Toronto Rise of Ahrik

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9976550-0-1
Verlag: Toronto International Media
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 256 Seiten

Rise of Ahrik is a science fiction story about the meaning of love in the face of war and violence.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Toronto, Nathan W.

Leseproben

2 Auspicious Beginning Few marriages have such auspicious beginnings. —Zharla Tamer-li, at the decision ceremony Zharla sighed, then tried to disguise it as a deep breath. The afternoon sun streamed into the parlor of the Tameri estate, and already she wanted the day to be over. She wanted to skip past the part where she destroyed all of Shahl’s hopes for the future. Zharla sat on the purple, upholstered chair with gilt wooden armrests, gripping the wood to keep her hands from shaking. Her fingers pressed into the leaping dolphins carved into the armrests, the symbol of the Tameri clan. Her suitors, Shahl and Ahrik, knelt on the short-pile rug before her. The reek of incense almost overpowered her, but Zharla smiled to catch an occasional scent of Shahl’s gentle fragrance. She dreaded what she was about to tell him. By custom, the young woman met alone with prospective husbands, since from the moment of choosing onward, the marriage could legally be consummated. The parlor, tucked away in a corner of the Tameri estate, was arranged as normal, with the exception of the accoutrements for the ceremony on the side table and a bed in one corner. The thought of using that bed made Zharla’s stomach churn. If she never touched a bed with Ahrik in it, it would be too soon. Ahrik brooded as he knelt, and Zharla felt a guilty pleasure. His training beads gleamed from their place in the rim of metal on his forehead. His rank sash wound around his waist, embroidered in gold and silver. He fingered the weapon at his side and focused his eyes on the ground in front of him. He hated how she supported Shahl’s cause, and she read it all over him, feeling almost guilty at the thought. Zharla choked back a sob when her eyes passed over Shahl, dressed in his scarlet silk tunic and trousers. The choker chain around his neck held the gems for the melmezi classes he had taken. So few men were allowed to enter the melmez that he had every reason to beam with pride, but she knew he beamed now for another reason. He thought she was about to choose him. She forced herself to look away from his face, for if she saw his smile or his eager eyes, she would break. She tried not to think how he would turn into a puddle of despair. Zharla squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears and drew in a long breath, composing herself. She would give up all her wedding finery and all the pomp and all the riches and fame to have one moment alone with Shahl, to explain to him what had really happened, that this was not what she wanted. “Ahjoz and I will be watching,” her mother had told her before the ceremony. Her mother had narrowed her demonic eyes. “If you break from the script, even if you still choose Ahrik, Shahl dies.” Zharla coughed into her handkerchief and released her grip on the arm rest, twisting the handkerchief in her hands instead. “Gentlemen, I’m glad you’re both okay after this morning.” It could have been much worse. Losing Shahl like that would have devastated her. She couldn’t help but take in Shahl’s smile, and it nearly broke her, but she studied the twisted handkerchief until the anguish subsided. Zharla grew conscious of the necklace Shahl had given her earlier, before the attack at the social hall, the flame-shaped pendant hidden under layers of chiffon, satin, and tulle. She looked for Shahl’s matching necklace and saw it bouncing outside his red tunic as he shifted his weight. For days beforehand, Zharla had rehearsed the ceremony assiduously, and she knew the two brothers had, too. Zharla recited the opening phrase: “Hareshu li-Simhaleli aalaka kalletni.” (“The Lady of the Emerald Moon has graced me with your presence.”) She motioned with her eyes to the side table, where matches, candles, and ewers were positioned, and where the musky stench of incense burned in metal censers. The brothers rose and moved toward the table, reciting as they went: “Tenen-li shi-aaleh sheret-li metnenini, fe-tenen-li shi-aaleh li-shehet mehreshini.” (“Hers is the light that showed me the way, and hers is the light that lets me now see.”) They lit five candles each, faces solemn. Ahrik’s hands glided from one candle to the next, but Shahl’s shook. The carefree flames danced, an insult to Zharla’s heartbreak. The candles represented the light of the Emerald Moon, which had shown the Esheli Mothers the way out of the mountains and into the Eshel after The War, but a darkness clung to Zharla’s heart that no light could chase away. Did Ahrik know about the script her mother had given her, that she could never tell Shahl why she had chosen Ahrik? Zharla feigned a smile, and her eyes passed from one brother to the other, narrowing on one, softening for the other. “Eshihetni fe-tenen raqbihu ehreshak,” she said. (“Look to me now and I shall show you the light of Her will.”) She wracked her brain for a way to tell Shahl, in a way only he would understand, that she was choosing Ahrik to preserve his life. The brothers returned to their positions on the floor. “Raqbihu hall etred, lek-raqbihu an-esh’het,” they said. (“Her will only do I wish for, but Her will I do not fathom.”) In the final act of ceremony, Ahrik and Shahl leaned down to rest their foreheads on the floor. Zharla smiled to see Ahrik humbled like this. Beside him, Shahl’s body quivered. “You may look up,” Zharla commanded them. “Impressive, Ahrik. For a keteli, you have learned the Old Tongue well. As for you, Shahl, your command of the Old Tongue has always been unmatched.” Her mother had said nothing about not insulting Ahrik. Envy flashed on Ahrik’s face as Shahl looked up, that hopeful smile in his eyes. Only by focusing on her disdain for Ahrik could Zharla keep to the script, to make it look like this was what she wanted. If she dwelt on Shahl’s goodness for even a moment, she would crumble. Zharla poured all the enmity she could muster into her voice. “Look at me, Ahrik.” He met her gaze, his eyes full of scorn. “What could you possibly want from me?” Zharla asked. “My mother told me I should choose you. Why?” Zharla was dangerously close to deviating from her mother’s instructions, and every part of her begged to reveal her mother’s threat. Ahrik knelt, silent. “At a loss for words, for once?” Zharla asked. Ahrik looked down with false modesty. “There’s nothing I can do to change your mind about me.” Zharla squeezed the handkerchief, her knuckles white with fury. Ahrik had needled her right back. He knew about the script. He must know. She muttered in disgust and leveled a cold stare at him, but then sadness coursed through her once again. She could not postpone her hateful task any longer. Her mother had given her words to say. “We make choices, sometimes hard choices,” she muttered. She grit her teeth, then spat the next words out: “This is the hardest one I’ve ever made.” She turned a mournful gaze on Shahl, and a bolt of fear flashed over his eyes. Zharla felt a tear form at the corner of her eye, but it came from deep in her heart. “She’leni, She’leni,” she said. (“My She’le, my She’le.”) “Haqrer shadhe’eke.” (“I have chosen your brother.”) Shahl disintegrated onto the floor, his forehead on the ground. His fingers interlaced with the hair on the back of his head. “Please forgive me, She’le,” she whispered. His head stayed down for a long, painful moment. Then, raising his head with obvious effort, he said, “There is no need for forgiveness when no wrong is done.” His body convulsed silently. He did not look at her. “I do not question your decision.” He worked himself to a standing position and turned toward the door, still without looking at Zharla. A chasm tore open in the caverns of her heart. Tears streamed down her face. In the moment she could have told him the truth, in a way only he’d understand, she thought of nothing. Her wits had failed her, and she had failed Shahl. When he was almost to the door of the parlor, Zharla called, “Shahl.” He half-turned, eyes fixed on the middle distance. “You are my broth—,” she said. A sob choked off the last word. He nodded, visage forlorn, and left. After watching the door close behind him, Zharla glanced at where Shahl’s forehead had touched the floor. Light glistened off the tear-moistened stone. But then she saw something else laying on the rug, just behind where Shahl’s forehead had been, and she let out a low moan of despair. Shahl’s necklace. She crumpled out of her seat and knelt next to the necklace, scooping it up while soft sobs wracked her body. She fought back the convulsions and turned her head toward Ahrik. “Do you feel any sympathy at all for your brother?” He said nothing. So uncaring, she thought. She bowed her head and cried for a long while, adding her own tears to those Shahl had left. Her tears drained, Zharla sat up on the rug and fastened a fierce glare on Ahrik, their eyes on the same level now. “I shall have you, but you will not have me,” she said. I will not lose Shahl only to lose to Ahrik. “If I never grow to love you, Ahrik Jeber-li, I shall not be surprised, but until that happens, you shall not know the gratification of my body. Our seed, if it ever grows, will be the product of love, not duty. Do you accept that?” Quiet rage seeped into Ahrik’s eyes. “You would ask a...