Book 3: Chapter 24 - A Mother's Love (RAW)

Arbitration, a weighty term for a seemingly quaint custom, both barbaric and enlightened in equal measure. In the days of yore, shortly after the inception of Al-Lazar and the discovery of the properties of the Dust, a river of gold flowed into the city.

The Shareholder families, the opulent dynasties of Al-Lazar, driven by insatiable avarice, plunged headlong into conflicts, each vying for a greater slice of the boundless wealth. The streets ran red as the newly amassed riches were exchanged for gleaming steel. Violence ran rampant, threatening to consume the very bones of the city if left unchecked.

More often than not, victories were costly at best and at worst just another name for defeat. It was during these tumultuous times that the families, sensing the dire consequences, were compelled to seek accord.

Two influential and prestigious houses, Salahaem and Alim, resolved the resolution of their disputes with a single representative from their respective houses. They would fight until one of them surrendered or perished.

This marked the inception of what we now know as the time-honored tradition of Arbitration, a practice universally embraced by all the Shareholder families of the venerable city of Dust.

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.

Emptiness. That is what I felt when I witnessed the scene unfolding before me. In this forsaken realm, this cruel game or whatever perverse creation it might be, I found myself uncharacteristically touched by the fragile glimmer of happiness I saw. I possessed a small fortune in metal coins and scraps of paper, yet it all seemed so paltry in front of the display in front of me.

The two red-eyed women embraced one another with a tear-stained intensity that laid bare the raw repressed depths of their emotions. That was the first time I saw Zariyah smile with true unbridled joy.

I saw it now, their shared features, so strikingly similar, left no more room for doubt. These two were bound by blood. They could only be family, perhaps sisters born of the same womb or a mother and her beloved daughter.

"Zari, my dear child, you have returned to us!" exclaimed the older woman, her voice trembling with emotion as she reluctantly let go of Zariyah from her tearful embrace.

I deduced that she must be Zariyah's mother, while my companions and I maintained a respectful distance, observing the heartfelt reunion.

"But how? I thought I would never see you again in this lifetime. Your contract was meant for the next... Do you have no words for your mother, Zari? What is wrong?" Zariyah's mother continued, her smile still present, but a hint of anxious concern creeping into her voice.

Zariyah shook her head forlornly, her delicate hand moving to her throat. A profound silence hung in the air, one that I felt compelled to break.

"Zariyah Al’Abadi is mute, though I do not know the circumstances of how this came to be," I stated neutrally.

The woman regarded me with a puzzled expression, but as understanding dawned in her eyes, I could almost hear the sound of her newfound hope shattering.

"You possess her contract?" she stated more as a fact than a question, her voice taking on a frosty and defiant tone.

“Gilgamesh is indeed the Hazagadami’s master,” answered Cordelia smugly with no small amount of relish.

“Cordelia, please, there is no need for that. Yes, I currently hold her contract or whatever it is you people call it. It was sort of foisted upon me by a Gelgor of the Crows, a reward for services rendered. The tale is quite lengthy, and I would be more than willing to explain, if you could perhaps offer us shelter from the sun," I suggested diplomatically.

"Of course, this way, samasa," the mother accepted with a hint of embarrassment, realizing the spectacle she had caused in public. "My name is Zafira, and I am Zariyah's mother. I also happen to be the humble innkeeper of the Begonia's Shade. Please, follow me, and share with me the story of my daughter," she introduced herself straightening her back, her voice now more flustered than frosty.

Zafira wore a light orange abaya that covered the better part of her body, but cinched at the waist with a red sash and did little to hide her generous figure. It was easy to mistake them for sisters, for her face was almost a mirror to her daughter’s, but just a little more worn and well-used by time. However, the tilted eyes were the same, an arresting distinctive crimson shade that were as intriguing as they were disturbing.

She ushered us into the flowery inn, the inside noticeably cooler than the outside streets. The inn had a high ceiling and light was let in by opaque glass windows and faded pictures hung on the walls, mostly of a variety of flowers I had never seen before. Earthenware jugs lined the shelves on the back wall, labeled with spidery flowing letters. The center of the inn’s main floor was dominated by an empty wooden stage on a raised platform. At the edges of the room, a few people sat cross-legged on pillows at low tables, a simple thin cloth partition separating the tables and providing a measure of privacy. They barely gave us a second glance as they were already deep in their cups even at such an early hour.

A man thick brutish-looking man stood behind the bar, his grim face a crisscross of scars from fights won or lost. Probably won, for he looked almost wider than he was tall, with a thick paunch and heavily muscled arms giving him the impression of a very unhappy bear. He simply nodded to us as Zafira led us into a room towards the back. I couldn’t help but notice the mean mace at his hip, not that that monster needed a weapon.

The room that Zafira led us to had a smooth square stone table, carved from grey rock and surrounded by sturdy wooden chairs. The innkeeper urged us to sit, a new and professional smile on her face.

A pretty little serving girl knocked at the room, bringing with her an iron kettle and some cups, and depositing them on the table before excusing herself politely with a small bow. Zafira poured us tea, but a small tremble in her hand betrayed her anxiety.

She sat down at the table with us, directly opposite me, and gestured for us to drink. The tea was piquant, a jasmine blend if I was not mistaken, but I barely had time to savor it as Zafira began her questions barely after the first sip.

“Now that I have shared tea with you, I can wait no longer. Please tell this mother of my daughter, for I have not seen her in many years,” she begged of me.

“Very well, Zafira, yes?” I began to answer, sampling the unfamiliar name. “I think it best that you hear it from your daughter.”

“But she is…” she started.

“Indeed, which is why Cordelia will help your daughter tell her tale. She can communicate in… what is it again? Ahh, yes, the unspoken words. You will help, won’t you Cordelia?” I asked, adjusting myself in the chair and taking another sip of the tea.

Though I doubted things would get violent, I decided to err on the side of caution. One could never have too much Mana, after all.

“As you command, my lo… Gilgamesh,” the red-haired warrior woman replied, casting a sidelong glance at Hazagadami.

And so a composed Zariyah recounted her tale.