and strode out of the king's study. The air in the narrow, high halls of the palace were crisp, flowing in from unseen vents in the gilded ceilings. It signaled that fall was coming. He passed by all the familiar rich, moving tapestries, through the long, vaulted halls, passed by the servants, most of whom greeted him with due respect. He would miss Cera the head cook and her little daughter Laina, who always made him special little breads and cakes during festival times and always made sure that whenever he visited the summer palace on an extended stay that besides the king's household, he was served the richest dishes, though he had no need of such delicacies. Still, he'd always appreciated them.
When Nagilla had finally reached the gates he permitted himself a last look around the grounds. Nothing surpassed the beauty of Assenna in the whole land of Hybron, or anywhere else and he had traveled the world over many years ago. The pinnacle of that beauty was the summer palace, with its ivory white towers and spires that gleamed in both sunlight and moonlight. The many levels of verdant gardens of rare kata flowers and tended fruit trees, the pools and waterfalls that surrounded the palace from the grounds to the lower towers. No wonder so many assumed that things would always be as they were. No wonder the visions of its destruction still galled the king.
A small delegation of officials were making their way up the main roadway to the steps. Some of them gave him the customary slight bow of respect due a desert holy man but most of them paid him no heed. Such was the age Nagilla found himself in. Sages like him were becoming irrelevant. Even derided by less charitable subjects. Most of the people living under the prosperous rays of the last Red King had no clue about the terrors they would face when he was gone nor did they care. And why would they? When any kind of bauble, food, spice, cloth and pursuit could be had, who needed a life of prayer, rituals, obedience? Who needed meditation on higher things that no one could see? It was all counted as foolishness and he a foolish relic of the past. It was at this thought that he permitted himself to feel despair for Assenna and all the peoples of Hybron. Even so, the old ways would be kept in some form by a few in Hybron and by some within the wild tribes out in the high desert.
He was let out through the gates and from the palace grounds and made his way towards the Last Gate. In the time he'd made his way from the palace to the streets he perceived clouds gathering. The wind had changed. Rain was coming. Rain rarely fell in Hybron. When it did, it was always a time for celebration. People gathered the water in jars and tanks attached to their houses and some of it was often offered up in tribute to whatever god they worshiped.
Nagilla wound through the streets, keeping to the wide, broad thoroughfares. They were busy but not nearly as crowded as during the day. He passed one of the large, central markets. Most vendors were gone for the day, a few were still closing up shop.
The rain, fine like silt, fell softly and covered the land in blessed dampness and wet. He passed jumbled neighborhood enclaves, smoking dens, minor temples and facades that hid underground tunnels. As the streets grew narrower and darker, the lantern lights grew more scarce and the shadows long. He felt eyes watching him. Shadowy figures were tailing him. This time he would not avoid them. He would teach a lesson. The rain fell harder. The air was moist and fragrant, strong with the slow decay of many things. Nagilla could smell and taste the air slipping down his throat. It was pregnant with fruit from the thousands of trees lining the streets, incense, opium, tar, perfume, smoke and goat meat or chicken stewing in myriads of pots. The watching and the spying was now a frequent occurrence after the political and religious riots in the capital. Opposing groups seemingly sprang up everywhere even in the neighboring city of Jhis. Nagilla approached one of the larger temples of Hec, the sun god and ducked swiftly behind a column. The temple was draped in dim light from the fires within and in deep shadow. Soon he saw the shadows of his followers spilling out across the polished stone floor. Three men surrounded him dressed in black tunics, their faces covered. One stood boldly in front. He was as tall as the sage.
“It is me you are looking for.” Nagilla said calmly.
“It is not personal. Only business.” The three brandished long, hunting knives. The first one lunged at him, quick as a snake, grabbing him by the neck and slashed at his throat. The other two rounded the column and came in behind him and immediately fell upon Nagilla, stabbing furiously but as soon as the first man had grabbed hold of him, his hand froze and then turned grayish white, calcifying into stone. This calcification spread to his arm and down his chest. The assassin gasped in horror, dropping his knife. It clattered uselessly to the ground. He opened his mouth to scream but the spread of the stone engulfed him until he was only a statue of stone and salt. The other two men also were turned into stone and salt. The third only partially so. Nagilla grabbed him and snapped off his calcified arm. A searing, white light issued forth from his eyes as he cauterized the gaping wound of the man's arm at the elbow. The man, in shock, was sweating profusely and stared at Nagilla with dread in his eyes. He began pleading for his life.
“Be silent and go! This night you and your companions have committed a grave offense against the Lord of the Deep Heavens. I am one of His emissaries, one of the great sages of old. Do not ever lift your hand against any innocent man again. Go and make amends for your evil and stay away from the Ainash if you value your soul in the coming destruction! Go!” Nagilla threatened. The man, quaking in fear and pain stumbled and then ran off into the night. Nagilla stood, unharmed by the attack. He kicked the knives away and threw down the stone arm. It crashed and splintered.
“Nor was that personal.” He shook his head sadly. It was not the first time someone sought to have him put to death. He now fully understood the king's lament. He wanted to gather all the peoples back to the old ways and protect them but it was not to be. The faithful would disperse before the tide of blood and fire came. Perhaps that lone assassin would wake up and walk the Red Path. The other two would stand as a confusing and unknown monument to ignorant people by tomorrow. Nagilla pulled on his hood went his way out into the rain.
He approached the massive Last Gate that held off the desert from civilization. He knew the men here.
“Halt! The hour is late. Who wishes to leave?” Called the head guard.
“I do.”
“Who are you?” Asked the guard gruffly. Another man handed the guard a lantern and three of them approached, two older gatekeepers and a young one.
“I am the guardian of shadow who assists those who wish to pass from light to darkness and from darkness to light.”
“Nagilla!”
“Burdun, old friend.”
“It has been too long!” Burdun embraced him as Nagilla threw off his hood. “It is good that you came when you did. An hour later and the doors will be locked for the night.”
“Who is he?” Asked the young man.
“He is one of the voices out of time who walks the earth with mortal men.” Burdun said.
“For a time, but my time has come to an end, Burdun.”
“Many of us have figured this. We have looked to the prophecies. We will miss you.” Said the third guard, named Sabo.
“May the old ways live on in you men, Burdun and Sabo.”
“They shall. The path will be rocky, the way dark but one day all will be well again.”
“Where will you go, lord sage?” Asked the young man.
“Lord? No child, only Nagilla.” The sage chided gently. Sabo cuffed him on the ear.
“Never mind him. He is young and not so swift. Go in peace, Nagilla.” Said Sabo.
“I am leaving but others will come.”
“But what is your true name?” Persisted the young man. “I have never met a desert sage but I had heard the desert holy men have more than one name!”
“And why should you ask, young Ketu? It is too wonderful for you. If you hear my true name from the blessed realms your ears would bleed. So be content. I am Nagilla.” Ketu marveled.
“But how did
he know my name?” He whispered to Burdun. Burdun laughed warmly.
“You look upon one who can tell a vision or prophecy long before it happens and you marvel at names?”
“There are not many of us about anymore, Burdun. Do not be too hard on him.” Nagilla said. He turned to all the guards who had come to see him.
“Farewell Sabo, Burdun and Ketu and to all of you,” He said to the gathered men and called up to those that stood atop the gate looking down with lanterns.
“Open the doors!” Shouted Burdun. Slowly the great doors heaved open slightly a few feet. Nagilla caught a glimpse of the shadow of the vast aqueduct to the left outside the city walls, filling with rain water. It ran from Assenna, the capital, all the way to the western border of Hybron. During the day it stood like a massive structure of bones shaped and sculpted over ages and now it loomed like the shadow of a fearsome siege tower. He pulled his robes close about his shoulders and disappeared into the deepening dusk.
. . .
The gatekeepers watched the figure of the sage disappear.
“What will happen now? What about our people?”
“Do not worry yet, Ketu.” Said Burdun. “We are still free to worship as we will, as is everyone else, as long as the king lives. The prophets, the sages, the Fathers and Mothers have time yet,