The Osnan’s ships did heavy fightings with Iceland, the mountain island, many months. Everyday news arrived, in all houses of Libiya they discussed the war with the infidels. The northern soldiers battled furiously, diversionary, having completely trampled on the concepts of an honest fight.
Women asked husbands: whether the war will come to an end soon? Whether children should be at the war?
Amelik and Iskander sat in the yard and had tea when to the yard drove the servant who came back from the city.
“Victory, master! Today they signed the contract. Hevding gave up Hovn. The others, they say, also began to give up, Hevding had an authority …”
“These are gossip or facts? From where you learned it?” Amelik asked mistrustfully.
“You brought good news,” Iskander tapped the servant’s shoulder.
“Thanks, master.”
“Hey?” Amelik threw up an eyebrow, “Whom do I talk to?”
“Sorry, your grace … I heard it from Ulikh, he serves in the palace of the sultan,” the servant bowed.
“All right,” Amelik made a sweeping out gesture.
“Have a rest, for the news, tell to give out to you seven gold coins, and you’ll be fed,” Iskander told.
The servant went away, bowing, and thanking. Amelik threw up an eyebrow. Iskander, despite severity, was too kind for poor people and servants. Perhaps because they’d helped him to arrive home from the northern countries.
“It’s good news if he doesn't lie,” Amelik told the friend, “And why would Hevding give up Hovn?”
“Probably, the sultan offered him something very favorable.”
Amelik grinned.
“After all, northerners are idiots.”
“No, Amelik, northerners are not idiots. It’s just they fight against the disgrace of nature more time and therefore they less think of philosophy. But they are able to survive better than we, I think, sultan offered them something really favorable.”
“Osnan couldn't offer them the contract of freedom. Anyway, they will submit to the sultanate.”
“Osnan hopes to find gold in their mountains.”
“Gold … if it’s all so, we should wait for a call to the palace, to receive the lands.”
Eyshan went to the yard.
“Iskander, is it true? We won?”
“Yes, but it’s unofficial awhile.”
The woman rushed to the husband in embraces though she was afraid of he’d push her away.
That day many servants brought this news to their owners, children rushed down the street screaming about the victory. Only Enefrey was sitting on a balcony and somehow thoughtfully, drearily was staring into the far. The great-grandmother was sitting near him and talking something.
Iskander rose to them. Enefeya was singing something in the northern language. The boy turned back on the father, Iskander nodded to him to go out. Enefrey slid out of the balcony.
“He’s madkhamin* , grandmother. No need to complicate his life.”
“He has to know the history of all his bloods,” the grandma told proudly.
“Tell then stories to both. You won't divide my sons.”
“Jallal grew up, he’s not interested in listening to old fairy tales. Frey will grow also. Then I will become silent forever.”
“To both or nobody,” Iskander persistently repeated, having become angry with the manner of the grandma which had become, it seemed, constant to call his son Frey.
Enefeya turned away to the street. Iskander left the balcony. The boy threw up blue eyes on the father. The man got down on the floor in front of the son. Enefrey got down too, bending the long legs.
“Listen to me, my boy, blond hair, blue eyes, knowledge of language and the fairy tales of the grandmother Enefeya won't make you a northerner. To be one, it’s necessary to be born in that country and from those parents, to absorb with mother's milk their history and habits. Grandmother Enefeya says that you’re special because by Odin's will the blood of her ancestors is strong in you. But in Jallal the blood of her ancestors also flows and if look at him more attentively, then you’ll see that the movements, the habit, and the manner to behave of Jallal is similar to the classy manners of the Celtic nobility.”
Iskander became silent for a while, giving to Enefrey the chance to object and, without having heard the objections, continued.
“Neither larabavian** , nor Celtic, nor Mauritian blood can be better than another. It’s always the same, scarlet.”
Iskander pulled out a dagger and made a small section on his palm, showed it to Enefrey. The boy stretched his palm to the father, the man made a less deep cut on the son's palm. On the milk-white skin blood appeared, the boy pressed the wound to the wound of the father.
“Do you doubt that I am your father?” for an instant a possible guess struck Iskander.
“No,” softly, straight the boy answered.
“Jallal knows Odin's language?”
“Not much, to him it’s uninteresting.”
Iskander sighed, it was so most likely, as he was too restless.
The man attracted to himself Enefrey.
“I love you.”
“And I love you, father,” softly told the boy.
Iskander released the boy, at first he wanted to force him to go to play with Jallal and his friends but decided that violence was always a mistake.
Enefrey returned on a balcony.
“Returned?” warmly asked Enefeya in Celtic, “So what was there next?”
“That the warrior resembled me,” – on clean Celtic the boy answered to the great-grandmother.
“Yes, and so, the warrior Frey was a descendant of god and an elfin princess, he was a brave, handsome warrior…” — started singing Enefey the next story.
Iskander quietly swore, asking Elokh for patience.
*A follower of the religion itwat, named after the prophet Madkham.
**A Southern nation. The characters on the South are people of this nation.
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