A Question of Destiny

A Question of Destiny

The army is marching. How their armour glitters and gleams in the sun, how proud are the banners that they carry before them. The feet of the soldiers rhythmically hammer the flagstones, the trumpets blow their bright, brassy calls, the drums pound, all to proclaim another heroic victory over yet another conquered land.

   I admit, the soldiers can be a little hard to see through all the dust their pounding feet kicks up, but still, we have one of the best views of the triumphal parade. The noble emperor, Araxameth IV, may the gods shower him with all the blessings he deserves, has seen to that.

From my cage, where it hangs below the Victory Arch, I can see legion after legion as they march under my prison. We are only brought out for display during these triumphs, we oracles and foreseers of the various nations the empire has conquered. Most days we are kept down below in the dungeons under the temple to his god, the all-seeing Xylatus. We are the blackest of blasphemers after all, or so his priests preach to us. By attempting to peel back the veil to see the future, a gift that belongs only to their god, we have broken the ultimate taboo. And after every triumphal parade some of us are called upon to pay the ultimate price. There were twenty of us when I was thrown in among them as a captive. Now we are five. Will it be my turn this time?

   And that is the bitterest, most painful wound of all. I do not know. I cannot see. Just as I did not foresee their coming. For three times a count of hands I had been the oracle of my clan. But I had been given no vision or foresight of the destruction that awaited us. Why? Why did I not see them coming?

They came with the rising of the sun. The first pale hint of dawn had just touched the waving grasses of the plains with the faintest hint of colour, the sky had just begun to blush in the east with the beginnings of the sun’s courtship. I had just gathered my ritual tools to greet the sun as she rose. The brazier and the mirror, my oracle bones that had been passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter, for countless generations. Yet they failed me that dawning. I failed my people.

They came out of the darkness. Fire sparked in the west. Horns blew, followed by screams. The ground shook with the pounding of their horses’ hooves. I recall how I turned away from the rising sun to face the dark. Was that my mistake? Is that why the gods sent me no warning, no foretelling of what awaited my people? Did They feel I had turned away from them? Why didn’t I see them coming?

    Anger twists in me, like a dull knife rusted and rotted away, as I watch the soldiers below. The dust rises to choke my throat and the sun burns my eyes, so long accustomed to the darkness of the cells. When they had pulled us from below, the warmth of the sun had felt good on my old bones. Now she bakes the moisture out of me as surely as she scorches and burns the land below without mercy from out of a pale, bleached, sky.

    The priests are worried. They did not heckle and bait us as they normally do during these festive occasions. There has been a longer period than usual between our displays before the emperor’s hungry audience. They watched each other out of the corners of their eyes, their silence heavy with unspoken words. When they spoke, their voices had an edge to them that I could name if I cared to. Had I been other than what I am now I might have wondered at this, but that part of me died long ago. Now I only wait. Maybe when I stand before my gods, I will finally have an answer to the only thing that still matters to me. Why did I not see them coming? How did I fail?

    The trumpets below give an extra blare as they approach the arch where we hang in our cages. More bright, bold, banners are being displayed. Ah, I recognize these, the alicorn rampant on a sky-blue banner. They hang motionless in the sweltering air. It is the emperor’s own brother, Grand Marshal Boraxiathus. The priests walk before him, swinging their thuribles so that the incense might drown out the stench of dung and spoiled food and unwashed bodies that hangs like a miasma over the crowd. Behind him come the captives. A long line of the ragged, the wounded and the frightened, here to be displayed to the jeering crowds before being sent to the flesh markets.

    I watch Boraxiathus as he makes his slow approach down the wide avenue. He looks different from the handsome young prince who led his brother’s forces to victory over my people. His once golden hair is now streaked with grey. Lines are carved deep into his face. He smiles and waves to the crowd as they cheer him.

My finger slips into the small hole in the hem of my ragged skirt to touch the last remnant of who I was. I trace the shape of the oracle bone, the only one I have left. Memory rises up to cloud my vision, obscuring the bright display of imperial triumph and prowess that marches below my cage.

Memory is a merciless and unforgiving mistress, far more so then that of any of the soldiers who marched us away from our homeland to this city of stone and steel. She carries me along on her relentless wind, and I am forced to remember. Remember the look in my husband’s eyes as he was carried off in chains, remember the sight of my dead son lying cold on the ground, remember the touch of my daughter’s hand as she pressed the last oracle bone into my palm before they carried her off to be sold in the flesh markets.

My vision clears, I am back in my cage and the troops still march below. I stroke my finger over the oracle bone again. I do not need to see it to recall the runes burned into it; Rynwiz for Strength, Okalar for Retribution.

The bone turns under the touch of my finger. There are the other runes; Morvear for Truth and Yaktil for Death. Ah, these I know only too well. Death has been my old friend these many years and Truth haunts me in my dreams, taunting me. Why did I not foresee them coming? How did I fail my people? What is the truth? Is it as the priests of Xylatus say, that we have offended their god and so deserve our fate or is it our own gods I offended? What is the truth here?

The last rune hides from me as it always does. Tirpeath for Destiny. A tiny laugh breaks free from me and hangs in the hot, dry, dust-choked air. What is destiny? Is it the incense and casting of the bones before the mirror? Is it the instinct and the knowing and the small visions the gods sent me long ago? If so, why did they abandoned me when my people needed me the most? How did I fail them? Does destiny exist at all?

I still and become motionless at the thought. It shivers through me. The hoarse cheers of the crowds below and banging of the soldiers’ drums fade away. I am left hanging in emptiness with only that thought. Does destiny exist? Is that why the gods are silent? Because they do not have a destiny for us at all? Are we left alone in the world to find our own way? If the gods do not guide us or watch over us, then who is it that determines our fate?

The trumpets blare again. They pull me from my thoughts. I look down. Boraxiathus is almost directly before me. He does not look up, of course. We heretics who hang helplessly above him are beneath his notice, without power, without voice, without consequence. Behind him stretch the line of his captives. How they shuffle along, legs chained, heads bowed. I feel their despair. At the front are, as always, the foreseers, the future-tellers, the sacrifices to his god. Some will join us in our cages, others will die on the high altar this day. I know them. I know their pain, their despair, know that they are questioning what they had done to bring this on their people. I am them. For the first time in more years than I want to remember, the familiar, tired, bitter anger at this does not mutter and grumble like an old dog disturbed from its slumber. Now the sight of them, my sisters, my brothers, my kindred, makes the anger growl and shift and rear its head. A fire begins to burn inside me.

The oracle bone’s runes seem to hover in the air around me. Almost I can see them or would, if I still had my sight. Rynwiz, Okalar, Morvear, Yaktil, Tirpeath. Strength, Retribution, Truth, Death, Destiny. I feel them press around me. I chant them under my breath. They taste like a curse on my tongue now. Rune Curses, blood curses, death curses were banned so long ago among my people that they are now only dark legends, scarcely remembered. Still my tongue twists and shapes them. My anger burns higher until I feel as though it scorches through my blood.

Boraxiathus passes under my cage, his armour gleaming in the sun, his white horse groomed until it shines. His gold helmet is crowned with a bright spray of rare white dbayil feathers. Such a noble display of heroism and courage, marching before a line of helpless captives. How could the masses not be comforted by this and assured of the empire’s strength?

Our cages are filthy. They are supposed to be. Offal and dung to keep us company during this long, hot day while the empire’s army marches in triumphal display beneath us. My hand moves almost without my conscious thought. A flick of my wrist is all it takes. The soft dung splatters across the helmet and the white feathers are stained a deep brown. A trickle of brown-yellow liquid oozes down the helmet and over his face. Shocked cries ring out above the trumpets and the drums. A hissing of words rises and hovers over the crowd like a buzzing swarm of bees.

My heart pounds in my chest as Boraxiathus turns his head to look up. Do you see me now, killer of my mate, my children, my clan? Our eyes meet. I should lower my eyes, look away. I do not. If the gods do not watch over us, then who does? The anger in me flames higher. I want to laugh. What is destiny? Do we make our own? The runes still seem to shimmer in the air before me. I taste them on my tongue as I mouth their names. I call them. Rynwiz, Okalar, Morvear, Yaktil, Tirpeath.

You believe in fate, in destiny, in your god, Boraxiathus. You say he leads you to victory and conquest. My gods say that blood curses, death curses, are dark, forbidden. But if the gods do not watch over us, if our destiny is of our own forging, who is there to damn me?

I watch as Boraxiathus levels his finger at me and the priests and guards scurry to do his bidding. My cage sways in the air as they pull its chains. I do not look away from him. Soon, I will face him again in his temple, face his god and mine. My finger traces the rune. Soon, I will know.