***

Chapter 11:

Rebirth of Manipulation

***

At her private resort, she could see the vast ocean as it met the horizon. As a child, she would sit on the beach and watch trade ships go by. Grown-up things were far from her mind back then. Being appointed governess was never one of them. But after both her parents passed away, the duties of a governess landed on her shoulders.

It was impossible to be as carefree today. On this day she had important guests who demanded her full attention. She adjusted her vibrantly colored head wrap before opening the wood door before her.

Her light green, button-down blouse swept the floor as she entered the room, standing straight. “I hope I didn't keep you waiting,” Caira said.

The formally dressed man rose from his seat. “Not at all,” he replied, pulling a chair out for the governess. “My name is Isa. I’m afraid our usual emissary decided to enjoy his time off today.”

“Thank you,” Caira smiled as she took a seat. “You must be disappointed to be here with the festivities going on in the capital.”

“I imagine our emperor will have many more birthdays,” Isa said confidently.

“May we all be as fortunate to enjoy a long life as well,” Caira said. She clasped her hands together on the table and leaned forward. “It’s only been a month since the last emissary held an audience with me. I wasn’t expecting you again so soon.”

Isa placed a pair of rimless glasses on his nose. He removed folded paper from his suit’s interior pocket and passed it to Caira. “We’ve drawn up a new map that should ease your concerns.”

“I thought I made myself clear,” Caira said, unfolding the map. “Iltasha has no interest in becoming part of the capital.” She glances over the map, shaking her head in disapproval. “No, this is no better than your last proposal. I can’t agree to any of it.”

“You should think it over,” he insisted, sitting back. “We’re willing to let you remain in control of the city.”

His comment looped in her ears. Control. That’s what these negotiations had been about. Control of the land, the water, its resources. She had always suspected that the capital had ulterior motives for its sudden interest in annexing Iltasha. In his race for dominance over the Ahrmanian Empire, it made sense for the emperor to seek as much territory as possible.

Caira neatly re-folded the map. “How old is the emperor now?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“Quite old enough to know that he can not always have his way,” Caira handed the map back to the man with glasses and left her chair. “Sorry to have wasted your holiday.”

“Sit. Back. Down,” Isa ordered.

Caira stopped in her tracks, unable to control her own movements. Staring blankly ahead, she returned to her chair.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his nose. “I heard you were as stubborn as your father, Caira. But, I wanted to give you another chance. I don’t know what he raised you to believe, but our emperor has all of Midaharia’s best interest in mind. Or would you prefer the Ahrmanian Empire ruling over you?”

“Don't answer that.” Caira sat quietly as Isa pulled a pen and paper from his other inner suit pocket. “Let’s get on with it.” He got up from his seat and placed both items on the table in front of her. “I’m going to need you to sign here,” Isa said, pointing at the paper.

Caira picked up the pen and added her signature to the paper. “And here.” As Caira compiled a drop of blood fell from Isa’s nose, landing on the paper. He wiped it clean with a handkerchief.

Isa collected the paper and pen and returned them to his suit pocket. He walked over to the edge of the patio, looking out at the waves crashing against the shore. Blood from one of his nostrils rolled down his broad lips. He cleaned it off with his handkerchief, the palm of his hand glowing dimly. A depiction of an eye encompassed by white light pulsated in the palm of his hand. “I have just one more thing for you to do, Caira.”

***

The cavalcade advanced to an oval open-air venue made of marble. It was a multistoried amphitheater that could be seen for half a dozen miles away. Able to seat a fraction of Ras Almal’s population, the amphitheater was built for just the yearly occasion. Generals Badr and Lahan climbed the marble steps, followed closely by his highness and several aids.

A cheering crowd was held back by armed guards as they pooled around the structure. At the top of the twenty-one steps, Badr and Lahan turned to face the jubilant masses. They too joined in on the applause as the emperor arrived at the pinnacle of the stairs. Emperor Taimoor waved to his people as they chanted his name. He politely motioned for them to quiet down.

“Thank you! Thank you all for coming out this glorious day. This is quite humbling for me. Every year I am deeply touched by all of you, making this old man’s birthday a grand one. I am deeply honored to be called your emperor. Emperor is just a title for me. I am one with all of you.

“We will get on with the celebration momentarily, as I don’t expect you to be interested in listening to an old man speak for very long. Today is indeed my birthday, but on this particular occasion, we all have received what I consider to be the best gift of all.”

“Our brothers and sisters in Iltasha have agreed to become one with our great capital. Soon all of Midaharia will be united under one glorious flag!”

The crowd responds with a thunderous roar of cheers and clapping. It’s heard throughout the capital and beyond. The sounds of celebration doesn’t reach Iltasha. With his handkerchief covering his nose, Isa stands on the balcony watching Caira. She walks slowly into the choppy waves, mesmerized by the influence of the Rebirth of Manipulation.

***

The emperor’s birthday celebration carried on well into the night. The emperor had long since retired back to his royal compound. Much of the crowd had left as well, making the streets more passable for a Griffin Carrier. With wings and a head of an eagle and the body of a cat, the beast was twice the size of its rider. Colorful confetti and small paper wrappers littered the pavement as far as the eye could see.

“Looks like I missed everything,” the rider said, scanning the streets. A backpack was strapped across his chest. He had hundreds of letters to deliver in the capital alone, but only one was a top priority.

“There’s one!” he said, spotting a general on the other side of the street. The rider had never met any of Midaharia’s five generals, but their armor was unmistakable. The griffin lowered its body to the ground, allowing the rider to dismount safely.

“Excuse me!” the rider shouted as he sprinted to catch up with the general. “Mister general? Sir!”

The general turned to the young rider. “Mister general? There’s no need for such formalities. I am Lahan. What do you need of me?”

“I have a letter for you, mister Lahan,” the rider handed Lahan the letter. “It came all the way from Nabiil.”

Nabiil was one of two cities located on an insignificant continent located on the other side of the globe. It was rare to hear anything from that corner of the world. Lahan read the letter silently.

My brothers in arms, I am Farah of Khalina. An Afreet walks among us. I have seen him with my own eyes, touched him with my own hands, witnessed him in action. The prophecy, I fear, has been fulfilled. Yet I am constrained by doubt. I seek your counsel. Rendezvous with me in Tazwiir in three days, and speak of this matter to no one lest we open the gates of hell.

Lahan crumpled the letter in his fist. He snatched a full coin sack dangling from his waist and handed it to the rider. “I’m going to request that you forget giving me that letter,” he insisted. “For your own sake.”

The rider’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin pouch. “No problem, mister Lahan, sir! Thanks!”

He watched the rider as he mounted his griffin and left the area. When they were out of sight Lahan uncrumpled the letter and read it once more. “I had hoped it to be a lie.”

***

Mountainous hills protruded from the morning fog. A cloudy mist-covered much of the reservoir. The water was dotted with fishermen casting their nets in gangly boats barely big enough for a soul. Most had been up before dawn hoping to catch unsuspecting fish in roped nets. When their nets were filled the short, bony men summoned whatever strength they had and hauled their loads to shore. As one of the fishermen drug his net to the land he gasped. Something much bigger than his usual catch weighed it down.

“Help! Help! Come quick!” the fisherman urged, waving erratically to a few others nearby. Anxious fish escaped the net as the man rushed to untangle the ropes. “Hurry, he needs help!”

The group of fishermen took hold of a body and dragged it to drier ground. “It’s a child, a boy,” one of the men noted.

“He looks drowned,” said another.

“I wonder where he come from,” the fisherman pondered, staring at the young man’s silver hair.

The young man let out a cough, seawater drizzled down his cheeks. The men jumped back, startled by the young man’s sudden signs of life. “He lives? I was sure he was drowned.”

As he continued coughing up water, one of the fishermen turned the young man over to the side to help expel the fluid in his lungs. “Son? Can you hear me? Are you alright there? What were you doing in the water?”

“I...I’m cold...”

“Hang in there, son. We’ll get you to a fire.” The fisherman sprung up. “I’ll get my cart. Do what you can for him.”

The cart was half-filled with much of his day’s catch. Fishing was how he and many others earned a living in the small community. He brushed his load off the cart and hurried back to the others. “Here I am,” he said, pulling the cart behind him. “How is he doing?”

“He passed out,” a fisherman said, plucking strands of seaweed from the boy’s clothes. “He’s still breathing, I think.”

“Did he say nothing else?”

“He said his name was Aiden.”