Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Read online

  “But I don’t understand,” cut in Hoda. “Ahiram has had this medallion from birth. Mother said that she bought it from Master Kwadil, that it is a trinket to ward off the evil eye.”

  Syreen averted her eyes and did not answer.

  “But why would my mother tell a lie?”

  “Maybe your mother is telling the truth, and maybe this is a trinket. There is no sense worrying about this until we know more.”

  “How will I know that the first priestess did not ask you to do this, and once you find out, the High Riders, they…”

  Syreen laughed a bitter, sarcastic laugh. “Hoda, Hoda, you do not know the Temple; they have their ways—terrible ways—to locate any source of magic. They don’t need my help, believe you me.”

  They gazed at each other for a short moment. Hoda sighed and spoke first. “Well, our lives are in your hands. I wouldn’t know what to do or whom to go to, even if I wanted to.”

  “And I ask you to trust me. I have not changed, Hoda, I am still Syreen. What I said about Ahiram last week is true, I wanted to take him home with me, he was so cute, and the way he wanted to give me the shark meat because of the spiders…” tears welled up in Syreen’s eyes, “…such innocence, Hoda. It’s so precious.”

  Hoda relaxed and smiled. “Thank you, Syreen. I will let you know as soon as I find out.”

  “Take the tunnel to the beach,” advised Syreen.

  “The tunnel we used to follow whenever we would sneak out of your house to go to the beach? Do you remember when your father caught us? The drubbing we got…”

  Syreen smiled. “Yes, that passage. Follow it to the beach then go home that way.”

  “But what do I do about that man? Maybe I should go to the High Riders?”

  “That would not be wise; they would find out about the medallion. Instead, why don’t you tell your father that a man was following you? I know what your father is capable of when his anger flares.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Hoda, as she turned and headed down the stairway to the tunnel below. She then stopped and looked at her friend. “I know this will sound crazy, but part of me hopes that it is magical.”

  “Because it would help explain your brother’s temper?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Hoda. “It would give us something to work with.”

  “Be strong now,” urged Syreen. “You are about to get some answers.”

  Hoda smiled. “It is easy to have strength when you are fighting for someone you love, and when you have a good friend to help you.”

  “And more than a friend,” said Syreen, a twinkle in her eyes. “You know Karadon is itching for some scrubbing and…”

  Hoda blushed and stepped into the dark corridor. Up ahead she could see the crashing waves of an agitated sea. She walked through the tunnel onto a secluded beach; seeing that it was deserted, she sprinted home.

  Four men rose from the ground and watched her run.

  “Three Merilians are known to the dwarfs. Three medallions whose power surpasses that of the Temple. Three objects of deep magic beyond our understanding, beyond our reach, beyond the Powers of the Pit.”

  –Philology of the Dwarfs, Anonymous

  Four thousand miles southwest of Fineekia, on the remote Island of Libra, the warden of the Empty Seat of the Librarian stood alone in the main hall of the Library. He was contemplating a medallion identical in every way to the medallion Ahiram was wearing, except for the position of the small black peg that was slightly off. This medallion was hanging by a simple nail above the ebony seat that no one had sat in since the days of Sureï the Sorcerer. Aside from the medallion and the seat, the building was completely empty, with the exception of an object floating up high in the main hall: a libre (a book) that no one had read for as long as anyone could remember. This was the Libre Aharof (the Book of Power) and whosoever could open and read it would control a magic so powerful it would make Baal’s artifice look like child’s play, a trick or even a mere trinket.

  But no one had ever dared open that book, even though the Library doors were always open, and no one guarded the strange object. What was more, the Temple of Baal, which controlled the island, had not moved it to a secure location. The reason for this apparent lack of care was the powerful and intricate curse which Sureï the Sorcerer, the First Librarian, had cast on the building and its contents. A curse from Sureï was not empty words, for its effects would be disastrous if triggered. It would kill anyone who tried to break it with a very slow and painful death. In most cases, anyone present during the attempt shared the same fate; and in other rare instances, it led to the annihilation of the immediate vicinity. In short, no one in his right mind would ever defy the greatest sorcerer that ever lived.

  Except, perhaps, Jethro. The warden was convinced he had the perfect plan to break the curse and open the book. This sordid affair began five years ago, when, after celebrating his thirtieth anniversary as the warden of the Empty Seat of the Librarian, Jethro heard a raspy voice whisper sweetly in his ear. It told him that he was the rightful owner of the medallion, that he should be the one to wield it, unlock the Libre Aharof, and break Baal’s staff. So sweet and exhilarating was this voice, and so insistent in its tender plea, that the old man lost his senses and became obsessed with the medallion. His obsession was the worst kind; that of a man disgusted by his mediocrity who, having reached the twilight of his existence, believed with the strength of desperation, that he was given this one last chance to make a name for himself.

  Still, his zeal did not overcome his pusillanimity—the fuel of his mediocrity—and he knew not to defy the curse with his own paltry means. He needed a partner, someone he could misdirect, abuse, and ultimately throw away once the deed was done; someone foolish enough to take the brunt of the curse, leaving him the luxury of plucking the libre without incurring Sureï’s implacable wrath.

  Every year, Baal sent a priest from the Inner Circle to conduct an inspection of the Library. This was then followed by a pleasurable tour of the island and its many stunning natural landmarks. Over the past four years, each consecutive priest had ignored him, acting as if he did not exist. But then, thought Jethro, Rahaak noticed me.

  Ashod was the visiting priest the year he received his private revelation, as Jethro affectionately called the voice he had heard. Ashod led an ascetic life, refusing to taste beer or wine. He ate very little and slept even less. He was kind to the orphans on the island and avoided getting entangled in the daily disputes of the citizens. Before leaving, he warned Jethro not to touch the medallion.

  “Your gaze tells me the medallion has captivated you. Beware, Jethro, the sweet song of magic; it will always deceive you. Do not forget that the greatest magic is in the gaze of a child. Spend more time with these orphans; they will heal you from this poisonous hunger.”

  But Jethro was too far gone to listen to the priest. Like a hungry spider, he waited and watched three more visiting priests come and go; priests who knew better than to tamper with magical artifacts cursed by Sureï the Sorcerer.

  Jethro nearly despaired of ever reaching his goal until he met Rahaak six months ago. When he spoke to Jethro with great deference, the shrewd warden knew that this man, consumed by a secret ambition, would be the one to satisfy his raging hunger. Rahaak would help him break the curse.

  Having completed his official visit, the priest lingered, and the two men spent much time talking about the Library. Jethro revealed to Rahaak that the wearer of the medallion would sit on the Seat of the Librarian and command every secret in the Library. In truth, Jethro had no idea what would happen if someone sat in that seat, and he carefully avoided mentioning the Libre Aharof. Let the fool sit wherever he wants, he thought. Once the libre is in my hands, I will use the Letters of Power to break the rod of Baal and ride after the sun from its rising to its setting.

  “There you are, Your Excellency,” said Rahaak, walking through the monumental door. “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said admiring the walls and floors
of the Library. “To think that this structure has been standing here for over eight hundred years, with neither scratches on its walls nor dents in its immaculate floors.”

  Elated, Rahaak raised his arms to the heavens; arms where sagging fat rippled and moved like slush. Jethro averted his eyes, for Rahaak’s obesity, due to his insatiable appetite, verged on the obscene.

  “Indeed, my Lord,” replied the warden. “The Library is made of this unknown golden element which has proved indestructible.” Rahaak’s grin reminded Jethro of a shark. He nervously scratched his scalp—a scalp speckled with stiff locks of hair, resembling a desert peppered with clusters of cacti—and his scrawny arms looked like pointy twigs next to Rahaak’s.

  “Concerning the little matter of the medallion,” continued the priest, “I stepped into Baal’s circle of power, and it revealed to me how to break the curse.”

  Jethro’s soul sucked these words like parched earth sucks water after a long drought. He was elated and so was Rahaak, but the two men misunderstood each other, and this misunderstanding was about to change the fate of the world.

  Jethro believed Rahaak’s words to be filled with power and divine authority. They confirmed the warden’s secret desire: the voice he had heard five years ago, the voice commanding him to open the Book of Power—was Baal’s. And now, the powerful and benevolent god had sent a priest to help him. Jethro saw himself as the new ruler of the Temple. He imagined the high priest and the entire priestly order of Baal bowing to him as he sat on the Seat of the Librarian and ruled the world.

  Rahaak had heard a voice as well, but what he had heard was altogether different. The voice had ordered him to break Sureï’s curse by lining twelve orbs of magic in front of him and fueling them with two concentrators; a task far more dangerous than ordering twelve tigers to stand in line before him to be hand-fed chunks of raw meat.

  The Temple was merciless to the practitioners of magic who did not belong to its orders, but to its own, Baal provided magic aplenty in the form of orbs and concentrators. The orbs—dark glassy balls—were channels of magic that sourced from a single location; the Arayat, a world where every curse and every act of magic was grown and cultivated. To unleash this power, the orbs had to be activated and aligned in precise geometric configurations.

  The concentrators were small, reddish, glass spheres. They held the energy required to activate the orbs—energy collected by the Kerta priests from their unsuspecting victims.

  In its raw form, this energy turned the orbs that received it into explosive devices that could shatter reality and cause a spill-over from the Arayat. But when channeled through the priest’s body—at great cost to the priest—it became suitable fuel for the orbs. The energy transfer had to happen quickly, before the priest would exhaust himself and die in the process. Some did. This is why a prudent priest would never use more than four orbs at one time.

  Any other priest would have considered the idea of standing twelve orbs and fueling them with not one, but two concentrators, sheer madness. Had Rahaak conferred with his superiors, he would have been promptly locked up, and if not cured, quickly disposed of. But ambitious men nurse their desires in secret, the way a mother bear cares for her cubs—in a remote cave, with great love and deadly force.

  “Has the Inner Power of the Temple indicated the auspicious hour of your glorification, my Lord?” whispered Jethro sweetly. “I hope you will remember me when you come to rule as the next Librarian.”

  “You have nothing to fear, Warden. I shall be generous. The best time to conclude this little affair is on the eve of the Feast of Light. Babylon celebrates it with great effusion, and no one will notice if I absent myself for a short hour. Meet me here, and you shall witness my greatest accomplishment. The medallion shall be mine.”

  Jethro gave a deep bow and smiled obsequiously. He would have licked the ground where Rahaak walked to keep him blind and motivated. Had he paid attention to the contemptuous gaze Rahaak had given him, he would have realized that the fat man had already consigned him to the cruel experiments of the Kerta priests. Indeed, to protect his power, a man with unbridled ambition could suffer a worthy enemy, but not a witness of his tarnished past. The two men nodded contentedly and left the Library sustained by incompatible dreams of glory.

  “At last, it is decided.” jubilated Jethro, walking outside the Library on this fine day of summer. “This Festival of Light will forever change the world. This quiet existence is coming to an end, and a new power shall rise to defy the Temple of Baal.”

  Being the warden of the Seat of the Librarian, he prophesied what would come to pass—but not as he had hoped.

  The sun was about to set when Hoda arrived home. The stranger was nowhere to be seen, but she nearly bumped into Captain Arfaad. What is he doing here? She looked around expecting to see the High Riders destroying her village, but the main plaza was empty.

  “Evening of Blessings,” she said, greeting the captain.

  “Evening of Roses,” replied the captain. “I am glad to see you in good health, Miss Hoda.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Hoda, bowing.

  She waited for him to leave before going back inside the house. Her father was beaming. “Hoda, Arfaad, the captain of the Lightning Division of the High Riders, just asked me for your hand in marriage.”

  She was stunned. Marrying a captain of the High Riders meant a life of comfort and security for her family. “What did you say, Father?”

  “I told Arfaad I will give him an answer at the Feast of Light.” Hoda sighed, relieved. “And judging by this reaction of yours, I should have told him you are not ready to abandon the life of a shark fisherman.”

  “You are right, Father. We need to give it serious thought,” lied Hoda. “I was shocked, that’s all.”

  Jabbar smiled again. “Well, my daughter, you are a true treasure, you know that. Blessed be the man who will be your husband. You are…”

  Hoda kissed him, “Thank you, Father.”

  “Hoda,” hollered her mother from the kitchen, “give me a hand.”

  “Coming, Mother,” replied her daughter.

  “Jabbar, you’d better be back in one hour, or we eat without you.”

  “Hayat, have I ever been late? No, the men and I sit down for a quick game of Salamander and…”

  “What about the time when you lost your left shoe and came back three hours later?”

  Jabbar threw his arms up, sighed deeply, and left the house muttering something about the gods, strong-willed women, and shoes.

  “You know, Mother,” said Hoda, rolling up her sleeves, “you do give Father a hard time.”

  “It’s for his own good,” replied her mother, sifting through a tray of lentils, inspecting them carefully, removing dirt and bits of grass. “Men need to be reminded who is running the house. Don’t you ever forget that, my Daughter. Has the water boiled yet?”

  Hoda inspected the steaming pot sitting atop the wood stove behind her. She threw two more logs inside the furnace and took a seat. Sliced carrots lay on a plate next to her, alongside chopped green onions and a cut of meat. Bulgur wheat, washed and dried, lay next to the meat.

  “Preparing moujadra?” asked Hoda.

  “That’s for tomorrow. We’re eating kibbeh tonight.”

  “That’s Ahiram’s favorite dish, and if you’re preparing his favorite dish, it must be because you had pity on him. What did he do this time?”

  Hoda longed to be with Karadon, spend time with him and come to know him better without this dark cloud hanging over her head. “Can’t I be gone just once without Ahiram getting in trouble?”

  “Careful, he will hear you,” said her mother evenly. “He got in a brawl with six boys from Ghazir. You know, they don’t want him to run in the next Festival of Light. With Ahiram out, they could win the race—”

  “So, they threw insults at Father, and Ahiram charged them like a blind boar.” exclaimed Hoda.

  “Yes,” sighed her mother, “an
d this time, he gave the six of them the beating of their lives. It took four men to pin him down and they could barely hold him until your poor father arrived.” Hayat glanced furtively at her daughter. “I know he is a very heavy load for you, Hoda, but without you…”

  Sitting side-by-side, the two looked alike from the back. Hoda had her mother’s complexion and her long, curly hair, but her inner strength was that of her fisherman father who could battle a shark and a storm all night without giving up.

  Hayat sighed twice. “I wish I had had another girl,” she blurted after a while. “It would have been easier.”

  “Why do you say that now?” asked Hoda.

  Hayat looked at her daughter with teary eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then focused once more on the lentils. “I mean that Arfaad would be a great match for you, but the Temple will keep him busy, and you would live most of your life alone.” Hoda was certain this was not what her mother meant. Hayat looked at her daughter. “Listen, Hoda, no matter what, do not marry a High Rider; your life will be miserable.”

  Hoda was dumbfounded. All along, she had been convinced her mother wanted her to marry a High Rider. I guess I misjudged her, she thought. “Why don’t you give me the lentils, Mother? Father will be in very soon now.”

  “Oh no, he won’t, he enjoys that game too much.” Hayat handed her the dish and went to the sink where she pulled on a weighted rope and fresh water trickled from a stone conduit. She washed her hands and yanked the rope again. The flow of water stopped.

  Hoda took a wooden pestle and beat the meat until it became pasty, added the bulgur wheat, green onions, and carrots, then sprinkled pine nuts and a mixture of seven spices, then kneaded the whole mix. She spread it into a pan, used a knife to create a crisscross pattern, drizzled the dish with a bit of oil, opened a cooking drawer from under the stove, and slid the dish into it. “It’ll be ready in an hour,” she said evenly.