William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

He felt a flash of panic, but then, looking into those impenetrable blue eyes, he knew that Hazin would not be so cruel. Why would he grant such a gift only to take it away?

“But you know I would not, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You can leave at any time. In fact, I give you your freedom, O’Donald. You can awake in the hour after dusk. I will give you an airship and you can wing off to home, to your people, to the land ruled by your father and his friends.”

The way he said it made the mere contemplation of it revolting. Sean felt light-headed, his stomach knotting.

“That choice would always haunt you, though, wouldn’t it? To know that this paradise is here, to be tasted at any time. Instead you would live in a land of barrenness, where those who passed behind you would cover their mouths and whisper, ‘There goes the son of the drunkard, the senator who is only thus because he hangs on to the power of others. There goes the son of the uncouth, the loud mouth, the braggart, and fool. And he shall one day be the same’.” Sean lowered his head and began to openly weep. “Your mother endured that, you know, and you were powerless to stop her from feeling that pain, weren’t you?” Sean could not even answer. He merely shook his head as the tears continued to flow.

“Stay with me,” Hazin whispered. “Stay with me, and I promise that you can one day return to right such wrongs, but do so on your own terms.”

Sean looked up at him.

Hazin reached out and lightly touched Sean’s shoulder, tracing a finger along a still open wound from the torture. “Unfortunate, that, and I apologize.”

“Apologize?” Sean was confused. It was as if this one before him now was someone else, not someone to be feared, but to be trusted, followed, even to be loved.

“A mistake. As soon as I realized who you were, I had to make amends, which I am now doing.”

Sean could not reply, overwhelmed with gratitude.

Hazin offered him a cup, and he drank the golden liquid, which was sweet but laced with a touch of bitterness.

“That should ease any unfortunate pains you still might have. Soon you will awake, but you will remember. Do you know where you are, Sean O’Donald?”

Sean struggled to focus his thoughts. What did the question actually mean? Here, was that the question? He remembered coming off the boat, the vastness of the city, its gleaming temples, spires, arches, and columned buildings. It reminded him somehow of the stories of how Roum might have looked before the destruction of the Great War, a destruction that his own father had taken part in.

.. Was that what the question was?

“Kazan. We are in the Imperial City of Kazan,” he finally replied, even as the world about him began to drift in a soft, diffused light.

Hazin laughed softly. “So literal in your thoughts, even now. A sharp intellect, which is good at certain moments.

“No, I mean here, now.” He extended his hand, gesturing to the garden, the walls embedded with precious gems that caught and bent the sunlight, the fluttering curtains of silk, the lush green grass upon which they sat, and the bubbling fountains that splashed and played a soft musical chant.

“Paradise,” Sean finally replied, and Hazin smiled approvingly.

“Yes. You are enjoying paradise and I hold the key to it.”

“You?”

“Yes. I can open the gate wide to any who so desire it, or close it forever and cast those who fail into the fire of eternal suffering.”

As he spoke, he extended his hand, almost covering Sean’s eyes. Terrifyingly, a vision seemed to be concealed within that open hand-of fire, of agony, of eternal longing for bliss never again to be tasted.

Sean cried out and turned his head away.

“Do you believe what I just told you?”

“Yes.”

“Look back at me.”

Sean turned to look back and was startled, for Hazin was gone, disappeared, a swirling cloud of sweet-scented smoke obscuring all around.

The smoke drifted and curled, slowly parting, and someone else appeared before him. He had never seen such eyes, the palest of amber, her skin a milky white, hair raven black, coiling in a long, wavy cascade that covered the nakedness of her breasts.

“Her name is Karinia.”

It was Hazin’s voice, but where he was Sean could not say.

“I have chosen her for you, Sean O’Donald. Look into her eyes and see paradise. Fail and know that you will never see such love again.”

Sean could not turn away from her gaze. Her features were flushed, and he sensed that somehow she was afraid. He reached out and lightly touched her cheek.

“You will stay and serve?” Hazin asked.

Sean could not answer. Some voice whispered to him that here was the moment that would forever define his life, who he was, what he would live for. But all he could see were her eyes and the actual feel of the garden of paradise, as if all of it had merged into his body and soul and would be part of it in pleasure, or torment, forever.

“I will serve,” he whispered.

“Then she, all of this, is yours forever.”

He heard a soft laugh, a rustling, and knew that Hazin was gone.

“I’m of the Shiv,” she whispered, “and though not born to it, you are now of us.”

Startled, he realized that she was speaking English, though her words were halting.

“Is this what you desire?” he asked.

She laughed softly and, leaning over, kissed him.

Throughout the day and into the night an inner sense told Richard Cromwell that something unusual was going on. In the week of his captivity he had grasped a sense of the language of the Kazan, realizing that there were some similarities to the Bantag dialect he had learned as a child.

He had been taken off the ship blindfolded, but the sounds and smells had told him that-he was in a city, a city of the race of the Horde, for their musky scent was overpowering. Loaded into an enclosed cart, he had noticed that the ride was smooth, the road well paved, and an ocean of noise surrounded him, echoing in the confines of city streets until they had passed through a gate. The doors clanged shut behind him with an ominous boom.

They had finally removed his blindfold once he was in his cell. He had known places far worse. The cell was even comfortable. He had a cot and a straw-filled mattress, and a thin shaft of light coming from a vent in the ceiling let him know the passage of days.

Hazin had come to visit him, and what he’d had to say was surprising. Throughout Richard tried to reveal nothing that could be of worth, and Hazin had even complimented him on his tact. At the same time, Hazin had seemed to be almost too revealing, telling him of the civil war, their learning of technology from a “prophet” and his companions who had come through a Portal more than two hundred years ago. This had given the Kazan, a minor clan on the island chains that spanned a million square miles of ocean, their first advantage in the endless warfare between a dozen rival clans.

They had made the leap to steam power, to flight, to the weapons they now possessed, and in the process they had defeated their rivals one by one, until finally the Kazan were supreme. Then had come the civil war to decide amongst themselves who should rule.

Of these subjects he had spoken without hesitation, even answering questions Richard had posed. Especially intriguing and frightful was the story of the rise of the Order of Alamut, which had been but one of the numerous cults and secret societies that the Kazan seemed to revel in. It was the prophets who suggested the breeding of humans, first for simple labor, but then for sacrifice as well, and finally for what Hazin called the fulfillment. A topic on which he would not elaborate.