Chapter 17 Losham
LOSHAM
The morning sun was just beginning to warm the terrace as Losham settled into his usual chair, the cushions still cool from the night air. The jasmine in the garden was in full bloom, its sweet fragrance drifting on the gentle breeze, and for a moment he allowed himself to simply relax and breathe.
These quiet mornings were precious to him.
The days were filled with council meetings, damage reports, suspicious brothers, and the constant pressure of maintaining a fiction that grew more fragile with each passing hour.
But here, in the early light, with nothing but birdsong and the distant crash of waves, he could pretend that all was well in his world.
Rami appeared at the terrace door, carrying a silver tray with a steaming pot of coffee and a stack of newspapers, slightly rumpled from their journey.
"Your papers, sir," Rami said, setting the tray on the table beside Losham's chair.
"Thank you, Rami."
The newspapers were a couple of days old, as they always were.
Getting anything delivered to the island required routing through the Maldives, and the logistics meant that news arrived with a delay.
It didn't matter. The broad strokes of world events didn't change that quickly, and Losham had long ago learned to read between the lines, to see patterns and trends that the daily headlines obscured.
The internet was a marvelous tool, instantaneous, comprehensive, endlessly updated, but there was something irreplaceable about the feel of newsprint between his fingers.
Digital content couldn't replicate the tactile pleasure of unfolding a newspaper, of scanning the columns while sipping coffee, or of circling articles with a pen for later consideration.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, dark and strong, the way he preferred it, and picked up the first paper.
The Wall Street Journal. He scanned the front page, noting the movement of markets, the political maneuverings, the corporate acquisitions that might affect Brotherhood interests, but mostly his own investments.
Nothing urgent. Nothing required immediate action.
The Financial Times came next, then The Economist, then a selection of regional papers from Europe and Asia. Losham moved through them methodically, his mind cataloging information even as part of his attention remained focused on the phone sitting silent beside his cup.
They would call soon, Lokan and his clan handlers. The morning call, checking on the excavation progress, probing for information, maintaining their hold on him through that damnable compulsion.
It was nothing new. He was used to his father using the vile mind manipulation on him.
But being at the mercy of strangers was worse.
He hated the way his tongue loosened against his will, the way words spilled from his lips despite his best efforts to contain them.
He had spent centuries learning to manipulate his father's compulsion, finding loopholes and workarounds, saying true things in misleading ways.
But this new compeller knew what he was doing.
He was direct, precise, and didn't bother with being elegant like his father used to be.
The commands left less room for creative interpretation.
Still, Losham was nothing if not adaptable. He would find a way to use this situation to his advantage. He always did.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the phone buzzed against the table.
Losham glanced at the display, at the number he'd been compelled to always answer, and felt the familiar pressure in his mind, the irresistible pull that made his hand reach for the device before he'd consciously decided to do so.
"Good morning," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "Or good evening, I suppose, on your end."
"Good morning." The compeller's voice came through first, that resonant tone that seeped into his mind and took control. "Please report on the status of the excavation."
Well, at least he'd said please. That was more polite than he'd bothered to be the other times.
"We're still removing debris," Losham said. The words came easily because they were true, and the compulsion demanded truth. "The work is being done manually, with human workers, so progress is slow."
"Why aren't you using immortals?"
"I am, when there's no other choice. When heavy pieces need to be moved." Losham took a sip of his coffee, using the pause to gather his thoughts. "But I'm being careful, just as you instructed. The human workers are more delicate. They won't accidentally crush whatever is buried down there."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line—consultation, perhaps, between the compeller and whoever else was listening.
Then a different voice came through. Not Lokan, but the other one. The clan leader, Losham suspected, though no one had officially introduced themselves.
"How are things going with your brothers?"
"They are under control." That was technically true. The council was functioning, the brothers were cooperating, for now, and no one had yet demanded proof that Navuh was alive. "We are not singing 'Kumbaya,' but we are not killing each other either. Not yet."
"Is there anything we can do to help you stay in power?"
Losham nearly spat out his coffee.
He set the cup down carefully, buying himself a moment to think how to answer. The clan, the Brotherhood's sworn enemies, the ones who had killed his son, were offering to help him?
"Why would you do that?" The question escaped his lips before he could stop it. So much for maintaining a facade of indifference.
"Because you're better than the alternative."
Losham laughed. "Well, if you say so, then I must be."
"You are under our control," the leader said. "If one of your brothers takes your place, the situation becomes more complicated for us."
That was a reasonable argument. Honest, even.
It didn't matter that he was pursuing a personal vendetta unrelated to his father's hatred for the clan. They controlled him, and they didn't know whether they could control the others. Should he inform them that they might?
His brothers were simpletons compared to him. Compelling them would be even easier than compelling him.
"What do you want in return for your help?"
"You know what we want. The chests and what's in them. Intact and delivered to us."
"Delivering them will be a problem. My brothers are watching my every move. I'm not even sure I will be able to hide the chests and their contents from them."
That wasn't entirely true since Dave could help him do both by compelling his brothers, but Losham had no intention of making things easy for the clan or revealing what Dave could do.
The shaman might be a problem, though. He'd had contact with the Eight when they had transcended, but before they developed the ability to compel and thrall.
But the guy had visions, and he might see what Dave could do in those.
"We will monitor the situation closely. Let us know if you suspect that your brothers are a danger to the chests."
"What are you going to do? Storm the island?"
He knew the clan didn't have the manpower to do that. If they did, they would have already conquered the island a long time ago.
"We might create a diversion."
"What kind?"
The guy on the other side chuckled. "It will be a surprise."
"Of course," he said. "If that will be all for this morning, may I now speak to my brother?"
"I'm here," Lokan said. "And I have good news."
"What kind of news?"
"I found out who your mother is."
The world seemed to stop.
Losham was aware, distantly, of the birds still chirping, of the jasmine still perfuming the air, of Rami hovering near the terrace door. But all of it had faded to background noise.
His mother.
"I'm sending you a picture," Lokan continued. "Her name is Rolenna."
The phone buzzed in Losham's hand. A notification. An image waiting to be viewed.
He couldn't make himself look at it. Not yet. Not with Lokan still on the line, and not with the compeller and the leader still listening.
"How did you find out?" His voice came out steady, which was a small miracle.
"That's actually an interesting story. Several years ago, the clan captured one of our commanders, and he turned out to be a talented artist. That's something that the Brotherhood frowns on, so he never practiced his art while still part of it, but he's thriving in the clan.
He drew portraits of the Brotherhood's leadership, and we took the former concubines to see them.
Rolenna recognized you because of your resemblance to her.
" Lokan paused. "Also, she was the first to give Navuh a son, so that matched as well. "
Something about the way Lokan had said that didn't sound right, but Losham didn't want to examine it too closely. He knew his mother's name. And in a few moments, he would see her face.
"Could I talk to her?" The words slipped out without thinking.
"She asked the same thing, and I will tell you what I told her. Right now, it's not possible, but it might be in the future. It all depends on how closely we work together for the greater good."
Aha. So Lokan was using Rolenna as leverage.
Was she even truly his mother?
Lokan might have made this up to hold her over Losham.
"I need to go," he said abruptly. "We'll speak again tonight."
He didn't wait for a response before ending the call.
For a long moment, he sat with the phone clutched in his hand. Rami had made himself scarce, sensing that Losham needed privacy. The newspapers lay forgotten on the table, their headlines suddenly irrelevant.
After a long moment, Losham opened the image.
She was standing in what looked like a gallery, soft light illuminating her features.
The portrait beside her, his portrait, he realized with a jolt, showed the face he saw in the mirror every day.
The rendition was surprisingly accurate, even though the artist had used charcoal to draw it.
He was really talented, and the fact that the clan allowed him to pursue his calling was surprising.
How come they hadn't put him in stasis? Wasn't that what they did with most captured members of the Brotherhood?
Not Sharim, though. Sharim must have fought to the very end like any self-respecting member of the Brotherhood.
Losham was proud of his son despite the nasty rumors that had surrounded him. Sharim had been brilliant and an excellent strategist like his father.
Shaking his head, he returned his attention to Rolenna.
She had the same high cheekbones he did. The same slight tilt to her eyes. The same dark hair, though hers was wavy and artfully styled.
She was beautiful, with intelligent eyes, a determined jaw, and a mouth that seemed to be prone to smiling.
His mother.
Losham stared at the image for a long time, trying to reconcile this stranger with the mother of his imagination.
He and the female shared little resemblance other than the eyes.
Those eyes must have embedded themselves in his baby mind because he remembered them.
Had visualized a female with those eyes as his mother.
He tried to imagine meeting her. Facing this woman, who was his mother in biology if not in experience. Would they embrace? Would it feel natural or would they stand awkwardly apart, two strangers bound by blood but separated by circumstance?
Would he even know what to say to her?
The emotions roiling through him were unfamiliar, uncomfortable. Feelings were weaknesses, vulnerabilities that enemies could exploit.
He thought of Sharim. Of the adopted son he had groomed for greatness and lost. The clan had taken that from him. And now, through some cosmic irony, the clan was giving him something in return.
Not a replacement. Nothing could replace what he'd lost. But a real piece of himself that had been missing for over two thousand years.
Rolenna.
His mother.