THE DAY AFTER the hunt, Isaiah for the first time caught himself almost forgetting about his mission, enchanted by the landscape that had started to unfold before them. Now, with many miles of road behind them, the path was becoming more and more open, leaving them with hills and beautiful views he’d only ever seen in the Huxleys’ paintings. The closer they got to Nagár – the bigger the fields. There had been two large ones inside the fortress, but both were incomparable in size. From the height of the hills they looked like giant pieces of a puzzle – or like square, plain, (and oddly enough) empty gardens. He’d suggested they could collect something to eat. It appeared the harvest season had ended sooner here, but there was always something left if you looked closely enough. Also, whoever owned the fields probably wouldn’t mind a few of their potatoes missing. Cyra had objected, making it clear she didn’t give a dry twig about how the owner felt, but she will not eat “villager food” under any circumstances, and neither should he.
As the sun went down, leaving the sky a dark shade of rose-pink, they decided to camp under an oak tree next to a lake. Sliding out of their saddles, Isaiah noticed her doing it ever so slightly more carefully than usual. It wasn’t a very evident thing, but as he paid closer attention, he saw a subtle limp in her walk.
“Your leg…” He said, and Cyra grabbed her cape as if to hide it.
“It’s nothing.”
“Let me see it.” she made a loud sigh. Rolled her eyes like a child that had just gotten dull instructions from their mother.
“Come now.” He said, and finally she exposed a considerably more-than-nothing wound, marking four deep lines in her tanned flesh.
“It’s not bad as it look.” She said unworried, but her leg was in poor conditions.
“Cyra, it looks infected. Why didn’t you tell me? It must have been hurting a lot.”
“Zura are trained not feel pain. The less you worry, the less you feel – the less the hurting.” Isaiah thought this sounded like an awful excuse to not cope with their children’s whining, but he knew better than to criticize if he wanted to convince her.
“Let me at least cleanse it for you.” She snarked again, but then made a subtle nod. Unprepared, he had not brought any medical supplies with him, but with his grandfather in mind, he’d at least remembered to grab the last bit of salve from his office.
“Wait here, I’ll go look for leaves we can cover it with and maybe something anti-inflammatory. In the meantime, go clean it with the water from the lake.”
“Anti..?”
“Something to help take away the… the bad, burning feeling.” He tried explaining. It was getting dark, and so he hurried to search the area. Shortly, he spotted a few leaves that he recognized from the botany book and picked them to use as wound dressing. He then walked a little further, but as he looked around, he couldn’t see anything else that might be of use. “The salve will be enough.” He thought. Tzelem’s leg had been in a much worse condition. He then recalled his new, wooden one, wondering whether it truly had. The remembrance made his face twitch, and he then turned to walk back. On his way he found something he thought was basil. He picked a few leaves, and smelling it, he became uncertain.
“Cyra, do you think this is basil?” He asked, walking towards her. She’d of course had time to make a fire, and the sky had turned to a deep purple, with darkly painted clouds left by the sunset.
“What?” She asked, and he held it out for her to smell.
“I think these might be anti… uhm, good for your leg.” He suggested, thinking it would be the sort of thing a Zura would know about, but Cyra just shrugged her shoulders, fairly uninterested in the leaves. Either the world of plants wasn’t considered quite exciting enough, or that their wounds were not important enough to be properly dealt with. He smelled it himself again, knowing some plants could have the opposite effect and make matters worse. He didn’t think holding it in between his fingertips wouldn’t cause any harm, but he wasn’t so sure he trusted it on top of an open wound. It seemed strange to him how it didn’t smell of basil. It didn’t smell like anything at all.
“It is just leaves. It is fine.” Cyra said, and he felt it was finally his turn to lecture her.
“Actually, this could either be a good leaf to put on your wounds, or it could be a very poisonous plant that could kill you.”
“Brown bear, black bear.” She said, slightly more serious, and Isaiah nodded.
“Maybe even white bear.” He added. She had explained to him that there used to be white bears in Nahbí, but now you could only find them far north – if anywhere at all. Cyra had never seen one herself, nor had anyone she’d ever met. She’d explained, this was either because they’d gone extinct, or because the white bear didn’t let people live to talk about the encounter. Isaiah took another look at the leaves.
“I am pretty certain it’s the good kind. I have a salve that I brought from our house too.”
“It seem Tara was right about you being healer.”
“Don’t be stupid.” He mimicked her. “My grandfather is an academic, and he specialized in plants. He taught me a lot when I was younger.” He explained, sitting next to her to study the wound more closely.
“I don’t remember all that much about the healing remedies... but I am pretty sure it’s a good leaf.” Seen away from some herbal mixtures for stomach aches, he’d never really had to use any of the knowledge. “More important than healing, is prevention. When you know caution, my boy, you won’t need a plant to lick your wounds.” He heard his grandfather saying. Cyra didn’t know caution, and he didn’t think for a moment he’d ever be able to teach it to her.
“You already say this. I trust you.” He looked at her in surprise and felt his cheeks flushing, having never thought he’d hear those words coming from a Zura’s mouth. It felt strangely good, and so did being of actual assistance. Though worried he might make matters worse, he knew by the look of it, something needed to be done to avoid further infections.
“This will sting a bit.” He said, but Cyra seemed completely unaffected as he spread a thick layer of the sharp smelling salve.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” he asked.
“Zura only scream in battle, in rage, or in silence.”
“Not in birth?”
“Birth is the biggest battle of all.” He noticed the slightest bit of tears in her eyes, and it gave him some relief – as if the salve somehow had lost its healing powers if it didn’t cause any burning. He then put the basil leaves on and covered it up with the large ones he didn’t remember the name of.
“We’ll need to leave it like this for at least twelve hours.”
“Not possible, we need to move in early morning. We leave it tonight – no longer.” Isaiah sighed.
“It would really be better to give it some time. Your leg’s condition… I won’t lie to you; it doesn’t look very good.”
“Mission is more important than some leg. If worse, I will cut off when we get to capital tomorrow.” As usual, her ideas sounded too insane for him to even comment on. She didn’t want to tell him what her mission was. When he’d asked, her reply had been not to ask her again, and that doing so would only be a waste of his breath.
“As you please, then. Just for the night.” He agreed, not wanting to spend their last evening arguing. He’d promised not to save her, and he intended to stand by that promise like a man of his word – like the gentleman he was. Putting some salve and a leaf on her leg, was not truly breaking this rule – seeing they’d both agreed on it. It’s something anyone would have done, his duty as an Araktéan almost.
“We will reach Nagár tomorrow, then?” Cyra nodded absentmindedly, looking towards the road that led over many more hilltops ahead.
“Perfect.” He said, though his eagerness to arrive had somehow dissipated. Just as the forest’s road had started feeling comfortable, he was about to enter a whole new territory and the capital city was truly something else.
*
Isaiah had seen paintings of Nagár before and the one most clear to his memory by far, was the large canvas in the fortress’s ballroom. Being an image rich in color, framed in gold and strategically placed between the two, long windows showing the Lady’s garden, it was the first thing to catch anyone’s eye upon entering. The Patroness had explained to him “Greatest Nagár” had been painted right before the revolution by an unknown artist, who'd become notoriously known as the Great Osman. Till this day, he was considered the most masterful painter to have ever walked the earth. “He painted with more than oils and colors, you see. He painted with heart and raw emotions that most people would never even be able to feel. That is why even commoners, who care and know little of the arts, become so captivated by his work.” He remembered the silhouettes and shades of the painted, multicolored humans, selling fruits and playing instruments he’d never seen. He remembered thinking it was beautiful and wondering how the city might have changed since 40 A.A. (this date was scribbled in its lower right corner). Lady Huxley had explained they’d started a new calendar in Nahbí after Amnos the First had freed them from the ruthless ones who’d ruled before.
Approaching what was often referred to as the center of their land, if not the world, he’d suspected to be met with a very different image. From the fortress he’d heard Nagár was a joyous and exciting place, filled with everything you could possibly imagine regarding supplies, food, inns, bars, and tailors. They even had various forms of entertainment – offering magnificent shows and plays of all sorts (and at all times). Others seemed to be of the same opinion as his grandfather, stating things like “a chaotic, filthy hole of godless people and temptresses“. If little else, many villagers seemed to agree with the Zuras, that the capitalers were the worst scum in Araktéa. What nobody had ever cared to mention, and that first struck him as they reached the top of the infamous hill heading towards it, were the large walls surrounding it.
“It looks like a prison...” he stuttered, and then he thought, “It looks like the Fortress. Just twenty times larger”. They found themselves at the exact position as the Great Osman had once sat down with a blank canvas. Yet, even with his vivid imagination and superior emotions, Isaiah doubted he, or anyone else would ever be able to paint it that beautifully again.
“Wall was built to keep us out – us and now most others too. Not worry, stay close by and follow me.” Cyra said easily. “In Zura we have nine heavens and thirteen hells. Some Zura say ‘Capital is gate of two of the hells.’” She added, and Isaiah wondered if she was trying to comfort him, as she certainly didn’t seem to be in humorous spirits.
Riding down the hill, the city grew even more hideous – and more importantly, a lot noisier than he could’ve ever anticipated. Not even a large waterfall (which apparently was what these vertical rivers were called) inside of Captive’s Cave on a cold winter’s night, would’ve been able to compete. Outside the walls there were shapeless tents and numerous formations of crowds. As they got closer, their shouting formed words in different dialects. One claiming he had the best oranges in the world, and his neighbor denying it because his own were surely both fresher and juicier. Isaiah took a brief look at them as they made their way through. Not the people themselves – but their oranges, and he quickly concluded both salesmen were mistaken. Compared to the ones growing at home, the fruit was almost greenish, and from one simple glare he could tell they had to be both too dry and sour to be enjoyed. They were yet to enter, but though more colorful (not to say more vivid) than the many ghost towns they’d ridden past, he’d sincerely hoped he would find his grandfather as soon as possible, so they could be on their way home and never return.
After avoiding many insane-looking men and women screaming about their bad-looking fruits, garments in strange styles and wines or spirits Isaiah refused to taste, they finally got through the marketplace and to the gates. The arch reminded him of the fortress again, except these gates were open, and only had one guard on each side. Both men were heavily armed, holding large spears and dull expressions, despite the chaos occurring a few yards in front of them. He wanted to ask Cyra about the paper matter once again – knowing the capitaler's obsession with such things. She had already told him Zuras didn’t need papers, since they were not ground bound, and that if he just kept quiet, they would simply think he was one too. He’d reminded her that he didn’t look anything like a Zura, and she’d lent him her bear skin. Painted some strange tribal-looking symbols on his face, with some clay they’d found by the lake. “They not so clever. You not worry.” She’d assured him. It had helped for the time being, but now, seeing the guards, he couldn’t help but feel terribly worried. As instructed, he stayed right behind her and was left rather astonished, as she passed through the gates without the guards giving her as much as a glare. When he attempted to do the same, their spears closed in front of him.
“Halt!” Indra stopped at the command, taking a sudden step back and nodding her head in aggregation.
“Papers.” The clean-shaved, dark haired man at the left demanded.
“I.. I don’t.” Isaiah stuttered.
“No papers? You must be registered.“ The guards looked at each other and Isaiah looked to Cyra, who apparently hadn’t thought about everything, after all. Their eyes only met for a very brief moment – his silently begging hers to come to his rescue. Her gaze was first confused, then apologetic, and finally it was completely gone, as she dissipated into another large crowd. Once again, he was left on his own.
“Where were you born? What is your business here?” The one at the right asked. Isaiah took a deep breath. He couldn’t rely on silence after all, and he’d not come all this way just to be refused at the gates.
“I am Zura. Zura not carry papers.” He said, with his best attempt to imitate Cyra’s accent. It had some effect on them, for they suddenly looked a little less firm.
“Zuras don’t enter here.” The light-haired one to the right said. He seemed to attempt to penetrate him with his eyes, and Isaiah reminded himself he was a Zura right now and wouldn’t be afraid of some shelako capitaler.
“I was told to come register as guardian.” The guards now looked at each other in a way that told him neither of them had interfered with an untrained Zura before.
“We haven’t gotten no orders about this… who recruited you?” the light-haired one asked and Isaiah took a second to think.
“I recruited by Zura commander, right after death of great redheaded leader.” It was a risk. If Dove and the commander were there, he doubted they’d go along with his lie. But since half the story was true, he thought the chances of them believing it was considerably bigger.
“Kyron knows the rules. If he wants to recruit someone, he needs to bring them here to verify them in person first.”
“You are wasting precious time, shelako. I was only Zura agreeing to come, and there is many bandit raiding roads now – killing commanders. Zura know these woods better than anyone. You –“ he said with his fiercest tone, pointing towards the clean-shaved one that now looked the most worried out of the two, “You need us.” He gave them a penetrating stare if he’d ever had one, hoping it would be enhanced by the sinister-looking face paint. He then turned Indra around, hoping the theatrical effect of it would make enough of an impression for them to reconsider. “Come on,” he prayed, as he didn’t have the faintest idea as to how he’d climb the fifteen-foot wall.
“Wait! You can pass… we will fetch an escort so you can go get verified.” Isaiah almost forgot to suppress his smile as he turned to face them. The light-haired man was giving his colleague an annoyed look, but he didn’t protest, and so, their crossing spears opened before him.
Riding through the gates he had to contain himself not to show how ecstatic he felt – for once, it was he who had fooled someone. He looked around for Cyra, hoping she perhaps had just hidden until he’d gotten through himself, but she was gone. They hadn’t discussed exactly what they’ll do once they reached Nagár. Still, he had at least wanted to say goodbye, while she’d seemed more than alright about leaving him outside. He reminded himself he shouldn’t be taken so much by surprise by this – he was not a Zura after all. They were not a tribe, nor were they family, and in the end, they had no obligation to each other – owed each other nothing at all. “Who am I to ask her to save me?” he thought. She’d done so once already, and it’d been more than enough.
“Get off your horse.”
“What?” Isaiah said absentmindedly, forgetting about his Zura mask for a flare second. A red-faced man with matching hair and large, crossed arms was standing in front of him. “The escort.” He realized.
“No horses.” Isaiah looked around. The city was so disturbingly crowded it would almost be impossible for anyone to get around in – little less so on horseback. There were more humans shouting and yelling, than he had even thought existed. Even so, he did not want to leave Indra, as she seemed to be the only one he could trust.
“Are you deaf?” The escort groaned in a strong northern accent – obviously less affected by his tribal costume than the guards.
“Where will you take her?”
“To the stables. With the other horses.” He pointed to the right, and the intensified redness on his face suggested he was growing more annoyed by the second. Finally, Isaiah got off her back while silently apologizing. “I’ll come for you,” he assured her.
“Wait here.” The red man said firmly, and just as he turned his back to him, Isaiah started running. Leaving the heavy bear skin on the ground, he ran into the enormous crowd as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Hey! Stop!” The man shouted after him, but even if Cyra had been right about them not being clever, anyone knew better than running with the reins of a Zura horse in their hand.
Within three minutes of arriving in the capital, Isaiah had lost his courier, two guards, an escort, and his horse – the last of them, carrying the few belongings he’d brought with him. Indra was the only thing he truly felt bad about, and he promised himself he’d somehow find a way to get her back once he was done there. Though the Nagárians had been as hostile as their reputation suggested, he didn’t think them cruel enough to hurt an innocent animal for his little scheme. For now, his priority was to navigate himself through the streets, and he realized he’d given too little thought as to how he’d proceed from there. Oblivious as to how large the city truly was, he’d thought he would simply walk around for some time, hoping to find his grandfather – or somebody who’d seen him. If this turned out unsuccessfully, he’d start asking people if Raziel Mongoya was still alive – then find him and, hopefully, discover his grandfather had been in contact. Now that he was there, he understood how unrealistic this was, and while trying his best to move in between the masses, he concluded that finding anyone in Nagár might take an eternity.
Isaiah tried to think. He knew nothing about the place, and nobody in it seemed to have time to even stop for a breath – less so to help a lost outsider. Even if they had, he wouldn’t have known what to ask, and now that the guards might be on the lookout for him, it would be too risky going around knocking on doors. He tried hiding his face underneath his cape, but soon discovered that nobody seemed to give even a slight amount of acknowledgement to his existence. Overwhelmed by the terrible noise and the many bodies pushing their ways forward from several directions, he scouted for an exit point. With the voices of thousands of humans inside his head, thinking became increasingly impossible. Moving anywhere was as much of a struggle as standing still, and soon he could just barely choose the direction of his steps. It was as if he was about to drown in a large river of sweating bodies, and he felt himself growing more and more desperate, looking for something to hold on to. As his breath grew heavier, he instinctively put his hand to his chest. His heart was pondering. Though not exactly the same, it was beating in a similar rhythm it had, just before he’d been put to the ground by the bear. Suddenly, he felt burning hot. He gasped, sensed the noise quieting down and being replaced by an odd whistling in his ears. As if a strange wind had taken over his head. His body felt tingly, his eyesight cloudy, and when he at last fell to the ground, it felt very close to relief.