Chabra: The Amulet

I was born here, and yet I was not.

I know the streets of Shiroora Shan, the aromas and alleys of the Market, the sandalwood groves of Mount Krilara, the hidden passageways and chambers of the Great House of Chabra… I know them all, and yet they are not.

I know my name, Lajita, and the role I play, and yet not my own destiny, or reason.

 

The girl carefully closed the leather-bound book. It was over five centuries old, preserved as well as generations of Chabra women had been able to, but decaying slowly into illegibility and dust with the years. There were dozens of books on the shelf of various sizes, all rich in the history of House Chabra, but this was the very first, and the oldest of them all.

She stroked the leather cover carefully, as if to feel the spirit of the First Lajita seeping from it, then reverently replaced it back in its protective box.

They had copies of it all, of course, every word, but these were written by the First Lajita, the Founder, the seer who had created House Chabra, and birthed the sons who had established its great lineages.

She’d memorized every word, had sought every tiny bit of information about her, and could never learn enough. The First Lajita had chopped off the hand of a demon during the battle in the House of Grushak, going on to marry Karadi the Bear and give birth to the seven sons and four daughters who secured House Chabra’s position for centuries to come.

But who had she been?

And what did those opening words mean? She had written them centuries upon centuries earlier, before the city of Shiroora Shan was even a pipe dream of the tiny villages along the Night Ocean. She had named the glorious city that rose, the city she lived in even now, and had founded House Chabra. Prophecy after prophecy, detailed names, descriptions, explanations, of things destined to happen centuries after her own death. How?

Her prophecies had made House Chabra wealthy beyond belief, rulers of the city and the realm surrounding it, secure in their knowledge that she would guide them through dangers in the future as she had in the past.

But who was she?

Lajita sighed, and looked up at the bust of the First Lajita, standing in a place of honor, almost a little shrine to a little goddess. It was said to have been carved by her fourth son, Kostubh, in Olathoë marble, a soft, almost transparent cream with thin streaks of gold running through it like errant threads.

It was the face of a woman in her prime, perhaps her forties. A kind face, worn by responsibilities and duties, a stern face, yet beautiful. Many said she herself looked just like that First Lajita, and she had to admit there was a resemblance. After over five centuries, though, what matter?

A direct descendant of the First Lajita, she bore the same name, as did her mother. In every generation for centuries back to the founding of House Chabra, a woman somewhere in the Dreamlands would bear a daughter who would become the new Lajita. Identified by prophecy, House Chabra would seek her out and adopt her, preparing her to assume the responsibilities of her position. Sometimes the prophecy stated when she would assume her duties, sometimes it did not, but the prophecy was never wrong—none so selected refused the honor, or failed at the task, and every dishonest claim to the title was disproven by explicit prophecy.

When the title of Lajita passed to a new woman—usually a young woman—she received Lajita’s amulet to hold and protect.

She took it out of the velvet bag hanging around her neck and examined it once more.

The amulet looked like a coin, about three centimeters in diameter. The metal was a dull bronze in color, but no one had ever been able to identify what it was made of, or even scratch the surface with dagger points or diamonds. It remained as clean and shiny as the day it was forged.

One side had a raised image, ten arms outstretched from the central eye. Most people thought it was a stylized kraken, with eight arms and two tentacles, but she hadn’t made up her mind.

The other side was covered with tiny characters in no known language. Nobody could read it, of course, and there still wasn’t even a consensus on which side was up!

Like the First Lajita, its origin was a mystery.

And now it was her mystery, to protect until she bore her own daughter and passed it on to a new generation.

She looked at the table before her: on it lay only the blank diary she had made, new but perfectly identical to that very first book, yet untouched, awaiting her quill. As tradition dictated, when one book of prophecies was full, the new Lajita would have to make a new book, to receive prophecies for the coming year.

Now that she was no longer a girl, but a woman, it was her turn, in this most secret chamber of the Great House. Her “mother” and “grandmother,” the two previous generations of the Lajita, waited outside the door, protecting their successor and her sacred task.

Its pages were yet blank, but every year the Lajita would perform this ceremony, and new writing would appear on the seemingly blank pages. The handwriting was always the same—that of the First Lajita.

She had practiced for years to make her own handwriting identical, striving to mimic her in every way.

She held the amulet over the virgin book, feeling its cold weight in her hands, then with sudden determination, she clenched it tight and chanted the spell.

There was no noise, no burst of light, but suddenly there was a rolled-up piece of parchment on the table next to the diary, as if it had been there all along.

The book lay untouched.

A scroll? From the First Lajita?

Nothing like this had ever happened before!

The parchment was rolled up and tied with a simple cord. It still looked new, untouched by the years… the spell that kept it safe also kept it hidden from the passing of time.

Sometimes there was no prophecy for the coming year, leaving the Lajita in doubt. Did that mean it would be a good year, no enemies of calamities? Or that she was merely unworthy? There had been many times when House Chabra had faced difficulties without a prophecy, without a guiding hand, and had managed to make the right choices in spite of loss and personal sacrifice. And the next year, or the one after that, or a decade later, a new prophecy would come.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She was worthy: this year there was a prophecy, even if was a scroll rather than scribed directly into the book she had painstakingly made. She hung the amulet in its bag back around her neck, accepting the weight of her duty, then turned to the parchment.

Her fingers trembled as she untied the cord and let it drop to the tabletop. She slowly unrolled it, to find but a single line.

Be brave, Lajita, First and Last. I am so tired. It is done.

She stared at it in confusion.

There was no prophecy, no warning of imminent danger, or advice on expanding their realm. Only a… command? To her? What did “First and Last” mean? What is done?

She stared at it for some time before she slowly walked to the door to admit her “mother” and “grandmother”—neither related to her by blood, but sharing with her the honor and the duty of the Lajita.

>* * *

The three of them had not left that chamber for a full day, trying to ascertain what it might mean, wondering why this time, for the first time ever, the prophecy was so unclear, and so directly talking to the new Lajita. There were no warnings or guidance for the House at all.

The head of House Chabra knew of the prophecies, of course, and had himself studied the collected prophecies of the past, but he was not a Lajita. First, they needed to discuss it amongst themselves, the three living Lajitas.

Talk as they might, though, they couldn’t understand what it might mean.

Finally they sent a messenger to ask the head of the House to join them.

As head of the main line of the extended Chabra clan he resided in the centuries-old Great House, commanding not only his own extensive estate, but also controlling in large part the lives and doings of the six main Chabra families, and related branches.

In his late forties, his hair was already mostly white from the stress of his position, and while able of body he could not stop his fingers from drumming on the table, or rubbing one of his rings, or stroking his neatly trimmed, graying beard.

He had studied the prophecy, spoken with them about how to interpret it, and after much discussion agreed that they had no choice but to seek outside help. In this case, that meant Godsworn Tovari Beklamandalee of Nath-Horthath, in far Celephaïs. They decided to wait until they heard his counsel before transcribing the prophecy, if that’s what it was, into the blank book.

And so it was decided that Lajita would leave on a journey, first by ship to Eudoxia, then by carriage to Thace and on to Despina, where she and her escort would board a ship for Celephaïs.

She had never been so far beyond the boundaries of her own homeland, and couldn’t wait to see all the sights and sounds of new cities, new people, new cities, and oceans, and foods, and everything sounded so new and exciting!

Her escort, two dozen troopers, was less excited at the prospect, having been tasked with getting her safely to her destination in spite of her youthful exuberance and naivety.

Her only companions would be the few attendants that would accompany her, two women only a few years older than herself, under the stern eye of a fiftyish physician who had served House Chabra all her life, and gave not one millimeter in matters of propriety, tradition, or safety, to Lajita’s constant irritation.

They would leave in the morning, and in spite of the prohibition from her father—the head of House Chabra—she snuck from the Great House, through the gardens, and out the secret postern she had used so many times before.

She was a woman now, she thought as she climbed up the slope. The Great House of House Chabra was built atop a low mountain overlooking the whole city, and the bay and the Night Ocean stretching beyond. Behind the Great House rose the first peaks of the foreboding Ifdawn Marest, the mountain range that stretched north to distant Irem, and on to the dread Pool of Night.

The path wound up through the trees until she reached her destination, an outcrop of rock that offered the perfect view. From here she could look down upon the Great House, the streets and markets of Shiroora Shan, the ships plying the waves of the Night Ocean, and beyond. She thought she’d even sighted far Adelma once, unlikely as it was.

Tomorrow she would leave all this behind, she thought, a bit scared at the thought. But to see Celephaïs! The Palace of the Seventy Delights, the Pinnacle and the Minaret of the Stars, the Ten Noble Estates… she had heard tales of its beauty and glory since she was a babe, and now she would see them with her own eyes!

She sat on the cold stone, arms crossed over her knees and chin on arms, daydreaming until suddenly came a voice.

“I thought I was the only one who knew of this outlook,” someone said with a chuckle.

She leapt to her feet and spun around to see a young man, only several years older than she, dressed in fine silks and with a bejeweled rapier at his side.

“Who are you?”

“I am Shikhandi,” he replied in a soft voice. “Like you, I often climb here for the beauty of the view, and to think.”

“What House are you from? I don’t recall seeing you in Shiroora Shan…”

She knew she’d heard that name before but couldn’t place it. She thought it strange that she couldn’t recall, until he spoke again and his soothing voice wiped away her doubts.

“Oh, I am not from Shiroora Shan,” he smiled. “We live farther up in the mountains, and but rarely visit the city.”

“Strange that I have not heard of such.”

“We do not seek out strangers, or willingly visit Shiroora Shan,” he said. “May I join you, and enjoy together tea and cakes?”

He held up a small wicker basket.

She hadn’t noticed it before, but he must have been carrying it all along.

He was such a handsome man…

“Of course, Master Shikhandi, thank you. I would be delighted!” she said, nodding her head in an almost regal motion and taking a step back so he could join her on the widest, flattest portion of the rock.

He set the basket down, and reached in to withdraw a ground cloth of silk and gold thread, embroidered with the birds and flowers of paradise in every color of the rainbow. He snapped it wide, and gently fluttered it to the ground.

“Mistress? Please, join me.”

She daintily stepped onto the cloth and sat, legs to the side and completely hidden by her carefully adjusted saree.

He took out a silver- and gold-chased teapot, two delicate porcelain cups, and a small cedar box that turned out to hold tempting honey cakes, seemingly fresh-baked.

He poured her a cup and held it out properly to her, between his two hands like an offering.

She couldn’t help but notice how clean his hands were, how strong and masculine.

As she accepted the cup she caught the barest whiff of his scent, a heady combination of spice and musk.

He picked up the plate of honey cakes and held it toward her.

A plate…? Hadn’t that been a box, a cedar box…?

She felt dizzy.

How had he fit all that into such a tiny basket?

Why did he have two cups…?

She grasped the plate, and their fingers brushed together for the briefest moment. She swayed in the impact of his presence, her eyes closing for an instant in the sudden orgasm his touch had brought.

The plate dropped from her hand, smashing to shards, unnoticed as she screamed.

“No! I cannot! I am the Lajita!”

He pulled her hand closer, kissing the fingertips, the palm, the wrist, as she writhed in agony, torn between the waves of pleasure his kisses brought and the iron commandments she had sworn to obey as Lajita.

She moaned as his kisses reached her neck, her head turning upward toward the heavens, her mind a frenzied confusion of lust and horror. She couldn’t move a single finger, her body frozen by wave after wave of orgasm that swept through her, unstoppable, irresistible.

His fingertips danced down her neck, her collarbone, and slipped inside her saree, stroking her skin in patterns of delight until they reached the cord holding the amulet, and paused for a moment.

“What have we here?” he breathed. “No matter; nothing shall come between us.”

He pulled the cord, lifting the amulet in its bag from between her breasts. The bag caught on the edge of her saree, and slipped off, leaving the amulet exposed.

It caught the rays of the sun, collecting and reflecting them in a blinding explosion of light, incandescent brilliance that pierced Shikhandi, his flesh bubbling and steaming into smoke as he screamed and shielded his eyes from the assault.

“You…! Why…?”

Eyes wide, unable to tear her eyes away in spite of the radiance that brought tears to her cheeks, she watched him weaken and fade until there was nothing left but his eyes, staring into her own with sadness.

“I would have given you a lifetime of pleasure, a universe of sensation to explore, but now I give you only my curse!”

The fading outlines of his eyes vanished, the amulet fell dark, and Lajita collapsed senseless to the bare rock.

* * *

Her cheek hurt; this pillow was hard!

She reached up toward her face, and suddenly stopped.

Her eyes opened.

It was not a pillow.

She was not in her bed.

It all came rushing back… the forest, the outlook, Shikhandi…

She gasped in sudden fear, and sat up.

She was all alone on the rock, warm in the afternoon sun.

There was no sign of Shikhandi, no sign of his basket.

Her hand flew to her neck, and she sighed in relief.

The amulet was still there.

She brushed the grit off her face as she stood.

The sun was already dropping toward the horizon, she had to hurry back to the Great House!

She looked down from the outlook toward where the Great House should stand.

There was only forest.

And beyond it, where Shiroora Shan should stretch, its streets and marketplaces and wharfs along the seafront of the Night Ocean… only trees, rocks, and sand met her searching gaze.

“Why…? Where…?” she whispered.

What had Shikhandi done to her? What was this curse?

She had to get back to the Great House!

It must be there, hidden in the trees somewhere!

This was just some illusion, some glamour to frighten her!

She squared her shoulders, tightened her lips, raised her chin to face down her fear, and turned to take the path down the mountain.

There was no path.

There was the forest, underbrush, creeping grass and flowers encircling this bare rock.

No matter! She knew the way, and even without a path all she had to do was walk downhill to reach the sea.

She gathered up her saree, holding it higher so it didn’t catch on the underbrush. She had been able to climb the mountain easily using the path, but without the path… her saree was not designed for hiking the mountains.

The underbrush thinned out considerably in the forest, but she still had to contend with fallen trees and branches, shrubs, rocks, hidden gullies and streams of all sizes.

It was also much darker here, and the afternoon sun seemed to be sinking fast.

She hurried, making more noise than she liked in the suddenly threatening forest.

A flock of birds exploded into flight above her, startling her as she had startled them, and she tripped over a log, landing heavily on her left arm, hands up protecting her face.

She cursed, pulled herself up into a sitting position, rubbed her arm. No blood, but it would be black and blue.

Her saree, woven of the finest silk of Oriab, was torn and stained.

They would be furious with her, she knew, but now she was The Lajita. And it was only a saree; they could just buy another!

She clenched her teeth and clambered back up, determined to remain poised and proud even if they did talk about her behind her back.

There was a loud snuffling, almost a grunt, behind her, and the sound of leaves being brushed aside.

“Who’s there?” she snapped as she spun around and froze in terror.

It was an enormous bear, black and silver, as tall on four legs as she was on two.

It snuffled the air again, staring at her in her disarray, then bared its teeth and twisted its head in a snarl that rose to a roar.

Her terror shattered her stillness, and she turned to flee, flying over branches and bushes, saree lifted high to reveal her legs.

Behind her, the bear came snarling, the sound of its massive paws thudding into the ground pushing her to run even faster.

She heard a bowstring twang, and again and thrice faster than she could count, and the bear crashed to the ground with a howl of agony.

She risked a glance over her shoulder to see it on the ground, and even as she watched it rose to its feet again, roaring in pain and fury, and turned to face its attacker.

Another shaft flew toward the bear, narrowly missing an eye and slicing deep into the bear’s neck.

It broke into a run, heading straight toward a green-clad archer standing a few dozen of paces distant.

He ignored the bear and its fury, shooting another shaft, and another, each one sinking deep into the animal’s flesh until finally, only a few meters from its prey, it collapsed for the last time, and its furious breath gradually quieted, and stilled.

The archer stared at it, arrow set to taut bowstring, until all was quiet.

He let out a deep breath and lowered the bow.

“Glad that’s over… I’m down to my last arrow…”

He looked over toward Lajita.

“Are you hurt?”

Listening to her ragged breath and the pulse pounding through her ears, she slowly nodded.

“I’m… I’m fine, I think… thank you.”

The man laughed.

“Hey, it’s not every day I see a young girl chased by a bear! What are you doing in these woods anyway, and in that fancy get-up?”

“I am not a girl! I am The Lajita!” she snapped, standing stall and trying her best to look regal in spite of her torn clothes and the fact he was quite a bit taller and older than she.

He walked over to the bear and used his dagger to start digging out the arrows.

“Dunno know what a Lajita is, but if you keep running around in the forest and making all that noise you’re gonna attract more hungry animals.”

“You don’t know…!?” she sputtered. “I am The Lajita of House Chabra, and the soldiers of Shiroora Shan are searching for me even now! Name yourself, churl!”

“Churl?”

He turned around, a bloody dagger in one hand and a bloody arrow in the other. “Not very friendly, are you, considering I just saved your life.

“What’s Shiroora Shan?”

“You’ve never heard of Shiroora Shan? What hole did you crawl out of?”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve been in some places that would certainly count as holes, but I don’t think the First Lord would take kindly to anyone calling Eudoxia a hole.”

“Eudoxia? How can you say you’re from Eudoxia but yet claim to not know of Shiroora Shan? We are famous throughout the Night Ocean, and Ganzorig himself has visited House Chabra several times. He gave me this hairpin, in fact!”

She pulled the bejeweled pin from her hair and held it out in evidence.

The man walked over and looked at it.

“Yup, that’s a pretty one, all right. Who’s Ganzorig?”

“Ganzorig, First Lord of Eudoxia? You don’t know your own lord?”

“Hey, the First Lord of Eudoxia is Pleticent, and he’s been First Lord since before I was born. Never heard of anyone named Ganzorig before…”

“Obviously you are lying, or some malignant spirit sent to torment me.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s why I just saved your life, right?”

She hmphed, and brushed more dirt from her saree.

“Do you have a name, archer?”

“Uh…” He hesitated for a moment.

“Surely you have heard of your own name!”

“Uh, yeah. Um, Jo. Jo of Eudoxia.”

“Jo,” she sniffed. “You couldn’t come up with a more original name?”

He pursed his lips, looked up at the sky.

“You were heading down the mountain, before. If you want to reach the shore before it gets dark we had better get moving.”

“Why should I trust you? You are even ashamed to name yourself!”

“Yeah, well, maybe because I just saved your life, which sorta suggests I don’t want to kill you. And if we don’t get a move on, there are lots of things in these woods that do want to kill you, so can we go now?”

Unsure of how to respond to that, she merely nodded.

“This way, then,” he said, stepping past her. “You’re not wearing boots, either, I see… I can carry you, if you need.”

“I am quite capable of carrying myself, thank you very much.”

Her feet did hurt, though. She’d stepped on sharp, pointed twigs and stones fleeing from the bear, and thought they might be bleeding.

She brushed her cheek when some buzzing insect flew too close, and noticed her hand was stained with blood after… she must have run into some branch.

Now that she realized it, she noticed the pain. Must be a scratch, to sting like that.

Mother will be furious, she thought.

She refused to show her pain and kept up the pace, until her sandal caught on a tree root and the strap tore.

She hopped on one leg for a minute, trying to keep her balance, and managed to half-sit, half-fall onto a nearby rock.

“I thought that’d happen,” said Karadi. “Sorta surprised it took this long, actually. Those sandals are pretty useless out here.”

“These sandals cost more than your bow!”

“Yup, probably did, I imagine. My bow isn’t broken, though, and your sandals are.”

“Well? What are you going to do?”

“Me? What am I going to do?” he chuckled. “No, girl, I think the question is What are you going to do.

“It’s not that far to the shore from here. I’ll be happy to carry you, if you’ll let me, or we can just keep walking slowly and hope we don’t run into any thorns. I suppose we could even camp here for the night, but I’d really rather not spend the night here if I can help it.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking, thank you.”

She pulled off the other sandal, and carried both of them in her hand. She held her saree up with her other hand, picking out places to step that looked like they wouldn’t hurt too much.

Karadi just stood there, watching.

Something pricked her foot and she yanked it back, losing her balance and falling on her ass.

Karadi, laughing, scooped her up in his arms and started walking.

She hammered her fists into his chest, but he kept walking. She sputtered and complained for a while, but after being roundly ignored eventually fell into a sulking silence.

They reached the sandy shore a few minutes later.

He set her down on the sand gently, and she stood transfixed, staring at the seascape.

She couldn’t place where she was… that island out in the water was surely the Great Seawall, but it was covered in trees! No fortifications, no keep at the point, no guards… And over there, where the bustling wharfs of the port should be, was… nothing!

No port, no ships, no people, no Shiroora Shan!

That demon said he cursed her… had he destroyed the city and everyone in it?

She collapsed to her knees, heedless of the sand caking on her saree, eyes searching.

She glanced up the hills, to where the walls and towers of House Chabra should stand, but search as she might she could only find rocks and trees.

“You alright?”

“…It’s gone…” she whispered, almost unaware of his presence.

“Your Shiroora Shan?”

“Shiroora Shan, the Great Seawall, the port, House Chabra… it’s all gone!”

“You sure you’re in the right place?”

“Yes, positive,” she snapped, regaining her composure. “I see a village over there. I will ask them.”

“Uh, you mind if I tag along? You’re not exactly dressed to go walking into an unknown village.”

“I am The Lajita! It matters not how I am dressed!”

He held up both hands and took a step back.

“Yeah, sure, you’re The Lajita, I heard you. Maybe you could just humor me for a minute, though, and wrap your hair up nice in something… be a pity if that fancy jewelry fell off or something and got lost in the sand. Or just put them in your bag for now?

Anyway, maybe I’ll just tag along, though. Be nice to spend the night in an inn with real food for a change.”

She stalked down the beach toward the village, tying a scarf around her head as he had suggested.

It had only a few dozen buildings, and she couldn’t see very many people about. In the dusk no doubt they were already inside for the night.

If this were Shiroora Shan, that would be, um, the wharfs should be there, which meant that should be… Fishmongers’ Street, maybe? Or Ta-Rashahan-Bar, the Street of the Weavers, maybe?

She stalked into the village and walked directly up to what must be the inn, although it looked more like one room of a small dwelling. Still, it had a lantern out front, and a sign in common reading The Leaping Whale.

It was very dark inside, darker than the advancing night outside, but her eyes quickly adjusted to reveal two tables and a counter with a few stools.

Jo slid the door shut behind them, and a man appeared behind the counter, holding an oil lamp.

“Welcome, welcome! I was just getting ready! Let me get the lanterns lit for you!”

He bowed several times as he circled the room, lighting up several small lamps around the room.

Lajita stood close to the door, waiting for him to come serve her, but once he finished his preparations he returned to the counter and began wiping it down.

“What can I get you, Master?” he asked, looking at Jo.

Lajita looked shocked.

“I am The Lajita,” she stated proudly. “What happened to the city?”

The innkeeper blinked.

“What city?”

“Shiroora Shan, you dolt!”

He blinked again.

“Uh, girl? I’ve lived here all my life and never heard of no Shiroora Shan. Certainly no cities around here, ’cept maybe Adelma or Eudoxia, and they’re not ’round here at all.”

She stamped her foot in frustration.

“Why are you lying to me!? What have you done with House Chabra?”

The innkeeper took a step back from the counter and pulled a dagger out from underneath the counter.

“Never heard of it,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Master, maybe you oughta control your kid before she does something stupid? Or just leave.”

Jo stepped up to stand between the two.

“Sorry, she was almost killed by a bear. She’s a little confused and distraught,” he said, and led her to the closest table, pushing her down onto the bench.

“Let me speak! I am The La…”

“Yes, I know, and I am The Jo. Now be quiet for a moment. Please!” He gripped her arm, holding her down on the bench in spite of her protestations, and turned back to the innkeeper. “If we could have some dinner and two cups of ale, that would be great.”

“You have coin?”

Jo pulled out his wallet and flipped the innkeeper a silver coin. “That cover it?”

The innkeeper caught the coin in one hand, put his dagger down, and nodded.

“Fish or mutton?”

Jo turned to Lajita, eyebrow raised.

“Mutton?”

“I’m not hungry,” she snapped.

“Mutton, then, innkeeper, thank you. For both of us”

He brought out two cups of warm ale almost immediately, and set them down while keeping to the far side of the table from Lajita.

“What village is this?” asked Jo, taking a sip.

“Rashahan,” he said as he walked away. “Don’t even know where you are?”

“Sorry, our caravan started in Nurl, but we got hit by bandits. Just managed to walk here and got lost in the forest,” explained Jo. “Never been here before.”

“Not many people have,” said the innkeeper, then vanished into the kitchen.

“Why do you lie like that? I have never been to Nurl!”

“Would you relax a little bit? You’ll get us thrown out of here, and I, for one, would dearly like to eat something and sleep on a proper mat without mosquitoes sucking the blood out of me.”

Lajita dropped her voice.

“You’ve really never heard of Shiroora Shan?”

“Never.”

“But you mentioned Nurl, and Eudoxia… and that’s the Night Ocean out there, right?”

“Right.”

“My city—Shiroora Shan—it’s gone. It was right here, where this thrice-bedamned village stands!”

“Hard to move a whole city,” he commented. “Would you prefer tea to ale?”

“I can drink ale!” she snapped once again, and tried to prove it by slugging down half the cup, then coughing as she tried to catch her breath.

“Yes, I can see,” he chuckled. “Innkeeper! When you bring the food, a pot of tea, too, if you please!”

“Pot a’ tea, yessir,” same the muffled shout from the back.

“Just how old are you, girl?”

“I am not to be called girl! I am The Lajita!”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that several times. So how old are you?”

“Sixteen…”

“And you go wandering in the woods dressed in a silk saree, with gold and gems in your hair. And drink ale. Quite the sixteen-year old!

“Now, describe this Shiroora Shan to me.”

She told him of its beauty, the temples, the Dancing Elephant, and the Great Seawall, the merchant ships that called from Eudoxia, bringing the riches of the West, and the strange caravans from the farthest East, lands unknown.

The marketplace, the school of alchemists, the many districts boasting artisans in many disciplines, with their unique traditions and skills, the Pottery Guild, Fishmongers’ Street, the intermittent spouting of the Leaping Fountain, the Street of the Weavers Ta-Rashahan-Bar, so much more…

She clutched his arm in sudden panic.

“Here’s your roast mutton and rice,” said the innkeeper, suddenly approaching with a huge platter of meat and two bowls of rice. “I’ll go get your tea.”

“Well, whether it’s gone somewhere or not,” suggested Jo, “you need to eat something.”

He pried her off his arm and handed her a set of chopsticks.

“You have a dagger?”

“Of course!”

She pulled a small dagger from somewhere inside her saree.

It was of ivory, chased in gold and silver, and had several glittering gems that caught the lamplight.

Jo quickly grabbed her hand, hiding the small dagger, and pushed it back out of sight. He glanced around the room but they were still alone, except maybe for the innkeeper in the back.

“Keep that hidden!” he whispered. “You want to get us both killed? Your saree is bad enough, but if you flash something like that around it’ll attract all the wrong people right quickly.”

She was speechless, and let him guide her hand down until the dagger was back in its sheath behind her waist sash.

He handed her a small, simple dagger he took from his boot, and she took it, still frowning.

The meat was greasy, fatty, and overcooked, but she discovered she was hungry after all, and in a short while the platter was empty, along with the second helping of rice and several cups of ale.

She ended up not drinking the tea after all, and with a full stomach and a roof over her head, she nodded off.

Jo narrowly managed to pull the platter out of the way and catch her head with the other hand so she didn’t crack it on the table.

The innkeeper showed them to the tiny room with its tiny mat, and he gently laid her there, snoring away.

He stretched out in front of the door, his ruck for a pillow.

They slept.

* * *

When she opened her eyes she was alone, still wearing her bedraggled saree, with Master Jo’s blanket on top to keep her warm.

She sat up with a bolt, suddenly recalling everything that had happened.

It hadn’t been a dream… Shiroora Shan really was gone.

Everything she knew, everyone she loved, gone.

All she had was the amulet, the blank diary she had made so carefully, back in Shiroora Shan, back in that different world. And Jo. Jo who had saved her from the bear.

She heard his voice in the other room, talking to the innkeeper, then footsteps.

The door opened.

“You awake?”

She hurriedly pulled her saree tighter.

“Of course. You should knock before entering.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my room, too. I spent the night sleeping right here, on the floor, so maybe lighten up a bit, huh?”

She glanced at the floor where he’d pointed, and then hurriedly folded up the blanket and held it out to him.

“Thank you.”

“You looked cold; not a big deal.”

“Weren’t you cold, too?”

“I’m used to it,” he shrugged. “More to the point, though, you can’t keep running around in that saree. It’s too long, too pretty, and too torn.

“The innkeeper sold me one of his wife’s sarees. It’s clean, and doesn’t make you look like a runaway noble’s daughter. You are a runaway noble’s daughter, right?”

“I didn’t run away,” she said, staring at the brown, slightly frayed saree he held out. “I’m from Shiroora Shan… Shikhandi… Shikhandi sent me here!”

“Shikhandi?”

“A demon of the mountain!” She suddenly burst into tears. “I was to travel to Eudoxia, then on to Celephaïs, and climbed the mountain to see the Great House and the city one last time… and that demon lured me, did things to me, and only my amulet saved me! But he cursed me with his dying breath, and sent me here.”

The whole story spilled out in a torrent of tears and anger and fear, and she never even noticed when he knelt down next to her and put his arm around her, patting her back.

He smoothed her hair, listening but saying little.

“You feel OK now?” he asked after she’d relaxed and her tears stopped. “Get dressed, and then let’s get some breakfast. Better put all your jewelry away, too.”

He rose, and left the room, sliding the door shut softly behind him.

She hesitated, picked up the brown saree, sniffed it, sighed, and began changing her clothes.

Suddenly she heard the innkeeper shouting something, and the sound of men struggling, and then a body falling to the floor.

She froze as men ran past her door into the inn.

“Jahleel of Pungar Vees! At last we’ve got you!”

She crept to the door and slid it open a crack.

She could see the innkeeper lying behind the counter, head covered in blood, unconscious or dead. And to the left of the counter she could see Jo, sword drawn, facing two swordsmen. They were closing in on him from both sides, sword at the ready.

She slid the door open until she could slip out, and silently crept up to hide behind the counter.

“You came all this way just to kill me? For that fat fool?”

One of the men laughed.

“He may be fat and a fool, but he also promised a hundred gold pieces for your head, attached to your body or not, and we aim to collect.”

“I still need it, sorry. And I’ll charge a steep price for it if you insist.”

“Oh, looking forward to it,” the other said, and leapt forward, sword striking against Jo’s sword with a deafening clang.

The other man danced forward, attacking Jo from the side.

Lajita gasped, eyes wide.

Jo jumped to one side, suddenly shifting his attack to the second man as he hooked one foot into a stool and kicked it at the first attacker, throwing him off balance.

His sword cut into the second man’s arm, as he cried in pain and stepped back giving Jo the chance to swivel toward the first attacker again.

Knocked backward by the stool, the first attacker had fallen against the counter.

Lajita could hear him curse on the other side of the thin panel.

She reached out and lifted the cook’s cleaver from where it was lying, next to a half-chopped chicken.

She stood slowly, until she could just see over the top, and as she did the man reached up to pull himself up off the floor, his meaty hand slapping down on the countertop for support.

Without thinking she slammed the cleaver down with full force, cutting into the man’s hand and chopping most of it off.

He screamed in agony and collapsed again, his hand spurting blood in an arc through the air as he fell.

At his scream the second man turned his head to look, and Jo’s dagger struck neatly into his side, and up and into his vitals.

He collapsed, gurgling and trying to hold his side as Jo jumped to the counter and thrust down with his sword, once.

It slammed into the floor with a wet thump, and the inn fell silent.

She gradually became aware of the sound around her: her heartbeat hammering in her ears, Jo panting, leaves blowing in the wind somewhere, a bird singing on the roof.

“Well, that was fun,” said Jo, collapsing down onto a bench, bloody dagger still in his hand. “You OK?”

She couldn’t speak, and just nodded.

She stared at the cleaver in her hand, and slowly unclenched her fingers, one at a time, until it fell to the countertop next to the bloody fingers.

She heard a groan behind her and shrieked, running from the counter to grab Jo’s arm in fright.

It was the innkeeper.

He pulled himself up, head bloody, and looked slowly around.

“What…? Oh… They slipped in from the back and hit me. Just the two of them?”

“Just the two of them,” said Jo. “Can I trouble you for some water?”

The innkeeper nodded, and pulled a stone bottle out from the counter.

He lined up three cups, and splashed in a healthy helping of something.

“Cydathrian brandy. On the house.”

Jo didn’t even look at it, just slugged it down in a single gulp.

Lajita looked at the deep reddish liquid and took a sip.

It burned, and she spat it out in a sudden surge of nausea, running to the door to heave into the bushes until she was empty and her mouth was tight with acid.

Jo laid his hand on her shoulder, holding out a cup of tea.

She gulped it down, and collapsed into a ball, staring at the mountain, at the sky, at nothing.

“It OK, Lajita. They’re gone.”

“They… I…”

He just patted her shoulder in silence until she relaxed again.

As she recovered, she thought back to what they’d said.

Jahleel of Pungar Vees… of course!

“You are Jahleel!”

He hurriedly shushed her.

“Best not to say that name, Lajita. I’m Jo, remember?”

“And the innkeeper, he is Grushak! And I just chopped that man’s hand off!”

She was babbling.

“But he was no demon, just a hired killer. And this is just an inn, not the House of Grushak. And Rashahan will one day be Ta-Rashahan-Bar, the Street of the Weavers!”

He was just staring at her in shock.

“And you are Jahleel of Pungar Vees, son of Habib of Pungar Vees!”

“How did you…?”

“Because I am The Lajita,” she said, tears forgotten as she stood, tall and proud.

“We will marry at the time of the Spring Festival three years hence, and I will give you seven sons and four daughters. Together, we will found House Chabra right there on that hill overlooking the port and the city of Shiroora Shan.

“You will be known forever more as Karadi Chabra the Bear, the Founder of House Chabra, and our sons and their sons shall command the Night Ocean!”

“You… are you a seeress? Marry you…?”

She laughed.

“Hardly a seeress, dear Karadi. I know what happened, over five hundred and thirty-six years of House Chabra, because I am the First Lajita, and I am the Last Lajita, and this book,” she said, holding up her blank diary, “this book will reveal the history of the future to all of the Lajita’s who follow me, guiding us through danger.”

And it all came to pass as she had foretold.

And on the first day of the New Year, in their small, newly built house overlooking the village and bay below, the First Lajita, on a sudden whim, pressed her amulet against the cover of the diary she had crafted so carefully, now full of warnings for the future, and suddenly there was a single rolled-up parchment on the table.

She hesitated, then picked it up and unrolled it.

Dear Lajita,

Should I address you as You, or I? Or perhaps We?

You know now who we are, and why we are here. Where did the amulet come from, originally? Is there any such thing as free will? Can we escape the roles we are fated for? I still do not know…

I know that you will be surprised to receive this; I certainly was. But since I also know that I did receive it, I know that it will reach you safely even though neither of us has been born yet.

I am positive that I memorized every word of the First Lajita. Who is me, of course. Us. But when I wrote them down, I added additional explanations to certain vague prophecies, to help future Lajitas better guide House Chabra.

Is my memory mistaken? Were those additions really there in the first place, and then I forgot them, and thinking I had written anew actually only wrote what they said in the first place? Or have I changed the future? Perhaps every one of us, every Lajita, changes the future for the next.

Are we the only immutable fact of this world, cycling eternally from future to past, branching to a different reality as we write?

Are you me? Or a different Lajita, from a different future past?

Our history says that you will birth seven sons and four daughters, and that is true. You must know that this, too, is part of our fate that we cannot alter, cannot avoid. A mother loves her son, no matter what may come.

We already know the date of our death, of course, but take strength from the knowledge that we have built House Chabra, and saved it countless times over the centuries, through our so-called “prophecies.”

I wonder what will happen to House Chabra now that there is no new Lajita to succeed us…

END

 

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The Chabra family tree

 

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Floorplan of the first Chabra home