It’s mother day in England today. While my mum has been passed for nearly fourteen years now, I still have fond memories of celebrating this special day with her. In the US, mother’s day is in May so for a long time I got to celebrate mother’s day twice every year. Now that we’re back in the UK, I’m back to just once, in March, and I’m OK with that. That means when my birthday rolls around in May, I’ll be able to book a table at my favorite pub and won’t be competing with all the mother’s day celebrations.
One of the best things in my life was when I became a mother. And it is a hard truth that you never stop being a mother, no matter how old your child is. They are always your child. I have wonderful kids and love the time I get to spend with them. Seeing them grow into adults, making life choices, taking chances is both exhilarating and frightening. As a parent I can guide and council, but ultimately it is their life, their choice. They will learn through experiencing the outcomes of those choices, just as I did. Some will be wonderful happy results and some will be painful.
That’s what life is about—choices and outcomes. How you respond to the circumstances can make all the difference. Bex made a choice when she recovered Xan’s book. She made a choice when she decided to finally tell her friends about the book. Now she has a choice as to what she should tell Hadrial Abuzi and whether or not she can trust her.
Being beckoned to the Advisor’s office must feel a bit like being called before the Head Master. She’s angry and frustrated that they aren’t taking his murder seriously, but she’s also a little scared having Xan Janal’s book. Let’s see how she chooses to respond to Hadrial Abuzi’s questioning.
Chapter 8
Sweat trickled down my back as I mopped my forehead with the tail end of my tharrif. I wiped my hands on the front of my tan trousers leaving dark marks in their passing. I stood in front of a massive wooden door that must have been centuries old. The tree from which it had been hewn hadn’t grown in Anckesh for hundreds of years. There were unusual carvings that ran from the top to bottom on either side of a large round symbol in the center. Just as Muut had traced the golden letters on Xan’s manuscript, I reached up and traced my finger along one of the symbols. Looking at it more closely, I realized that it looked like some of the images I saw in Xan Janal’s book.
“Enter,” I snatched my hand back at the commanding voice that called through the door as it swung open of its own accord.
I walked through and entered a large room with white domed walls reaching high above me. My nostrils flared as they filled with a sweet, spicy scent drifting in the air. In the center of the dome was an intricately designed glass centerpiece that infused the room with a soft warm glow. Hadrial Abuzi sat behind her crystal desk. It grew out of the floor like a perfectly formed stalagmite. Two chairs sprouted in front of it. Pale-yellow cushions perched atop the seats. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished with an out of place overflowing wooden bookshelf. A small, well-stuffed lounging chair squatted on a thin pale blue rug that looked as if it had been flung down and forgotten.
“Bexlan, is it?” Abuzi addressed me. Her hands steepled beneath her chin and her eyes piercing me as if I were a curiosity from the Pathinaar Bazaar.
Tugging at my left sleeve, I held my hands in front of me and just looked at her. Being so much closer to her now, I could see why the whispers ran rampant about her age. She has been the Advisor for more years than the oldest villager’s memory. Her face glowed with an eternal youth, and they say she looks the same as the day she was liberated. Young and full of energy.
“You were ready to fling accusations at me the other day,” she leaned forward lowering her hands onto her desktop. “Where is your bravado now?”
I remained silent. Fidgeting. My mouth dried as the sweat gathered speed down my spine.
“Bex,” I mumbled. “It’s just Bex.”
She gestured to one of the chairs across from her, “Please sit, Bex.”
I stepped forward and perched on the yellow cushion that sat on the sprouting chair and gripped the edge for fear of sliding off.
“Were you friends with Xan Janal?” she inquired.
I swallowed, “Not friends exactly.”
“Yet you were the one who found him.”
“Me and my friends, yes,” I wanted to make sure that she knew it wasn’t just me that found him.
“And you’ve followed his stories since you were a child?”
“I’ve never missed one of his story tellings, if that’s what you mean,” I snarked, my fingertips trying to gouge into the underneath of my chair.
“Ah, there’s that fire. I knew it was smoldering in there somewhere,” she smiled.
I glowered at her, now digging at the cuticle of my left thumb.
“Do I make you nervous?”
My eyes narrowed and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Echoing the words of nearly all my tutors, “I don’t do well with authority.”
She sat back and smiled again. “So, I’ve heard. Tell me about when you…and your friends, found Xan Janal.”
I wanted to jump across the desk and smear that smile from her face. Instead, my frustration fired in my response as I spat my questions, “So now, after nearly five days, you want to hear what happened? Where was your curiosity when we found him? Why was there no investigation into those traders that we told the Enforcers about?”
Her face remained placid with just the faintest upturn at the corner of her lips, as I spewed my anger and frustration. “I see that you cared deeply for him and I’m sorry that you had to find him in that way.”
She paused as if thinking, then continued, “Did he say anything to you before he died? Any last wishes whispered with his final breath?”
I stared at her. Cold water filling my belly, right knee bouncing, palms now as sweaty as my back. “I…I’m not sure what you mean. What would he possibly whisper to me. I barely knew him.”
“But you knew his stories. I understand that you worshiped him. That he was your…hero. As you stated, you never missed one of his story tellings. That sounds like you knew him better than you’re admitting.”
“It’s not like we hung out. I just liked to hear his stories,” I protested.
“Who do you think would taken his belongings? A story teller’s private possessions. What could possibly be of value in them that would drive someone to kill him and steal them?”
The blood drained from my face and my mouth felt like it was full of sand. My heart pounded in rhythm with my bouncing knee.
“I…I don’t know. Maybe if you had followed up with those traders, they could tell you something.”
“These traders that you mentioned, why do you think they were involved?”
“Because they threatened him at the Gritty Sandpiper when he was performing. They were dirty drifters looking for a fight.”
“Ah yes, I recall that you and your friends had an altercation with them at the pub,” she probed.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it an altercation. They got too pushy with Sarja and Nyraj put them in their place. Martine threw them out on their arses.”
“Is that why you think they might have attacked Xan Janal?”
“They were heckling him. One of them definitely had a grudge against him.”
“What makes you say that?” she inquired.
“The ogler, that’s what I called him,” I shifted in my seat. “Made a comment about Xan leaving a trail of broken hearts and bastards in his wake. It sounded like there might have been some history between them.”
“Do you think they attacked Xan Janal to get even with him for something he did to them or someone they know?” her smooth voice calm and relaxed.
“I don’t know. I just know that they were mean and looking for trouble,” my anxiety increased. I swallowed as my heart continued to race and my voice sounded thin and watery.
“Let’s go back to when you and your friends found Xan Janal. As I understand it, you were walking home from the pub and heard him calling for help from down the alley,” she asked in an even, matter of fact tone.
“That’s right. When we found him, he was in a bad way, barely breathing,” my breath caught in my throat and the tears welled in my eyes. “Blood everywhere.”
“Take your time,” she said, patience and understanding replacing her mask of indifference.
“Muut tried to stop the bleeding, but it was just too much,” the tears tipped over the edge of my eyelids. “I tried to comfort him. Told him it wasn’t that bad. That help was coming. Nyraj ran to get a healer…but I knew it was too late.”
My head hung to my chest and tears flowed freely, dropping off the end of my nose, running to my chin and dotting the front of my tunic.
“And what did he say to you as his life slipped away?”
My breath caught. She knows. The ice in my stomach melted as my anger heated my cheeks. I looked at her through the red fringe that covered my tear blurred eyes.
“Why do you think he said anything?” I asked, sitting back and looking at her warily.
“I’m just looking for any clues that might help us find out why this terrible incident happened to such a beloved member of our community. Many people believed he was mad, but they still loved listening to his stories. Others were convinced that there was some truth to what he told. Which do you believe?”
“I believe I’ve told you everything I can about what happened to Xan Janal,” I said flatly, my spine stiffening.
“I think one of my favorite stories he told was about the time he traveled to a world that was filled with islands dotted through a vast ocean. He was very convincing when he explained how he had learned to swim. Can you imagine a world such as that? Surrounded by all that water for as far as your eye could see? His imagination knew no bounds. I can’t figure out how he came up with such amazing ideas for…”
“He didn’t make those stories up. I know he really traveled to those worlds,” my anger finally exploded, and my mouth took over. “Anyone who thinks differently can just go dig a ditch.”
I stood, hands on my hips, face flushed red and tears drying on my cheeks, glaring at her. Daring her to challenge me.
She looked at me with an…approving…look. I’m not sure what she was approving, but I’d had enough of this charade.
“How do you know he traveled to those worlds?” She had the habit of raising one eyebrow when she asked a question. I now understood what one of Muut’s specimens feels like as he peers at it through his magnalense.
Blazes, I didn’t mean to say that. Now what do I do?
“I…I don’t know,” I started. “I just don’t think anyone could make up stories like that.” Pointing at her chest, I flung my accusations, “And what about all his scars? He didn’t get those from hunting lizards in the crags.”
“You’ve never made-up stories?” her eyebrow challenged me. “Not even to get out of a little trouble?” She was now sitting forward, her eyes narrowed, looking at me like I was a sand mouse and she a lamner on the hunt.
Unable to stop my runaway anger fueled mouth, I continued, “I’ve listened to every one of Xan Janal’s stories since I was a kid. They’ve never changed. Apart from some random embellishment for the crowd, they were always the same. That doesn’t happen if they are based on lies.”
“You seem to be well acquainted with the art of storytelling,” her voice was smooth as finely ground sand and held no warmth.
“I think I need to go now,” my mouth was as dry as the plains of Farnal. I turned and started walking toward the door.
“Bex,” Abuzi called. I stopped, not daring to turn around, least she see the fear now engulfing me. Her cool, reassuring words floated to me, “I want you to know that I’m here to help you. I believe in the magic of Xan’s stories as well and want justice for him.”
My anger overwhelmed my fear and I turned toward her, eyes narrowed, jaw twitching, teeth clenched, “If you wanted justice, then you wouldn’t be wasting your time questioning me. You’d find his murderers and stake them out on the Lazner Plains for the nuks to peel the flesh from their bones.”
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I’d love to hear what you think of the story so far. Please leave a comment on what you like or don’t like. I’m still editing and refining so feedback is received with gratitude.