”

She took his shoulders and spun him around. The warm wind of the Nameless blew across her naked body, across the left hand side of her scalp where she had shaved all of her hair in deference to lost family. He stared at her and she stared at him. “Warriors, hear me. The death of the opponent is a thing for which all warriors strive, and those who traffic in slaves deservedly so.”

“Balthazar burn them,” came the reply from the assemblage in once voice, the Third Voice.

“It is Balthazar that guides you, but your own two feet are the tools to the return of your soul. What say you?”

He said nothing.

“What say you!?”

“I am lost,” he said finally. “What am I?”

She clutched him close, and they wrapped arms together as the beam of light struck them. Intense heat made them sweat and she spoke into his ear. “You are the sun, and the ground is your goal. Is the horizon real or illusion? It is there that your answer lies. Answer quickly before the moon eats the sun!”

He broke away, his face dazed and his eyes bloodshot. He stumbled back, hands ringing, mouth moving without words. He turned and stared into the faces of the Zaishen, warriors, monks, ritualists and magicians all who stared back to stabilize him, to affirm his status as Zaishen.

“I am the sun,” he began, first haltingly, then assuredly and with fervor. “I am the sun, the ground is my goal! I can stand here in anguish at the murder of children, languish in search of my soul or I can start running for the horizon.”

“The horizon? Is it real or illusion?” She asked him.

“Whether I stand and do nothing, or run to catch my soul at the horizon, I would be a fool. I am a warrior. I am Zaishen. I will always seek freedom, and I do not accept the death of any of them, but should that happen, I trust in Balthazar and Grenth to judge me after they have taken in the fold of those I could not save.”

“The horizon? Is it real or illusion?” She asked him again.
He spun to her and bowed his head. She blessed him. “Be welcome brother.”

“Thanks from Balthazar for the welcome, sister.”

The ceremony continued to its end with the sun well overhead, the dais in bright warm sunlight. It was about at this point in decades past that the Zaishen-in-Waiting was sacrificed, in ceremony only, to Balthazar as thanks for His promise of the Day of Darkness. The ceremonial aspect of the sacrifice had been the tradition only recently, starting about the same time as the Battle Isles became a regular port of call. Prior to that, the Zaishen-in-Wating was sacrificed in the flesh at the headland Cliffs. Today would see the return of that old way - what could she do? The disease ravaged her and even the monks could do nothing. It was proper to offer her dying body to Balthazar.

She stood on the dais, still unarmored, waiting as the last of the warriors moved into position along the terraces. The Ending saw the Zaishen standing in a spiral pattern along the terraces, the oldest now standing behind the youngest at the entrance to the corridor that led out into the wastes. The moon began its slow feast of the sun.

“I am his Mentor,” the oldest said, his voice deep.

“I am his protector,” the youngest said, his voice small but firm.

“And who has demanded this?” She asked.

“Balthazar, our Father,” they said in unison.

She let the armor lie as she started walking, leaving it for her daughter to one day collect, walking in the spiral outward past each of the Zaishen, each bowing their heads as she passed. Finally she stood behind the oldest and the youngest. “Led me to the Cliffs,” she said.

“Our Honor, sister,” they said in unison.

As the procession of the Zaishen weaved up the Thirteen Steps of Balthazar, out into the sandy wastes of the Nameless headland, the Zaishen-in-Waiting thought of her daughter. The scrappy girl would soon be landing on Shing Jea to begin her training – Master Togo would train her - with no other family, better a warrior of the world than a ronin of the Zaishen.

She was glad. The wastes were beautiful, and the shadow of the north Mount lay across their path as they trudged to the Cliffs. Waves two hundred meters high beat against the Titian Cliffs, the thunder of the water never quite as loud as the cracking of the granite against this onslaught. The desolation of the oceans reminded the Zaishen woman of gray fabric undulating with the force of a summer’s night breeze. The procession stood at the edge of the Cliffs now, water spraying their faces and their eyelashes caked with salt.

“Wait!” A voice yelled to them, a young woman running across the plains to stand by her mother.

“Ol Murrani Kasale, my daughter, you are supposed to be on the ship sailing for Shing Jea. Master Togo will not be pleased.”

“I promised I would go with you to the Cliffs,” the daughter said, reaching out as if to clutch at her. The Zaishen-in-Waiting waved her back, then smiling, waved her closer. She pulled a scroll from her tunic and handed it to her daughter, watching it unrolled. Red ink on silk, the calligraphy was bold and the words barely legible, direct experience revealed. The scroll said, “Hundred Blades.”

“You will need this more than I, daughter, and remember this. I am the sun, and the deepest waters of the sea are my goal. There is no horizon. It is an illusion.”

As the sun disappeared completely, the assembled Zaishen began an intonation no different than the sound of the rain falling across a roaring sea. Ol Murrani Kasale cried.

The Zaishen-in-Waiting turned to face the ocean. She raised her arms upward and sideways to shoulder-height, and fell forward down the Titian Cliffs into the deepest waters of the Sea.

“Thanks from Balthazar, sister,” the Zaishen said.