The Poisoned Throne

Epilogue

Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always

- Source Unknown

Epilogue: 1530

The green darkness was illuminated only by flecks of starlight that fell through the ceiling of branches high above. They danced on the soft forest floor and on Nyama's back as she led him, descending deeper into the trees. 

This part of the forest, although not forbidden, was usually not entered by others than the jakeen. In spite of this, Aryavan walked with a strong sense of remembrance. He could not be certain if it were a dream or a meaningless feeling without root, or if perhaps his mother had once brought him here, long ago when he was just a child. 

Nyama stopped by a spring. It was circular, although not perfect in its shape. Because of the clearing above, the light of the night sky fell unperturbed onto its surface, making it seem almost luminous. 

She knelt, crushed some herbs with a mortar and poured some water over it. When she was done, she leaned back onto her heels and watched him with caution. 

"I found some notes," she explained, "written by Anaïs."

At his mother's name, he felt his body jerk and his mind grow attentive. He tried not to let it show; whenever he did, people grew terribly quiet and considerate. "Yes?"

"It explained the powers of this spring. She called it Johroza." Nyama licked her lips and looked at the bowl between her hands. "I've not done this before. It is supposedly powerful. But I thought..." Her eyes flashed up to meet his. "I thought I'd let you be here, in case... in case she spoke to me, as she has before. If you want to leave, I understand," she added, quickly, almost abashed. 

He shook his head. "No. Thank you."

She smiled, faintly, then brought the bowl to her lips and drank. Her eyes fell closed. 

"What does it feel like?" he asked, curious. 

Her smile grew and her eyes opened. "It takes a while for it to work."

For a moment, he was tempted to ask if he could have the rest, but then he scolded himself for even thinking that. These weren't the herbs that they sometimes smoked around the fire. These were powerful, linked to spirits both good and bad. The jakeen were trained to withstand that sort of presence, their minds were strong and fortified, like northern holdfasts; but it was not safe for ordinary people, not even for the Kahari. 

Nyama giggled, covering her mouth. "It's..." Her voice wavered and she laughed again.

Then, as if she saw something behind him, her eyes widened. Aryavan felt something crawling up and down his spine, but he dared not look. 

To his relief, she stood up and stared walking, past him. He followed her to the edge of the trees where she stopped, staring ahead into the undergrowth. 

"Do you see it?" she asked. 

He frowned. "What?"

"The jaguar?"

"No."

She started walking again, but then stopped, shook her head and pressed her hands to her temples. With a hiss, she leaned both her hands against a tree and stood, leaning forwards, for a long moment. Then, with a terrible, sick sound, she retched onto the ground beneath her. Again and again, until Aryavan could barely keep his own vomit down, until she felt onto her trembling knees. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and her hands covered her upper arms as if she were freezing.