Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Twenty-Seven: The Father I Should Have Had

Djamal swept his eyes around the gallery of the Birkramsala and realized half the city had come to watch. Not that it surprised him. The conflicts between the Kamara and the Visarya had resulted in the death of not one but two legendary Dyal champions, making it the most talked about topic for the entire desert in the past four weeks. Such things were considered exciting tales around campfires for those without power, a chance to climb the ladder for those looking for some, and a complicated situation to consider for those holding it.

To Djamal and his father, or anyone in their position really, an alliance of two powerful Kha'gans––or a fight between them––was either a threat or an opportunity, depending on whose side they were on at the time. His father had sent him to Citara the moment the news about Baaku Kha'a's trial had arrived. Their own alliance with the Visarya had yet to be decided, and Djamal knew his father's decision would depend on the outcome of this duel and his assessment of it.

If the rumors surrounding the two Kha'as hidden relationship were true, one could expect a long term alliance between the Visarya and the Kamara to follow Baaku Kha'a's victory today. Should Baaku Kha'a die this morning, his uncle's first deed as the new Kha'a would likely be a declaration of war against the Visarya, which could turn into a full-blown conflict involving many more Kha'gans. What they were about to witness was no ordinary duel between two men; it was an event that could change the fate of the entire desert, if not the entire peninsula.

The larger the stone, the bigger the ripples, Djamal recalled the line he'd written in his journal some time ago, looking at the crowd that had gathered to watch today. There were large stones here, in large numbers. He counted at least a hundred Kha'as and Khumars in the gallery, wouldn't be surprised if every Kha'gan in the White Desert had sent at least one representative of their own. News were only useful when they traveled fast, and with the leaders already present, they need not travel at all.

Djamal tugged on his zikh, wrapping it tighter around him. The sight of the Birkramsala that morning seemed to have turned the air colder, thicker with something sharp and hazardous to breathe. White-clad warriors in the thousands occupied the best seats in the gallery on either side of the oval-shaped fighting pit. The Bharavis among them wore white to match the zikh, making the area almost blinding white against the backdrop of whiter marbles. At the center of the White Warrior section facing east, the Ma'adevi sat next to her Deva'a, both in their official outfits of white and gold. Behind them, four pairs of Devis and Devas attended the event in similar uniforms of white and silver. Up on the higher tiers seated Citara-born warriors in gray, along with the handful of Makena merchants who had been allowed to enter the city to trade. Oranns scattered elsewhere in all shades of garment, giving that part of the gallery an unruly appearance compared to the rest of the color-sorted crowd.

For a moment, Djamal couldn't help but remember the quake that had collapsed an entire section of the 'amsala. What, he wondered, would happen if history were to repeat itself today?

An unsettling thought for another time, Djamal decided and shook himself free of the dreadful image. For now, what was about to happen below demanded his undivided attention. That, and what another man who had chosen to watch it close by, on the very edge of the pit, would do when it was over.

***

A strange calm settled upon Nazir as he stared at the two men in the pit, standing just ten steps away. The crowd seemed to him statues made of rocks and clays, pushed far and made blurry behind the figures of Rafa izr Zakai and Baaku who stood facing each other in silence. Tip toeing on the edge of his awareness was the knowledge that the Ma'adevi and the entire desert was watching. There were men of power here who would draw conclusions from seeing him on the belt of the Birkramsala and never hesitate to exploit it. On another day, such matters would have occupied his conscience, but that morning, there was a bubble that wrapped around him, a numbness that spread like a sickness or a corruption of some kind preventing him from forming too coherent a thought to care.