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32: The Disconsolate
He slowly regained consciousness, gradually becoming aware of the scorching grains of sand biting into the side of his face.
He groaned and sat up, immediately regretting it when he was rewarded by a splitting headache, worse than the previous one.
Then he realized that he wasn't in the dark cell anymore but in the middle of the wilderness. He started to wonder if everything that had happened had been a dream and that he'd somehow walked here in a semi-conscious state.
He held out his hands and looked; seeing the glove still concealing his left hand, he paused for a long moment, examining it.
He shook his head, trying to clear some of the aching fog that had fallen on his brain, keeping him from concentrating. It didn't help, so instead of trying to unravel the mystery of what had just happened, he stood up, looked around, and set out in the direction of a patch of green trees, hoping to find some water that he might use to banish his newly discovered thirst – and perhaps ease the headache too so that he could finally think again.
It was mid afternoon, just past the hottest part of the day. A cool wind was blowing in from the south, keeping the insects at bay: a small mercy now. He had no idea where he was, much less which way the rebel encampment would be from here.
He plodded on, getting closer and closer to the trees and their promise of water.
Just before he reached his destination though he came across one of the ever-increasing number of tsarebetim* that marred the surface of his beloved homeworld. More and more of them had appeared over these past seven or eight years. In places the earth was covered with the putrifying cracks. One area had even begun a transformation into a sulfur swamp, sinking down into the planet's crust, digging ever-deeper, eating away at the world.
The prince carefully avoided the tsarebet, grimacing as he saw the thing up close. This was the first time he'd had to cross one in a long time. Thankfully it was only a few feet wide, but the stench it put off was sickening, making his headache even worse than it already was.
Once across the stinking swath of ground, he continued on his way, noticing as he went that the area was littered with a hundred tiny tsarebetim snaking this way and that through the dirt, making the place wreak of decay.
The mystery of the sudden appearance of the strange cracks years ago had been a constant source of sorrow and frustration for him, but one thing he did know of a certainty. His home was dying. It would not break apart and blow away in the subspace currents tomorrow, but it would begin to melt away in the years to come, pieces of it decaying and floating away, burning up in the atmosphere and raining down stinking debris from the heavens in a shower of death.
Trying his best to avoid the rotted patches, he finally came to the water source that sustained the undergrowth he was wading through.
A clear stream of water ran through the trees, sparkling and gurgling as though nothing in the world was wrong at all.
Desslok knelt by the water, scooping some of it up he drank until he didn't feel as though he would keel over at any second. Then he poured the life-giving substance over his sweltering face and head, drenching himself as he did so, but he didn't care.
After a few minutes, the headache eased, still lingering, but not demanding all of his attention anymore.
Time seemed to slow down now that he'd found a relatively sheltered place to stop for a while before setting out to find his men again.
He sat down on a boulder by the stream.
Everything around him seemed to stop completely now. The light from the sun sprinkled through the trees, leaving spots of brightness on the ground here and there.
The prince sat, entranced by the silence, letting the strange shock of the dream he'd just been through ebb away. It had almost gone when he looked down at his gloved hand again. He saw something that, in his muzzy-headed state, he'd failed to see earlier. Suddenly, the full force of reality struck him like a rampaging tannin.
There on his outstretched palm was the head of a bear scorched into the glove; then the last words he'd heard echoed back to him with surreal clarity – words that both thrilled and terrified him.
"Touch not mine anointed."
"Not again, servant." Deun groaned and rolled his eyes as Yeshin slinked into the room with a look of defeat on his face.
"Master..." the former Regent bowed his head in contrition. "We've received news of the attack led by Fiske..."
"And it was yet another utter failure." Deun said, a look of disdain on his disgusted face.
"Indeed, Sire... though there were at least wounds inflicted on the rebel side this time, but..."
"But my brother was not among them, yes, I know." Deun waved a hand dismissively. "He's never among them."
"Yes, Master..." Yeshin muttered, "He somehow disappeared just as the fighting reached its worst."
"And who helped him disappear? The one called 'Masterson,' I suppose?"
"No sire..." Yeshin shook his head hesitantly. "The Shêd-slayer was knocked out some time before that."
Deun let loose a string of angry curses right into Yeshin's stunned face, "Then who helped him, you incompetent fool?! The malakim?!"
"I think not, Sire," Yeshin ventured, "Your brother and the malakim do not seem to be on very good terms."
Deun growled in irritation, "You've no brains inside that skull of yours."
Yeshin suddenly changed the subject, trying to dispel some of Deun's anger so that he wouldn't end up dead on the floor of the Leader's throne room. "The troops have finally found a lead that could bring them to the Talans' covert, Sire."
"Finally!" Deun's exclaimed with disdain, "It took them long enough. I could have found that hole years ago on my own."
"Do not be mistaken Sire, they have not found it yet," then, seeing the Leader's glare he quickly added, "but – but they soon will."
"Yes." Deun drew out the word threateningly, "I know they will."
Yeshin shivered.
"Now." Deun said, "Tell me about the progress we've made on our little... special project."
Desslok stared at his glove, still stunned, a long-ago scene beginning to replay in his mind: one that he had always wished he could forget, but never seemed to manage to.
"Sire!" a distraught Garen Krenshaw stood before Leader Deun I trembling, "Sire, we failed!" he fell to his knees weeping."She saved us – twice – and we cannot repay her even one of those debts!" the young man wailed in distress as the two other members of his group knelt behind him, looks of horrified sorrow shrouding their young faces.
Desslok watched from his hiding place not far away from the three survivors, his father, and his father's guards. His eight-year-old mind was still trying to wrap itself around the reality that his mother had not returned from Jirel, and if what the wailing man was saying was true, she never would – not unless a miracle happened.
Leader Deun's face glazed over in shock and he sank back down onto his throne before saying in a loud whisper, "She... You... Oh, Adonai... no..." then he broke, joining the weeping young man in mourning for his dear wife who would never come home to him again.
Desslok blinked several times, suddenly feeling strange. Probably just too much sun, after all, he had no idea how long he'd been out there baking.
He splashed himself with water again which made him feel a little better, at least for the moment. Then the bitterness of it all washed over him afresh and he smacked his gloved palm against the boulder in rage and yelled out in frustration, "But she was anointed too!" Unshed tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He'd already wept enough for one lifetime. "So why her..." he growled, then let his tone soften again, "and not me...? If anyone deserved to live... it was her... It was her..." he began to shake with something – was it... fear? - before letting his face fall into his hands.
"But you are not her." the voice startled the prince and he jerked up, instantly pointing his weapon in the direction of the sound.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he challenged.
The intruder chuckled softly and replied, "You may call me Arach."
"And from whence have you come?" Desslok inquired, the barrel of his weapon still trained on the stranger.
"Oh, a far-distant country." the man called Arach replied with a smile.
"From out of the system then?" the prince asked, immediately suspecting a zealot trap.
"You might say so." Arach chuckled again, a strange twinkle in his eyes.
"What perverse secret holds such amusement for you?" Desslok growled as he started to get annoyed with the intruder.
"I've many secrets, Desslok, son of Israel, but I assure you they are far from perverse."
The prince's brow furrowed in unmasked puzzlement. "You know my name and my heritage; yet I've never before seen or heard of you."
"There is no reason you should have heard of me, son of Avraham." the man smiled again, "But I have had ample reason to hear of you."
"Just tell me who you are." the prince snapped, in no mood for conversation with strangers.
"I was there that day." the man replied, heedless of the prince's threats, "She was not spared because it was her appointed time. Her race was done."
A deathly silence fell between the two men as they stared at one another.
Something in the man's eyes rang of truth and Desslok let his gun-hand fall to his side, though his eyes were still trained on Arach.
"West, anointed one of Israel." the stranger pointed to his right. "You will find them there."
Desslok dared a glance in the direction the man had pointed, "How do I kn –" Arach was gone.
"The ships are still going and coming." Naomi Talan reported to her husband. "We've still got no idea what they're really doing."
Admiral Raymond Talan sighed heavily, "Deun's doing something." he began his clue-hunt again, fishing through the junk they'd been able to abscond with from several of the zealot camps and even, on occasion, the palace itself.
Ever since they'd left their palace home years ago, just before breaking down the communications barrier around Gamilon and Iscandar, Raymond and Naomi had never been able to go back to their old haunts. Their quarters had long ago been quardened off and a permanent guard placed around it so that, should they ever decide to return, the chances of their being caught were much too high for their liking.
"Something to do with the planet's sickness?" Naomi asked her husband.
"Perhaps." he nodded, "And perhaps not."
"What else would he doing? Still out looking for Desslok?"
"That is indeed likely." Raymond nodded, "These past years seem to have been increasingly difficult for Deun's regime. He fell out of favor with most of the population years ago; securing his hold on the throne is one of the only options left to him and the best way for him to do that is to kill his brother."
"I know..." Naomi sighed, "I only wish..." she began.
"Yes... so do I... If only Deun hadn't let his lust for power corrupt him; if only he'd chosen forgiveness over vengeance; Adonai over himself..."
"And what of the Malha's role in all of this? Where is she now? Do we know?" Naomi asked.
"We have a general idea." Raymond replied, "The last sighting from one of our people was out in the wasteland far to the North-east of here. I only hope she hasn't gone to ground again. After all, she disappeared for seven years, and thirteen before that. Her power is great... but it is no match for Adonai's. She can run; but she cannot hide forever."
"That, my dear husband, is why we will find her." Naomi laid an encouraging hand on Raymond's shoulder. "Our God sees all. Finding the Malha is no challenge for Him; the difficulty will be with us wanting to find her before it is time."
Night was falling over the rebel camp. Several of the searchers had returned, Masterson among them, with no sign of the missing prince.
Talan sat near the open fire that the first watch of the night used to keep warm and cook their midnight munchings. The temperature was already dropping even though it wasn't that late yet.
He stared up at the starry sky. The two moons shone brightly, as they did for a time every night, before one dipped below the horizon many hours before the second.
The familiar constellations glittered high up above the atmosphere, seeming to invite Masterson to join them in their celestial dance. He picked out formation after formation, ending with the one star he always gazed upon last, because if he found it first, he would never move on to the rest of the shining pictures in the sky.
The last star, Kochav-Melek,* shown the brightest and crowned the sky with its radiance. Tonight it was particularly bright, so Masterson stood and left the ring of fire to see the star more clearly. He went a safe distance from the camp, staring up into the sky, watching the glowing star as it sparkled brighter in the gathering darkness.
"Bring him back, Adonai." Masterson prayed as he waited silently, gazing up into the heavens, "Bring him home..."
He stood there for a long time, the rest of the searchers all intermittently trotting back into camp with nothing to show for their efforts. This might have troubled Talan if a sense of peace had not settled on his heart as he continued his celestial vigil.
He was about to turn back and keep watch for any straggling searchers when a cry rang out from one of the night-watch.
"The Leader! He's returned!"
Masterson smiled broadly to himself and quietly thanked God for answering part of his plea so swiftly; he only hoped that the prayer would be fully realized soon as well.
Desslok broke through the final patch of woods that separated him from the rebel camp. He sighed in relief when he saw it looking as it always did. The night-watch stood faithfully as they had every night since the camp was established several years ago when they'd out-grown their first residence.
Seeing the camp gave him new energy as his strength began to flag and he crossed the clearing that lay before him with a confidence he did not feel. The events of the past day had been surreal at best and he still held out hope that half of what he'd experienced was some deluded fantasy caused by the heat of the wilderness.
As he crossed the grassy patch, he passed from the dark of the forest into the surrounding light of the camp. As soon as his face came into view the watchmen shouted for joy at his return and he was immediately greeted and met by half a dozen of his loyal followers offering him basic necessities, all of which he refused except for the full container of water which one man in particular held out for him.
"Talan." Desslok greeted the one the zealots now knew as "Shêd-slayer" with the faintest of smiles. He accepted the water, "You knew I would return."
"Sire, I must admit I had my doubts, but in the end, Adonai assured me you would come."
The prince leaned towards Masterson and said so that only Talan could hear him,"There is... something I would discuss with you."
Masterson nodded and led the way back to the meeting room the Council often used to talk privately. Desslok waved off many on their way; everyone, it seemed, wanted to get a glimpse of the returning Leader whom many of them had thought lost.
Finally they made it through the sea of men and women back to the Council's room.
Once the door was closed, Desslok began the dream-like account of what had happened, beginning with his first moment of consciousness inside that dark cell.
"Fisssske." The Malha hissed at her henchman. "Where on all of Gamilon have you been all these years?!" Aurelia's anger boiled hotter and she slapped the unresponsive man in the face.
"I've been – been looking for him, Malha." Fiske said, desperately, referring to Desslok, the "Marked One" that this, his commander had been seeking so long. "He was... most difficult to find."
"Of course he was, you fool!" she spat at him. "Did you think he would be displayed openly for anyone to see and abduct?"
"N – no, Malha." Fiske stuttered, sensing the growing rage in the woman's voice.
"No matter," she gestured dismissively, though her mouth was still pursed in annoyance, "your late arrival is of much less concern to me than our little... Encounter..." she shivered at the remembrance of it, " He has laid a claim on my grand-son – a claim that we cannot dismiss lightly. As the true king of Gamilon, he is the anointed one, and as such, we cannot harm him without the Enemy's consent... And we cannot gain His consent... unless..."
"Unless?" Fiske dared venture.
The Malha let an evil grin spread over her face, "Unless he does the unthinkable..." she looked at Fiske with dark joy, "Is Deun's little project still under way?"
"Indeed, Malha." Fiske nodded, "We planted the idea for it years ago when any solution seemed good to him."
"Very good," she chuckled, patting Fiske's head, "Very good. Perhaps I won't kill you today after all, my little tardy errand boy."
* tsarebetim - scars
* Kochav-Melek – the "King's Star"