Chapter 199: Irony and Fate

Book 4, Chapter 40 - Irony and Fate

Kazir stared at a boundless black pit.

A lot could be said of the unending darkness staring back at him. One could comment on its infinite nature. Or perhaps on the void it represented. One could strike a song within this pit, and its notes would flow but a shallow distance, and then be devoured by the nothing. Or perhaps one might spin a poem or lay about the whirlwind of shadows in which they found themselves, riddle it with symbolism and vague sentimental and philosophical horse dung which would be contemplated on for centuries to come by historians, scholars, and vain, self-proclaimed literary critics alike.

To Kazir, this black pit meant that he was blind, but it wasn't as if he never saw anymore. These days, he saw more than he would like, if a blind man could make such a statement at all. He saw vivid dreams and even clearer nightmares. He relived his time as an initiate at the cruel Wickar Temple. Relived every assassination he'd carried out, saw again in clear light the final emotions of those victims reflected in their hollow, dying eyes. The unfortunateness of being blind, it seemed, was not in not seeing, but in not being able to control what one saw.

All these once buried memories brought with them regret. Not of regret for actions committed, for that would make him too great a hypocrite than Kazir was willing to admit of himself. But regret of years dissipated. Regret of a life wasted doing the bidding of others for more coin than he could spend in several lifetimes. Regret for not following his own heart.

But then, how could one follow such a conflicted heart?

Whistles of a passing gale came through the open window of Kazir's quarters. Silk drapes fluttered at its touch, barely making a sound as they grazed over floor and wall alike. Kazir faced the open window, making an image of what he assumed was outside. Construction of the Ephemeral Fortress was apace he was told, its walls and battlements shaping up to be a formidable foe to any challenging army. The fort did not share the natural privileges that Arcaeus Peak was graced with, but Iskra made detailed enough reports on the architecture for Kazir to have crafted a halfway functioning mental map of the place. Iskra was in charge of construction. The man was slow witted at times, but he worked hard and had an eye for detail. Oft he showed skill in matters when Kazir least expected it.

Today though, he was running down the corridor with hurried steps that thumped in his master's eardrums as loudly as the hammers and endless yammering of workers outside. Iskra burst past the thin drapes at the doorway, breathing hard, and dropping something heavy to the floor that made Kazir flinch at the sudden loud noise. Kazir slowly rose from his seat, straightening out the ornate (silver of color he'd been informed) coat he wore cut in Tarmian fashion with a high collar and buttons running up in an angle than straight vertical. He kept his hands on the strange garment for a moment, feeling the outline of black threads woven into the silver fabric to form a replica of the scorpion tattoo he bore on his abdomen.

I've changed so much that I even wear clothes now…

No longer did Kazir hide his scars with obscenely long hair —the high collar did that for him. He had cut his hair to shoulder length, and let his beard grow out longer instead. It came an inch out from beneath his chin, itchy, and unruly he was told. He hadn't yet asked if it were black as his hair still was, or if grey threads shown in it now.

Kazir rested a palm on the hilt of the scimitar he'd carried for decades, slowly walking toward the window and clasping it shut. The silk drapes settled down, and the clinks and clanks of hammers outside turned dull. Kazir then slowly turned to his loyal hand. “What have you brought me today, Iskra?” he asked, stretching out each word longer than necessary. It was a strange thing, not seeing. Even after years of blindness, Kazir discovered new things. Things such as the rhythm of language, and the pleasure of speaking words to their full pronunciations than uttering them in haste and with more emotion. Here in this fort, as its blind commander, he had more time for what some might consider the most mundane of things in the world.

“More children from Carthadria, master. And this.”

Kazir's lips twitched. He imagined his servant to be pointing at whatever object he'd just lugged up several flights of stairs and plopped to the floor. “What exactly is this ?” Kazir asked.

“Er, apologies. It's a gift. From Idris Khan, by the card upon it.”

“Have you opened it?”

“No, master.”

“Then bloody open it and tell me what it is! Am I to open it myself and see for myself just what manner of droll humor he's sent me?”

Iskra set to opening the box of whatever right away. Kazir heard the clicking of a latch, and the whoosh of a hastily thrown open lid. He then heard the man whistle, and Kazir made a mental image of his servant staring with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“It is a… bow,” Iskra said. “An Artifact, if I recall from the Artifact encyclopedia.”

Artifact encyclopedia? We had such a thing? “What's it do?”

“It's, well…”

“Well?”

“It's a silver longbow of extraordinary craftsmanship. The grip is of corded leather threads, and the patterns are of swirling silver vines. The bowstring appears to be of silk.”

Kazir folded his arms behind his back. His patience had grown greatly since coming into his disability, but Iskra always found a way to poke holes in such carefully crafted discipline. “You're telling me all this as if description alone tells me its function. I do not have the eyes to read this encyclopedia.”

Iskra cleared his throat. “Of course. It's known as the Pathfinder. A bow which fires arrows that will always find the intended target no matter the irregular angle or obstacles in the way. The only need for its use is—”

“Sight?”

“Yes, sight master. And of course distance needs to be accounted for as well.”

Kazir snorted. It was just like Idris to have such humor. Also just like him to give away a weapon of great value and not think twice. That man had conquered too many cities, felled too many great names, and earned himself too many treasures that he truly cared for. The bow was ideal for an assassin, but not ideal for Kazir. A splendid prank Kazir found himself smiling at than be irritated by. “This reminds me. Does the Xenarian queen not possess a blade that turns away any form of artillery? I do wonder how this Artifact fares against that one…”

“Should I find a way to test that, master?”

Kazir waved his hand. “That was rhetorically said. It'd be a waste of time to deduce that. The newly arrived child soldiers. What have you done with them?”

“Shown half of them to their underground quarters.”

And the other half gets sent out as Field Burners so any of Balihann's spies can report back that I'm still sending them out. This was Kazir's limit as a person. He could not send children out to be slaughtered, but neither could he stop it from happening. That kind of power was not afforded him. So he sought a compromise. Half the young, mindless boys were secreted away in underground quarters where only Iskra, he, and a few other tight lipped servants were allowed. Kazir hadn't the skill to break whatever mind numbing affliction those children were struck by, but that they followed his orders without question was enough for him.

Night after night, Iskra and he trained those boys to be better soldiers. To be proper soldiers, so that when they were inevitably sent out, they would be better equipped to survive than be cattle awaiting a butcher's knife.

No. They wouldn't just be equipped to survive. They would be much more than that. Kazir folded his arms as he contemplated the ways in which he could accomplish this without exposing those stowed away children to prying eyes. He would turn those boys into elites. He would drive them as hard as he was driven at the Temple, but without all the torture and murdering of peers that was involved. They would be his own legion of scorpions. Kazir would no longer give his life in full servitude to another master. He would give it instead to teach, for that, he realized, was what he'd longed for. He would raise a new generation to be hard enough to survive the world as it was, but he would never implement the methods he'd been taught.

Perhaps, with enough passage of time, the boys would break past their shells and their supposed dead eyes would come to hold the light of true human life. “Iskra,” Kazir said, “I'm going downstairs.”

“Of course, master.”

“I'll be down there more often from now on. I'll be giving management of most of the fort's affairs over to you.” Not that I ever could do much with these eyes of mine. “I still want detailed reports from you, but much more will be left to your judgement.”

“As you will it, Master Kazir.”

Kazir let out a breath through his mouth. The him of the past would not make such a drastic decision. Least of all trust Iskra of all people with more affairs than his slow wit should ever earn him. But that Kazir was dead. It'd been slain that fateful night by the swift stroke of Kalin Serene's blade. Kazir had just taken too long to admit it. Old friend, I can only utter my thanks for opening my eyes as you did, and an apology for what I did to your dear wife in my anger. Alas, if time could only move backwards…

For now, the children. The Scorpion Janissary, they would become. Kazir left his quarters and strode through the corridor with practiced, silent footsteps. To what end, he wondered, would he create this elite force over the course of several years? For whom to use, and where? They would not be returned to the Emperor's hands, that Kazir knew for certain. Perhaps they could be trusted to Idris, to wage his endless wars or be used in the aid of quelling rebellions that sprung up here and there in the Empire's conquered territories. Or mayhap Kazir sent them to Kalin's doorstep, as the paltry apology they would be worth.

Kazir snorted. For all the games he thought he'd played with the lives of people, it'd taken losing his eyes to see the true value of human life. Fate loves its irony.