Beneath the Khadra’a Bridge
In Salāḧ, Nalaya
The silence in the darkness below the bridge was palpable, a world unto itself. The sound of the river was soft, drowned out by the absolute quiet between the two women standing and looking into its depths. Their eyes were not the same color, one set grey-green and the other a pale, almost colorless blue, but they possessed the same distant quality. Both were creatures who looked upon the world from another, barely tied to the events and the people around them. It was not an uncomfortable silence that they were sharing—it was the most comfortable silence that either of them were capable of experiencing. They were two kindred spirits, lost in the night.
“They are building a whole world,” the taller one said finally. Khavar T’avish was a striking woman, cold and beautiful as a statue. Something wistful lived in her voice, something that spoke of a final comprehension of some great truth. “I do not know if it will last long. These things...they are dreams, built in castles of glass, and the world loves nothing more than to cast stones. But…” The words that trailed off were at once as heavy as lead and as light as a feather. The thought, the hope, lingered in the air unspoken in the face of a relentless, grim practicality. She was not a woman who believed in anything. She had lived in a world filled with senseless death and indiscriminate pain for far too long.
“You stepped down.” Her companion had a curious way of phrasing things, questions that were not said as questions. The voice was soft-spoken and delicate with the accent of an Imanalov’, but the soul giving it breath was not soft, not delicate. Fire and blood had long ago hardened her in the crucible of war, making her into something so very different from who she should have been.
Khavar studied the water, the flickering reflections of the city lights that were almost wholly swallowed by the shadow of the bridge. “I could not forgive the way Hravad can. And...it is right that Nalaya be his to protect. He understands what needs to be done. He has been with it since the beginning. But...I know this is difficult for you.”
“I always understood that there would be no place for me in the world we were making.” The smaller, hooded woman at Khavar’s side was also watching the river. Her clothes were simple and plain, a worn pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt that covered the ritual wrappings of an Imanalov’ woman, covering her entire body except for her face, which was hidden beneath the cowl she wore. “You will leave.” Another question that was not a question.
“For a time,” Khavar said. “I have always wanted to see the world. A different name, a different set of papers, and no one will think twice. It is strangely freeing. One day, I will come back, and I will live quietly.”
“Siran wanted you to consult on internal security.”
A light hint of a smile touched the corners of grey-green eyes. “I am not the only person here that she asked to stay. I am not the only person who refused.” She paused for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “I had thought that you would never leave the family.”
“I have always wanted to see the world. A different name, a different set of papers, and no one will think twice,” the hooded woman said, wry amusement touching pale lips.
“Humor suits you,” Khavar said, knowing it was a flippant remark even if it had some sincerity to it. She waited patiently to hear something closer to the truth.
Silence stretched on for at least a full minute, both of them almost lost in thought. Finally, the hooded woman spoke. “The world is unkind to the innocent,” she said. “What am I, Khavar? The wreckage of a human being, the last vestiges of what was meek and gentle, the thoughtless intersection of cruelty and pain, the avenging specter of the tortured heart—we possess the fates that are meted out by the gods, nothing more and nothing less. I am what I was made to be.”
Khavar sighed. “You could choose a different path.”
“I must follow my star wherever it leads.”
“Even to disaster?” Khavar asked softly.
There was a soft sound from the hooded woman, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Whose, I wonder.” Another question that was not a question.
It was strange when Khavar spoke again, giving voice to the words that she had heard from so many time and time again, but had never really believed. “There is a peace. It does not have to be this way.”
“At the price of the souls of the innocent. The world brought slavers into our country and set them loose. The world burned our cities, they slaughtered our people, and now we are expected to make nice in the name of peace. We are supposed to forget, to bury the past, to allow their sins to go unanswered.” If it had been anyone else, Khavar would have expected venom. But from this soul, there was only cold, as there had always been. She was not galled, not surprised, not angry. Only resolved.
“And so you will punish them,” Khavar said. She understood the impulse perfectly. It had been her own, but with fire and rage. “But to what end? What are you doing but adding more suffering the world? They will never know our pain. They cannot. We are what we are made, and they are not feeling creatures. They concern themselves with nothing. It is driving a dagger into a dead limb.”
“The infection from such a cut may yet kill the man.”
Khavar sighed. “The world is a dark place, Ziusudra. It needs lights, not more shadows.”
Pale lips curved into a smile with no humor. “The fire of a funeral pyre is light enough for me.”
Conference Room A3
Sevan, Nalaya
The faces of Nalaya’s powerful were, despite their shared nationality, a study in opposites. There was Qasim bin Abd al Maajid, the oldest in the room with eight decades to his name. He was a powerfully built old man with a face like ancient leather and leonine eyes, given to impassivity despite the fires of unquenchable rage that burned at his core.
Gurgen Messerlian sat to his left side, only ten years younger, smoking his pipe. His beard was carefully trimmed where Qasim’s was almost wild, the mark of a more measured creature. Every now and again he sipped from his small cup of coffee, smiling thinly.
Nasaqu sat at Qasim’s right hand, a small female figure hooded and shrouded, with cloth bindings that covered every inch of skin left exposed by her worn jeans and Shalumite flannel shirt. She sat cross-legged on her chair, watching everything with eyes that were little more than a gleam in the shadows that wreathed her face.
To her right was Ada Narekatsi, a cinnamon-haired woman with stormy grey eyes and full lips that were currently pressed into a thin line. Her face was pale with anger, but that seemed to be the case often these days, and not without reason.
The last of the Sulh assembled was the cold and calculating Sabrae T’sarran, a tall woman with blonde hair and tan skin, a single line of blue script tattooed across her face horizontally, following the line of her cheekbones. Her hooded eyes were the color of sapphires and just as soft.
“Protector?”
It took Hravad Ardzuni a moment to realize he was being addressed. The title felt…wrong, like he was wearing someone else’s clothes. Nasaqu’s head was turned towards him, her voice raised slightly from its usual softness so that she could be heard despite the quarrel. The sound of the argument was almost deafening now as Ada Narekatsi joined the fray, her infamous temper scorching Sabrae T’sarran and Gurgen Messerlian alike.
“Enough!” Hravad barked, his military growl startling the belligerents. “We will reconvene tomorrow when everyone has patience again.”
There was a murmur of grudging assent and most of the other Sulh stalked out. Ada remained, relaxing slightly when she and Hravad were alone in the conference room. “Apologies, Arzhani,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”
“Forgiven,” Hravad said before sipping from his coffee. “We’ll get something sorted out tomorrow. It’s the long haul. How’s the fiancé?”
The question reminded him of what he’d lost when Anahid was murdered, even as it left his lips. The marriage that never was, the love extinguished in a heartbeat. For a brief moment, he was transported back to the moment, her body in his arms. It would always hurt. Hravad pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“He’s doing well,” Ada said. “We haven’t had much time together since the war ended.” It went without saying that the fault was hers—her new position entailed ceaseless work as they hammered out the new power-structure’s nuances. At some point the pressure would lift enough for a wedding. She studied Hravad’s expression. “Long day?”
Hravad smiled ruefully. “A long life. I’m too old for this bullshit, Narekatsi.” More seriously, he said, “You should get some time in with him. At the end of the day...memories are what we have. You don’t always have someone in your life forever.”
Everyone knew what Hravad lost that horrible day. The nation was still grieving in many ways. Anahid Vaneni had given Nalaya a heart when she rekindled its soul. Ada felt a pang of sympathy. This new position stirred everything to the surface to him. “I will,” she promised before taking a deep breath. “I don’t know if I’m glad or worried that the Dread Wolf hasn’t attended a meeting.”
The Protector grimaced. “I count us as supremely fortunate,” he said. “A religious fanatic at the table would only inflame things more. Lledrith isn’t known for being reasonable or accommodating. Her agreeing to a settlement was a miracle.”
“I suppose we have Shalum to thank for something,” Ada said dryly. “Have you decided what to do with Pomerok?”
“A trial, just like the rest of them. If we don’t have the rule of law, what do we have?” He sighed and rubbed at his chin. Hravad was always clean shaven, his uniform immaculate. The silver leaves on his collar were badge of office enough. “I want to beat him to death with a phone-book as much as the next person, but…the immediate gratification isn’t worth the erosion of justice.”
“Understood,” Ada said. She didn’t like it, but ultimately the handling of the war’s criminals was Hravad’s realm of authority. “It’s just...difficult.”
“Anahid told me once that difficulty is how you know you’re on the right path. She believed that evil and indifference were easy, cop-outs that people use when they don’t want to expend the effort for love and compassion,” he said. “I never really understood what she meant until the war was over and forgiving became the order of the day. This time is no difference. We just...we need time to grieve.”
Ada nodded. “I think I’ve been to more funerals since it ended than in my entire life before,” she admitted. “The tribunals will be worse.”
Hravad grunted his agreement and sipped his coffee. “We’re ripping off the bandage and cleaning out the wound. It always hurts the most, but if we don’t, worse will happen.”
There was a soft knock on the door and then it opened. “Arzhani Protector, Arzhani Kella bint Diya al Din is here to see you,” one of the attachés said. He was a smartly dressed Vatani man, one of the dependable men that had been handpicked by the head of the Unkndirnei. If things became dangerous, he was a good shot and reliable. That was always a risk when things became heated in Sevan.
“Please, show her in,” Hravad said, straightening up in his seat.
“I’ll leave you two be,” Ada said as she stood up. “Thank you for your time, Arzhani, and your advice.”
“Take care of yourself, Narekatsi,” the Protector said. “That’s an order.”
Ada left and Kella entered. The Vatani woman seemed smaller and thinner every time he saw her. Her brown skin was beginning to lighten as she grew pale. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes tired. It was hard to believe sometimes that she had once been a warlord, athletic and proud. She was wasting away, the long slow death of an illness that seemed so unstoppable. Antibiotics had done nothing to ease the consumption that wracked her body. It was difficult to watch. “Salām, Arzhani Protector,” she said softly. Her voice had a rasp from coughing, but she seemed stronger today than she had been in a while. The cough suppressants were probably working for the moment.
“It is ever a pleasure to see you, Arzhani,” Hravad said as he rose to his feet. His bow was a small, but respectful one. Kella was one of the few warlords that he approved of. She always conducted herself with gentility as much as honor, softening her own sharp edges for the sake of the people who needed her most. “To what do I owe the privilege?”
“I wished to speak with you awhile,” Kella said pleasantly, giving him a smile.
“Please, have a seat,” Hravad said. “Yesayi, will you please bring some coffee for our guest?” He knew that Kella’s appetite rarely existed, so he knew not to make her feel obligated with food.
“You are too kind,” Kella said. “But that would be very much appreciated. It has been a long day—a feeling you are no doubt familiar with. It takes a great deal of patience to tolerate such souls as the Sulhanate with courtesy.”
“Sometimes I wonder how courteous I am managing to be,” the Protector said wryly. “I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to it, however.”
“If anyone remembers the dream, it is Hravad Ardzuni,” the Vatani woman agreed. She leaned back in her chair, looking very much at peace despite her weariness. “It is a beautiful thing we are making. It brings me comfort to know that when I am gone, there will be those who carry the torch that I once lifted. So much of what we do as humans is a castle built on sand. To find stone is a joy.”
Hravad nodded. He appreciated the reflection that Kella brought with her. Perhaps it was because her own death was crystal clear to her and approaching steadily, but she seemed the master of introspection. She was dying gracefully, or as graceful as one could. She didn’t rage against her disease or the cruelty of the universe. To her, it was merely Allah’s plan, and she accepted it. “I am honored that you approve.”
“It is easy to,” Kella said with a smile.
“I received your proposal, about allocating funds to repair the schools that were destroyed in the war,” Hravad said. “It is a priority now, once we have basic necessities attended to. I understand that shelter is still a problem in the area of Vayots Dzor. The bombardment was crushing to infrastructure and structures there.”
The door opened and Yesayi stepped in with a tray, complete with a pot of coffee, sweetened heavily with honey, and a small cup. He placed it on the table without a word, though Kella still thanked him before returning to the conversation at hand. “I am grateful for your willingness to entertain my little suggestion. Education is important. It is how we impart the value of unity to the next generation. Particularly if they are integrated as much as we can, wherever we can. The nature of geography makes such things difficult, but not impossible. If we are connected to our fellow Nalayans on a personal level, perhaps there will be understanding. Where there is understanding, there can be love.”
“I hope so,” the Protector said. Once he had been a stony man who had no use for the idea of love, but it had grown exponentially in its appeal during the Unification War. Now, that was all he wanted for his people.
“The world is divided. We need not be.”
“I worry about that, sometimes,” Hravad admitted as he lifted his coffee cup. It hovered in the air a moment and then he took a sip before continuing. “The world, that is. What will we do if it seeks to rip us apart? Shalum has already demonstrated designs on the south. It’s a miracle they agreed to withdraw. Acrea menaces in the east. The rest are at best indifferent.”
“Nalaya has always repelled enemies, even when it was not unified. How much stronger are we now that we are beginning to lay our differences aside? This cannot be a time of fear or anger. Once, the hope given to us by Anahid Vaneni was transmuted into rage at what we saw as a betrayal of those promises of peace and equality. Now it is time to find our feet, to find our hope again. Perhaps we will lose faith again, but so long as we are always striving towards higher things, all will be as it should.”
Hravad smiled. “You should have my job, Arzhani.”
Kella laughed, but he could hear the disease in her lungs when she did. “I am not strong enough to push them where they must be pushed. I can only articulate my prayers from my failing heart.”
“I saw your letter to the editor in the news. It was beautiful,” he said. “I hope to see many more before you leave us for Paradise.”
“That is what I hope,” Kella said, smiling back at him. “Though if I were you, I would not assign me to Paradise so quickly. I have worked evil in my life. It only remains to be seen whether or not the good in me has overwhelmed it. In the end, Allah and no other will decide what is to become of me.”
“As is true of us all,” Hravad said. He was not a religious man, but sometimes a hint of spirituality crept into his life. For the most part, he tried so very desperately to believe in people, despite all the horrors he had seen. It was difficult to remind himself that there was just as much good in the world, and that it could overpower the evil. If he had learned anything in the life he had shared with a better heart, it was that the only effective answer to hate was compassion. It didn’t always win out, but it had a chance where an answering hatred did not.
Kella nodded slightly. “Faith will carry us through, of one form or another,” she said. Kella was no religious extremist. He wasn’t certain that she would even say other faiths were wrong, at this point in her life. To her, it was many ways up the same mountain. “For whatever it is worth, Arzhani Protector, I believe in what you are doing. I believe that it is the right path and I believe it will change things for the better.”
The Protector of Nalaya smiled. “Thank you.”
