T here was no sign of Zafira. Pez couldn’t understand why, for she had never been away when he had visited before, but as quickly as the surprise of her absence came, it left him, driven out by his shock that Lyana had spoken to him in his mind. At first he had thought he was imagining it but the sincerity of the beautiful voice and her obvious love and gratitude had been all too real. He had begun sobbing within moments of hearing her musical tone welcoming him and his emotions had grown only stronger when she had thanked him for the gift of his life.
Pez had hazy memories of childhood. He had blocked most of them out, but still—the echoes of torment and humiliation periodically called to him across time. He had learned at a very young age to act thick-skinned, to turn people’s taunts back on themselves, and to use humor to make people enjoy him rather than detest him. He recalled joining a traveling circus. It was passing through his town to make camp at the big city of Merent. He sighed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of Merent or his origins. The circus had paused in his village to water the animals at its fast-running stream and the performers had grabbed the opportunity to slake their own thirst at the local inn, glad to have the sudden and unexpected income. Pez had been an entertainer at the inn, singing bawdy songs, making up rhymes about the villages, and generally getting up to the tomfoolery that amused simple folk, especially those in their cups. He had been enchanted by the colorful, exotic people from the circus, and when the twins who shared a body walked through the inn door, arguing loudly with each other and silencing the patrons with their strangeness, he decided then and there that these circus folk were his soul mates. These were other people who were Mother Nature’s accidents—just like he was—and could understand and sympathize with his sense of dislocation from his family and their friends. Among the circus folk Pez believed he would no longer feel so different or unique and within the circus world he could hide himself—and his Lore—fully. He had been right; it had not been hard for him to melt into their numbers looking the way he did, and once the ringmaster saw him perform some acrobatics and juggle as expertly as he could, he was welcomed. Pez never did say good-bye to his family—he regretted that now—he had simply left the village in one of the many carriages that formed the circus caravan and never returned. Most of the circus people performed acts of great daring or trickery; his job was simply to make people laugh, and it wasn’t hard, considering his stature and looks.
Many years later, he had been part of a small breakaway group of the circus troupe who had set off on a roving journey through the less traveled but fabled lands of the Faranel to seek new acts, and it was there, in the Faranel, that he had been captured by slaver traders and brought to Percheron. Pez was not his true name. It was the name he had adopted for the circus and it had stuck. It suited him. He wanted no memories of what had come before the happiness and companionship of the troupe.
Life had been good ever since. He had enjoyed the royal patronage that gave him power through his freedom to roam every inch of the palace, insult whomever he chose, enjoy those he truly liked, without risk, as well as the safety such power afforded him—for no one dared touch the Zar’s cherished jester and companion. He could hardly complain—especially with such genuine friends as Zar Joreb, Spur Lazar, and more lately, Zar Boaz, but Pez had never been truly loved by anyone—not his family, not Joreb, and if he was truthful, not even Boaz. And yet, a few minutes ago, as he had sunk onto his knees, crying like a baby, a goddess had told him how much she loved him—un-conditionally and forever.
Pez walked as if in a trance to the top of the temple, past Zafira’s tiny living area, through another small trapdoor, and out onto the roof, where a warm wind blew in off the Faranel, causing the small flotilla of boats in the harbor to rock at their moorings. In spite of the warmth, he shivered. He was terrified.
Trust me, my old friend, Lyana had beseeched. And when he had tentatively explained that what she asked of him was very frightening, she had filled his body with the comfort of her soft tinkling laugh. We always have this conversation, Iridor. You are always fearful and yet we never let each other down. Trust me now as I trust you.
And so he trusted her now, ignoring the nagging fear as he looked out toward Beloch and Ezram, and beyond to Star Island. He was so unnerved by the height he felt dizzied, but despite being unsteady, he forced himself to undress on the rooftop to the sound of cooing doves. He did so carefully, taking the time to reestablish a fragile sense of peace—just enough, he hoped, to give him the courage to take the first step toward giving himself over completely to Lyana. Once he committed that first physical step on the rooftop, Pez knew there would be no going back. Unwrapping the linen from his hips, he laid it softly on the discarded jamoosh. His skin trembled slightly but he wasn’t sure whether it was from the caress of the warm wind or the terror of what he was about to do.
Pez took a deep, long, and slow breath. He had learned many years ago how to listen to the rhythm of his heart. He did that now, and as always, he found some measure of calm. He opened his eyes and looked down upon the rooftops of Percheron, its twinkling lights and gently moving harbor. He looked out finally to the Stone Palace, the only item of architecture that he had to look up to see. It had never looked more beautiful, glowing softly in its lantern light, high on its hill.
There was nothing more to do or think about, other than Lyana’s request. Summoning every last ounce of courage, he forced himself to move, and so, naked, Pez climbed onto the balustrade, disturbing a small flock of doves who flapped away. He balanced there, willing himself to find the courage. There was no longer any choice.
For me, Pez, she whispered into his mind, and he knew he could not ever let her down.
Pez, court jester to the Zar of Percheron, opened his short arms as if in supplication to the Goddess, took the deepest breath of his life, and then, like the doves before him, launched himself off the Sea Temple toward what felt like certain death.
He waited for the ground to meet him, imagined people gathering about his dying, mangled body, muttering to one another about the waste of life. But the ground never came; instead he became aware of a comforting sensation of buffeting warm air.
Pez opened his eyes and could feel nothing but elation as he saw the great white wings spread out on either side of him.
He was an owl. Silver white, majestic, beautiful. And he was flying.
Iridor had risen.