A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 3: Chapter 25: A Mother's Love

Arbitration, a weighty term for a seemingly quaint custom, is both barbaric and enlightening in equal measure. Let us look into the origins of one of the cornerstones of Al-Lazarian culture.

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. Waves of violence tore through all the districts, threatening to consume the very bones of the city, if left unchecked.

More often than not, victories were costly, at best, and at worst, defeats in all but name. 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 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.

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At first, I found myself uncharacteristically touched by the fragile glimmer of happiness that I saw. I possessed a small fortune in metal coins and scraps of paper, yet it all seemed so paltry in front of this display. But this was not my family and I would never see my family ever again. This forsaken realm, this cruel game or whatever perverse creation it was, made me realize that I was very much alone here. Empty.

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 that were so strikingly similar. 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 released Zariyah from their tearful embrace.

Zariyah's mother then, I mused while my companions and I maintained a respectful distance.

"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.

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“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 Naira, 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.

Naira wore a light orange abaya that covered the better part of her body, cinched at the waist with a red sash. But it 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, just a little more worn and well-used by time. However, their tilted eyes were the same. An arresting, distinctive crimson shade that was as intriguing as it was disturbing.

She ushered us into the flowery inn, the inside noticeably cooler than outside on the streets. The inn had a high ceiling, and soft light was filtered in through opaque glass windows. Faded pictures adorned the walls, featuring a myriad of flowers I had never encountered. Pleasing to the eye, their exotic beauty was vividly captured by the artist’s skill. 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 a raised wooden platform that probably served as some sort of stage. At the edges of the room, a few people sat cross-legged on pillows at low tables, separated by a simple thin cloth partition to provide 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.

In a corner, by one of the windows, an old man played a zither. The music, if you could call it that, sounded droning and discordant to my ears. His instrument was trimmed with gold and fancy patterns, and was most likely of high craftsmanship. Wasted on his lack of talent. Noticing the self-satisfied look on his face, I hoped that he wasn’t being well paid for inflicting his music upon us. In my mind, his brazen display of poor skill was simply another form of public masturbation.

A man, thick and brutish-looking, stood behind the bar, his grim face a crisscross of scars from fights won or lost. Probably won, I thought to myself, for he looked almost wider than he was tall, with a thick paunch and beefy arms corded with muscle. Wiping a mug with a cloth, he simply nodded to us as Naira led us into a room towards the back. I couldn’t help but notice the mean mace at his hip as we passed him, not that that monster needed a weapon.

Bowing hurriedly, a worried-looking boy in white servant’s clothes interrupted the proprietress, leaning in to whisper something in her ear and causing her to frown. She swiftly concealed this momentary lapse behind a fixed smile and gestured us to follow her into one of the back rooms.

The room that Naira led us to had a smooth square stone table, carved from a single slab of gray 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 door, bringing with her an iron kettle and some cups, and depositing them onto the table before politely excusing herself with a small bow. Naira 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 hardly had time to savor it, as Naira 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, for she has not seen her daughter in many years,” she begged of me.

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

“But she is…” she started, defeat edging into her voice.

“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, keeping my Mana in reserve rather than using it on consecutive uses of Identify. “As you command, my lo… Gilgamesh,” the red-haired warrior woman replied, casting a sidelong glance at the Hazagadami.

And so a composed Zariyah recounted her tale.