The Orphans' Promise (2 page)

Braced against the open sea off the Lorelien coast, only a few leagues from a nearly nameless village, there is a small, uninhabited island. An island like the dozens of others that dot the Median Sea with barren beaches, rocky landscapes, and shorelines made jagged by untiring waves. An island that is only recorded by the occasional eccentric or overly meticulous cartographer as a simple speck on a few rare pieces of parchment, which, after time, could easily be confused for an indiscernible smudge.

However, this island, ignored by most men, fascinated a handful. Among them was the Judge Zamerine, the secret spiritual chief of the Lorelien messengers—and even more secretly, the uncontested master of all the Züu priests in the Upper Kingdoms.

“How much longer?” Zamerine asked the captain.

The captain, an old fisherman, jumped. It was the first time the Judge had spoken to him. Up to that point, he had only dealt with the youngest Züu, the Judge’s footman, no doubt. While the fisherman got along just fine with the younger one, the Judge seemed difficult. Worse, his cold, scornful stare was impossible to hold.

“Uh… two centidays, maybe; long enough for the dawn to clear,” he answered nervously. “With this headwind, I can’t do better than that.”

“That is much too long.”

The fisherman didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t his fault, blood of the Gods! Their damned island wasn’t going to float away! It would still be there, even a hundred years from now!

Of course he kept these thoughts to himself. First of all, he had been paid—well paid even—for this trip to Ji. Next, and above all, his two passengers made his skin crawl.

The Judge’s eyes never left the rocky mass that was their destination. His frozen stare didn’t show the slightest emotion. And the footman kept his eyes on the fisherman. As if ready to derail any plot the fisherman might be planning. Or as if he were planning one himself.

The fisherman didn’t let his imagination go any further, and he let himself be absorbed in the contemplation of a distant flock of graceful swans, flying above the waves. One more look at either one of his passengers and he would have thrown himself overboard.

I don’t know which one brought about the other, but my curiosity for my ancestor Maz Achem grew at the same time as my interest in the history of the Holy City. I studied the chronicles with Maz Rôl, my teacher, but researched Achem alone and in secret. Keeping my personal studies secret may have been the only lie I ever told my parents. I suppose I should regret it, but I can’t. Everything I discovered was fascinating.

The records of that era describe Maz Achem as a model of virtue for the entire Eurydian world. At least until 771. After that date, he was only mentioned for his heresy. I looked for the event that could explain his transformation. Logically, he must have experienced something out of the ordinary, some painful experience; nothing else could explain why he changed so much in so little time.

My research opened up a new mystery. The first accounts of Maz Achem’s strange behavior, although vague, appeared after his return from a diplomatic mission in Lorelia, which kept him out of the Holy City for more than fifty days, five full dékades.

Despite my efforts, I could never find anything about this mission: the goal, the result, or even who was part of it. My quest was going to come to an end just as it was getting interesting. However, Eurydis must have heard my prayers because some new hints were exposed a few years later, after I had more or less given up.

During a didactic course from Maz Rôl on the Uborre Dynasty of Goran, I learned that the Emperor Mazrel had lost a son on a strange mission to a small Lorelien island. The date matched up with Achem’s travels. My hope rekindled, I delved back into my research, this time in the Goranese archives. I summoned my courage to leave Ith and travel to the capital of the Grand Empire; the knowledge was worth it.

I finally got a piece of the truth. In the Eurydian year 711, compelled by a certain Nol the Strange, diplomats came from most of the kingdoms of the known world for a meeting in Lorelia. Maz Achem and the Goranese Prince Vanamel were among the attendees.

They all disappeared under strange circumstances, before reappearing two moons later, without being able to recall what had become of those who were missing or what had happened. The whole affair was known only to the royal courts and then faded into oblivion along with the deaths of those involved.

I was far from being satisfied. The story wasn’t detailed enough to help me understand Achem’s transformation.

I resolved to attack the problem from a different angle.

I would study his forbidden teachings.

Zamerine walked respectfully along the island’s shore, as if he treaded on the sacred soil of Lus’an itself. Few of his fellow followers had ever had this chance, a fact that added to his satisfaction.

Over the past several moons, Ji had become a central concern for Zuïa and her Judges. Never, in the history of the cult, had so many of the Goddess’s messengers been solicited to deliver her sentence.

In his own way, Zamerine rejoiced at the opportunity to bring justice. He savored the pride he felt in contributing to the Great Work. The only thing he was missing was the satisfaction of a job well done. The men Zamerine had dispatched to Ji to finish the job had never returned. Nor had a single one of the pathetic men who went with them, for that matter. But that only bothered him a little. His messengers had perished serving their Goddess. For their work, they would indulge in the delights of Lus’an for eternity. A Züu messenger couldn’t hope for a better destiny.

Losing a few men from the Guild was not a problem, either. No one would miss them. Not even their so-called
brothers
, those who had survived and made no effort to protect the bodies. Zamerine felt nothing but contempt for these thugs.

He turned back toward Dyree, his assistant. With their boat destroyed, the Guild brothers had been stuck on the island since the evening before. They would have bowed down before him if he had asked. Instead, he quickly extinguished their hope of a quick rescue. Zamerine let them know that he didn’t intend to bring them back to the continent, since they had proven to be inept. They were all quick to promise him eternal loyalty, which was always useful. As such, he was able to get a detailed account of the previous night’s events, without having to pry it from them, which saved him precious time.

His assistant appeared at his side to tell him that the daggers of the deceased were nowhere to be found. It was a great sacrilege to leave a
hati
dagger in the hands of anyone who wasn’t a messenger, so Zamerine told the brothers, as a final condition for their rescue, to return the sacred blades.

Since it took a while for the accusations to surface about which of the brothers was to blame, Zamerine had taken a walk. But he couldn’t waste any more time. So he simply said, “Kill them all, Dyree.”

Dyree slid toward the small group, and two men fell to their knees.

“Wait!” one of them yelled. “It was Micaeir; it was him! He has the daggers!”

The accused man fled without even putting up a fight. He crumbled to the sand before he could take ten strides, his last two with a
hati
in his chest.

Zamerine himself killed the one who had ratted him out for having hid this information for so long. He gave the others the benefit of the doubt.

Dyree gathered up the daggers, and they left. The old fisherman was the color of the pale moon, and dumbstruck. Zamerine briefly wondered what he would do with their old captain, but quickly forgot this insignificant detail. Two more important tasks were at hand for now.

The first one, unpleasant as it was, was to inform the Accuser that some of the heirs, the guilty, had still not received their sentences.

The second was to fix that. He celebrated his chance to hunt. It had been years since his last time. His only desire was that his prey lived up to his expectations.

Achem had written a great number of speeches, lectures, and collections of his ideas; I was sure of it. However, I had difficulty obtaining even a few of them, all the more so since I had to act discreetly. The writings in the Holy City’s libraries were uncensored, even if judged to be conflicting with the Moral. It was held that the study of erroneous theories could just as well help novices progress toward the three virtues. And that it was best to discuss these ideas under the guidance of an experienced Maz as soon as possible, rather than leaving the youngest students to face them alone.

It was different for texts whose author was himself part of the Temple. Those were much too dangerous. And so, the few copies of Achem’s writing I found all issued from private archives, which I could never have consulted without Maz Rôl’s influence and reputation as a virtuous teacher. I dove into reading them. It was readily apparent to me that my great-grandfather was completely healthy in mind and was aware of his acts. He expressed his ideas with intelligence, reflection, and knowledge; he must have been a great Maz.

It was only the theme of his lectures that was troublesome.

Ith had been peaceful for more than eight centuries. Although the city’s history had always been tied to the cult of Eurydis, a great number of other religions made a place for themselves there, and the Grand Temple accepted them all. There were certainly a few squabbles at one time or another between hotheaded novices, but nothing too serious.

Achem suggested a less-tolerant, more aggressive cult. According to him, the universal quest for the Moral was far from reaching its end. All the Maz had to precipitate things. To convert with all their might.

The first objective was the dissolution of the demonist cults, by force if necessary. According to Achem, peaceful Ith had to declare war against the followers of the K’lur, Prias, and Yoos cults; against the messengers of Zuïa; the girls of Soltan; the Valipondes; and dozens of others.

At the time, none of these cults were represented in the Holy City. Achem proclaimed it was Ith’s moral duty to charter boats, recruit soldiers, to form an army. “It’s in our people’s blood,” he reminded them. Maz
Achem wanted a crusade against Evil. He called for war, at the same time lamenting its tragic consequences. This was the cost of the Moral, and it needed to be pursued with urgency.

What happened on the island of Ji? What did he live through that so transformed him?

A tragic event delayed my search for a while. Within a few days’ span, both of my parents fell fatally ill. As for their agony, it endured for a moon, nearly three dékades.

Of course I spent all my time watching over them. I wouldn’t go into detail about these terrible days during which my thoughts were a thousand leagues from the actions of my ancestor, if a certain event hadn’t connected this tragedy to the centuries past.

In his last moments, my father insisted that I record his last will and testament. I was to finish a few tasks he had begun, all seemingly insignificant to me but important in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave anything unfinished as he left this world.