The Gardener of Nahi

Chapter 8

Nahi

We kept a slight decline throughout the first night and day.  Chaliani and I were in some sort of sleigh compartment which I am sure was pulled by dogs (even though I could not see them at the time).  Every so often howls of exertion could be heard amidst the wind in the pines outside, two kinds of lonely sounds joining together as if in harmony.

Within the small tent-like structure it was quite comfortable.  The walls were thick dark blue curtains, the floor filled knee deep with furs.  Along the perimeter were heated stones, sparks dancing across their curved surfaces like Hunion maps of distant solar systems. 

I drifted in and out of consciousness many times.  My bruised body wanted to rest, but my bruised mind could not.  I remember waking and thought I had just entered a dream.  The confusion was already beginning, I now realize – my head falling just beneath the waves.

     In silence we regarded each other.  I could tell he was tall, even sitting cross-legged as he was on the furs.  He was older than me, but not by much, and in good shape as well.  Thin, but not too thin, his bald head made him look older than anything else.  But as the ruler I presumed he was, the appearance of age and wisdom was most likely an asset.

We barely spoke.  I remember I mentioned Myria.  He said Haarth and his footmen stayed behind to bury her in the snow there, a place of honor.  Apparently the crash site is a final resting place typically reserved for the intercessors (who are high priests) and their families.  It is the palm of the Father, he said. 

I asked who Haarth was.

“He is the only intercessor who came here with me,” Chaliani said.  “The stout man who was crying out in sorrow.”

I remembered him then.  When I was being pulled out of the wreckage, I could see a figure in the distance.  At the time I knew he had been looking at me, even though his face was only a shadow within his heavy red cloak.

I asked Chaliani if the man had known Myria.

“Haarth?” Chaliani asked.  “Poor man’s dream was right after all.  He was mourning the death of his daughter.”

A day and a half later we arrived at a large circular stone structure called a waypoint house.  As I exited our warm compartment, I was shocked by the transformation that had taken place over the past day of travel.  The cold and the snow had apparently reached its limit there.  We were far below the clouds now, and a cold rain was falling.  Greenery was visible in many places, and as I climbed down my feet touched wet gray bricks instead of ice.

     Servants were running about, stealing glances at me when they thought they would go unnoticed.  Some were cooking around outside fire pits covered by tarps with stitched open holes in the center, while others were preparing horses for the next day’s journey. 

     At that moment an odd pair passed us on horseback, traveling up the road in the direction from which we came.  One man was dressed completely in black, his face hidden by his cloak which covered his face completely.  I was shocked that he was able to see through it, but certainly he was able to – he turned his head as he passed by, looking at me squarely from his elevated view but saying nothing.

     The other man was wearing no such cloak but the look upon his face was equally as blank.  Pure abandonment was in his gaze, and a searing red mark on his forehead was plainly visible.  Even his posture said that nothing in his life mattered, the way his body tossed side to side as his horse trotted silently forward.  He too looked at me, yet there was no emotion in his eyes.  Not even curiosity.