Chapter 19: Chapter 13.1: The Exiled and the Mighty
The Sijarkes wasn't the only one brought by the fall winds; many came to witness her inauguration. They'd say it was a thing of luck to be at a new Domma's presence. There was always a chance they'll be giving out blessings, or their Du Quams might be open to favors.
In spite of the Du Quam Kedrik's strong disgust towards visitors, his presence was very much appreciated because it meant he was open to granting favors through a favor booth. This act rewarded his followers or faith-dwellers, making a point to show his power and generosity to such.
The regent Nubejul did his own thing as well—he was a known performer, always had a song prepared for every occasion, complete with a rehearsed number to be performed by his most talented Setikosi, in-house performers contracted by the temple to represent them in events. They were considered as Quams too—Quam jar Setikosi. Any conscious man who served the temple was considered a Quam—a rather broad title in and of itself. Though it has classifications of its own that further indicated what role its titleholder held within the temple premises.
"Will you really have my Setikosi dress in such queer fashions?" Kedrik sneered disapprovingly at the bare-clothed Setikosi, wearing horsehair wigs held together by beads and accessories. Having been a setikos himself in his younger years before Du Quamship, Kedrik took it as his right to direct the Setikosi, placing them under him as their master.
"We're getting old here, Du Quam Kedrik. We've seen these men as they are. As regent, I thought I'd dress them for fresh eyes," Nubejul replied, "We can't have the same adjectives describing their acts in every review—'rivetingly' , 'exhilirating'."
"Alright, alright," Kedrik groaned.
A whiff of spices and a line of servants passed with their dishes. Nubejul stopped one over and taste-tested the delicacies he had ordered for the event. He made a face that Kedrik could not decipher. The latter croaked out a groan.
Nubejul laughed. "What?"
Sometimes, it was hard to see whatever might have displeased Kedrik. He left and stood a bit further away, commanding some of his Quams to set up his booth in the middle of the hall.
"Du Quam Kedrik, you didn't say you were setting up your booth." Nubejul tried to garner his attention.
"I'm granting wishes all day, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Oh, no one would mind," Nubejul assured, waving his arms. "But, uhm, do you really want to do all that here?" They were in the very middle of the hall leading to the back courtyards where the Sijarkes' inauguration ceremony was to be held. In other words, it would be the most inconvenient spot Kedrik could've chosen. Here he was completely accessible to visitors coming and going, the booth's embroidered purple silks making no secret of who would be its occupant.
And he'd be there for as long as he wished.
"At least I prepared something for my Domma's honor, boy. Even in the Sijarkes' inauguration, I would not let the Margijer's name disappear into oblivion."
"But I have prepared something special for my Domma, the Sijarkes—a hymn."
"Let me guess, it is still unfinished."
"I—How did you know?"
"The ants told me," Kedrik squinted as he left the corridor. Nubejul could only smile to this, shaking his head. He had to make allowances for the older Du Quam.
And he had yet to meet the Sijarkes. There was always time; he always believed so.
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Among a crowd of dark-skinned men pushing to arrive first unto the Tirkju'a's courtyards, furbished and polished in their finest robes, a drastically different shade emerged, looming over the heads of the ones who came before him. A sore thumb sticking out, he dressed not in the ways of an Ambissan—his darks already a stark contrast to the mix of patterned cloths surrounding him; for his foreign furs told a different story, a different mark in life—a rather unfortunate one, evident even to those who didn't know any better.
An exile hailing from the North, reduced to be so by the Du Quam Adan Umdochar himself.
"You don't see those like him coming near the temple." A templeman stopped to give him a look-over.
"Ignore him, let's go," another urged, dragging his traveling companion along, who looked back and watched as this strange white man observed something far away, seeming to see past him.
'I can understand you,' the stranger thought sadly as he was always believed to be as illiterate as those of his race were thought to be. 'And I am not a beggar.' He put on his dark hat from which a thin dark veil hung, and went inside, for he knew he had every right to, the evidence was in his very pocket—a notice issued by the regent Du Quam, a personal invitation to meet at the Hall of Du Quams.
"Toruaz," a gruff voice called out. The stranger turned to look at his uncle, dressed in the same fashion, only slightly tan from his years of having been a resident in Gu'ambiss for most of his life. "Remember to mind your manners. We come as guests, as servants to the Order next."
Toruaz nodded slowly. "Will you be accompanying me?"
"I have to get my blessing from the Du Quam Kedrik. His gates are only open a few times a year." His uncle, by all merits and miracles, was a high judge of the land—an oronosojal—Sinderzof Rozkamoro, built square and solemn. As an Urbedaurian, he was only allowed to wear his jewelry a certain way especially when within temple premises, letting it wrap around his shoulders, dropping at his right breast like a badge. If he wore a hat like Toruaz did, it was a custom to wrap their jewelry—for they were fond of excessively long chains—around the base of the brim, letting it hang at the left if they were a person of importance, and the right if they had no rank.
Both Sinderzof and Toruaz Rozkamoro hung their jewelry bands at their left, but concealed the rest of their head with cloths to protect themselves from the sun. The climate was not so kind to Urbedaurians. The Ambissans of Gu'ambiss took it as a sign—and a belief—that the pale kin of the Urbedaurians do not belong at all in Oriehem, for even Nature fried them in the Sun's natural habitat.
The older Rozkamoro mostly left Toruaz to his own device. His nephew was nearing middle age, almost half his age now. He would need to learn to navigate life on his own. Though he was by no means incapable of such, but as of that day, he had depended entirely on his uncle to get him a seat among the examinees. He would not have the chance on his own; he had much to be grateful for, so much debt to repay.
Looking at all the displays on this eventful day, Toruaz felt that his problems were lesser when compared to the grandeur of the Order. He slowed down as others passed him by quickly, used to its dignified display, and he took his time to browse the Tirkju'a's halls. He hadn't visited in years. The changes were not drastic, in fact, it appeared much flowery than it had last been.
Was the Sijarkes a lover of flowers?
He had been to other Quamship temples in Ori'ehem, joining his uncle on his trips, and he'd observed the changes each one would undergo with just one word from its ruling Du Quam or residing Domme. He was not a rich man, but he was no less educated as the wealthy. His education was meticulously designed by his uncle, who had taken him in after exile at a tender age. It was not an easy life, to be a foreigner to both his home country and also his resident country.
Sometimes he wished he could pity himself, but that wouldn't be the best course of action. Not here, not in the Quamship temple. Certainly not in front of Du Quam Umdochar.
But on his own, when all the rest of the world turned away, weeping was excusable.
He went behind a corridor in which no Quams frequented. It looked and felt just about the same. The corridors were almost identical, repetitive in pattern and structure. He thought it was how the Tirkju'a would have liked it—clean. Relieved, he leaned against the wall and removed his hat. Even after living here the last two decades, he still could not quite get used to the heat.
'I could make the such a finer map if they had asked me,' Toruaz thought, observing the careful indents carved unto the wooden frame, with details of Ori'ehem's geography. 'But it wouldn't have these same level of embellishments that must've striked its price up a fortune.'
Toruaz may be foreign, but he knew the ways of the land just as well as his uncle. He worked as his apprentice all while pursuing a sponsored education. It's fair so say he's seen things, having had professional training in his practice; it wouldn't hurt to aspire himself an Oronosojal just like his uncle, a judge of civil matters.
Though he would not dream of handling criminal cases—that's what Oronofurdjals are for. He's had too much to deal with on that front, personally.
His feet moved on their on, to the one spot he had always visited when he came to the temple. Though he did not find what he was looking for. It was by the left wall of that corridor, where a large mural of the Dove was carved unto a wooden slab. Beside that would have been a statue of his father, Jakolai Rozkamoro.
It was missing.
'What a reminder,' Toruaz thought, shaking his head.
This temple was not—and had never been—a place which he could call home. There had been no expectations, he'd be very wrong. What would he have expected? Umdochar and Kedrik were the ruling Du Quams. They had never been a friend to the Rozkamoros.
His uncle, by sheer merit, happened to bypass this treatment. His service to the Order ran for almost three decades; Sinderzof was nowhere short on loyalty and humility—that was not to be overlooked.
But of Toruaz nearing his prime, he felt he has not achieved much in the eyes of the Order. No sufficient merits, nothing to wipe away the mistakes of his predecessors. It seemed that they would remain engraved in his tomb too someday, as well as for the next generation of Rozkamoros, and so on. It was a curse, only lifted by a Du Quam's hand.
Why was his family line declared as a threat to Urbedaur's national security?
What had they done?
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