A Tale about the Old World [Chain/Alma Torran]

I remember the day I met Solomon quite well. He was young, reaching barely my waist, but he held a curiosity unbefitting his age. He was not curious about what things were, as most children are, but why they were. He asked me about the world, questions which I had not even considered, and challenged my understanding. On that day, I remember thinking that there was something different about him.

He was someone special.

It was not long before I was given charge of his education. Indeed, his father David even requested me personally, which I found strange. I had worked alongside him, true, having been his assistant in earlier years when I worked with the Council. But our relationship had been limited to clerical work, and our contact became increasingly sparse after I decided to retire. I accepted nevertheless, and agreed to begin teaching his son. I must admit, it was quite an honour that the esteemed David would place his child’s education within my hands.

I taught him much, and more besides. He had no need for any incentive, although I showered him with praise. It seemed he was a natural genius, his mind open and talent assured. I taught him magic - as if he needed teaching! - and he surpassed my level within weeks. I was humbled by that boy, who taught me how trivial the role of ‘student’ and ‘master’ are.

He saw things that I could not fathom.

He devoted himself to his studies, taking breaks only when the Council convened. He and his servant Arba would watch the proceedings with awe and delight - engrossed in his father’s business. Indeed, it seemed that he found purpose in continuing David’s work, vowing that he would succeed him as leader of the Orthodoxy. His father did not return his affection, however, leaving him in my care more and more over the years. I saw his heart break little by little, finding small comfort at Arba’s side, but he kept vying for his father’s attention nonetheless.

I found that I was soon a hindrance in his pursuit of knowledge. I could not satisfy his curiosity with my resources, neither books nor libraries being enough, and I began questioning whether I was an obstacle on his path. After some time, I thought it best if I asked his father about my queries. I requested that young Solomon was allowed to leave the capital, since he was restricted by the narrowness of the Orthodox lifestyle. My message was long; his reply was short.

Do whatever you want, it is all the same to me.

I was rather lost for words after reading that. Rather, I was so shocked that I could not reply. He had off-loaded his duties as a father onto me, and then forgotten his son when that responsibility was forced back onto him? He was more a stranger to Solomon than a parent. Indeed, he would not even look at his son when Solomon was present at the Council meetings. He would praise the elders and the councilmen, but he would not give so much as a congratulations to his own son.

I would not be given any opportunity to complain, however, because someone else took the first action. Indeed, Solomon and his servant Arba soon fled from the capital under cover of night, leaving the city in an uproar over their disappearance. I cannot be sure of their reasons for doing so, but I could only guess that Solomon had seen his father’s message. After all, the next time I saw him, his admiration for his father had soured into something hate-filled.

With these words, the voice went quiet and the letters stopped appearing. It was clear that this story meant more to this Natan than Zubaidah had first believed. Feeling sorry that she had brought back such memories, Zubaidah felt that she should speak herself, rather than leave things to the elusive Natan.

“Pardon, mister, may I interrupt your story?”

“You have no need for such manners, madam, you may simply call me Natan.”

“Call me Zubaidah then, Natan. I want us to be on equal footing here.”

“Of course, Zubaidah. What is your question then?”

“I have read much about this Orthodoxy, but I am afraid that I do not understand their place in your Alma Torran.”

“Yes, I suppose that I should clarify…”

“They were the leaders of mankind, a bureaucracy who believed in their superiority.”

“Hmm, I had gathered that there were other races on Alma Torran, but they did not seem particularly delighted with the Orthodoxy.”

“No, not at all, for they believed that all races were inferior to themselves. Indeed, they wished to extend their power over the other races! All because their doctrine held that Il Illah had given them magic as a means to subdue them under their own authority...”

He stopped again here, as if he were sighing. It was clear from his story that Natan had some mixed feelings about the Orthodoxy, from his admiration for David to his distain towards the councilmen. Zubaidah could not know what his relations had been previously, but she thought that she should not push anymore than she had.

“Sorry that I have interrupted again, Natan, but could I ask you another question? I have heard that name a thousand times, but I have never been told who it is…”

“Ah, yes, I suppose you would have that question…”

She could see that heart-stopping scene in her mind's eye. A pitch-black sky. A million hands. A woman drenched in blood. Why had Gamigin showed her this? Why had Furcas warned her about this? She needed answers...

“Who or what is Il Illah?”