Rysaran picks up his tea and tries to drink it, but it has gotten cold. He glances around the emptiness, and not for the first time, finds it more oppressive than tranquil. The sudden departure of company does that to him, of late. It did not use to bother him so much.
He calls a servant to clean up after him, and then, because he cannot find the head priestesses to thank her for her time, makes the long walk through the gardens back to the palace.
It still all feels like a dream. Like a nightmare that continues to feed off him, even after he has opened his eyes and feels sunlight on his skin.
It is not that Dai hasn’t had nightmares before—indeed, ever since he has escaped those men in Gaspar, the nightmares have been a part of his life. But the months (he has learned, since, that he was gone that long) he spent on the other side have sapped him of all strength. There, his whole body was light and free. Here, lifting a finger feels like trying to move a rock. Even the whole process of breathing feels like a chore.
Narani warns him it is an after-effect of his time spent soaked in the agan stream. She tells him stories from her husband, of mages and witches who allow themselves to become addicted to the feeling and never come home. Or they do, and become entirely changed—beasts, sometimes, their souls corrupted by the inexplicable. There is a land called Herey in the far east, for example, plagued by these things.
He does not like to listen to her. She is old and he does not know exactly how she has come to enter their lives. No, he does. She was a healer in a little hamlet. But he does not know the name of the place; he was there for only a short time.
He cringes, struggling at the intrusion. Every time it happens, he feels like he is taking a plunge into an icy lake. Sharp sensations strike every part of him, every limb and extremity, and he feels almost as dead as the boy who insists Dai’s body is his.
Myar, he calls himself. When it happens, Dai feels himself floating. The old man has tethered him to the area so that now, should Myar so choose, he finds himself being pushed aside and forced to watch the other boy take over—to hear the words he is not speaking coming out of his mouth, and understand thoughts he is not thinking. He is not allowed to wander as he has done these months past. It upsets his family, it seems.
His family. It has grown while he was away. Sister Sume has a child, he thinks, with Kefier, who took care of him in their time in Gaspar. A little, squalling girl-baby, not much to look at, brown-skinned and wrinkly all over. He dislikes the sound she makes in the middle of the night, waking everybody up.
In his family, there are seven children, and he is the second oldest. Babies are the most wonderful thing on earth, and Kirosha is so precious, like his youngest sister had been…
He feels a deep, lasting sadness before the thoughts recede and he feels warm again. Alive. He walks outside. He sees Narani feeding the neighbour’s chickens.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. She walks as if her back pains her, one hand on her hip at all times.
He shrugs. “It is too hot,” he says. He clambers over a wooden bench. “Where is Sister Sume?”
“She woke up early with the baby and went to find work. The baby is old enough to lie in a basket while she tends to laundry, or whatever she can find.”
Ah, this. He remembers this. On the other side, there was no need for money or food. He does not understand why Myar wants so badly to return.
“You are being idle,” Narani says, watching him. “You don’t get to my age by sitting around doing nothing. Go. Find some friends. Move your legs a little.”
“Kefier went to work, too?”
“Perhaps if you’re feeling up to it, you can find him at that cabinet shop and get them to hire you to mop the place up. Could be an apprenticeship for you, someday.”
“I don’t want to work in a cabinet shop.” He hears the rap, rap, rap of boots on the packed dirt, and sees several soldiers marching towards them.
“We are seeking Sume alon gar Kaggawa,” the tallest one says. “This is her place of residence?”
Narani makes a small sound in the back of her throat and approaches them. “She went to the market. What’s this about?”
The soldier hands her a sealed letter and proclaims it is from the Dragonlord, Prince Rysaran. Dai looks up and feels that icy tug again, and then he is floating there, watching as his body steps towards Narani with eyes wide open.
“My father used to get summons from the king a lot,” Myar says. Narani notes the change in his voice, if her expression is anything to go by, but she doesn’t comment. “We used to hold bets on what the envelopes would hold.”
“What king is this, lad?” the soldier asks.
“The king of shadows and rainbows,” Narani comments. “The boy is addled.”
“Right,” the soldier murmurs. “I’d heard about that.”
Myar shakes his head. “No, I’m perfectly—”
“Be silent,” Narani barks.
Dai closes his eyes—easier said than done, out here—but he manages some semblance of peace. All-too-soon, Myar decides he’s had enough of the place, and Dai wakes up in their room with no recollection of how he got there. He looks up, watching the house lizards chase each other in a circle on the ceiling, and sighs, his breath rattling his bones. Life already feels so exhausting, and he is only ten years old.
“Why don’t you go for a walk, Prefect Daro?” the serving man asks, opening the shutters. A crack of mottled sunlight seeps through.
As’ondaro shrugs. “Will it be allowed?”
“I don’t see why not. Your master—”
“The ambassador is not my master.”
The serving man cocks his head to the side. “Does he not hold power over you?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Tell you where to go, what to do with your time? Can he not get you executed should you overstep your bounds, choose what manner of death you will have before you face your God?”
He looks at the man. “You are unusually outspoken for a Gasparian servant,” he says, at length.
The man smiles at him. “My master lets me.”
“Good for you. The ambassador is an important man, to be sure, but my master he is not. I am tasked to ensure his stay in Gaspar is safe and uneventful. I take my orders from my senior officer, but he is not my master, either. These are all—jobs we hold, not who we are.”
“Truly?” The servant does not seem convinced. “Perhaps you should go for a walk, then, Prefect. I saw some of your men in the tavern just outside the palace. A fine enough place, I am told, for men of our stature. But do not order the stew. I am told the meat comes from…questionable…sources.”
Daro watches him take his linens and leave and decides, at that point, that the man is probably right. He was concerned that Gasparian hostility still existed for Dageians, but if his men are handling that tavern without incident, then times, indeed, must have come so far. Joining them might not be a bad idea—it has been months since he’s had a proper drink, and a dice game or two besides. He shrugs into a neat shirt and closes the door behind him. One of his soldiers, still on duty, salutes him as he walks out, and he responds in kind.
Out in the hall, leading to the dignitaries’ suite, he sees who has volunteered for patrol. He is not surprised; she is always the first to do the hard things, first to make sacrifices or run into battle, or stay behind when no one else would. It is hard to watch, sometimes.
Officer Amiren stands there in silence with a sort of beauty that both belonged in a uniform and yet did not. He is still trying to work his way round that thought when she notices him. She holds her hand up and then salutes as an afterthought. Another would have berated her for it, but he dare not risk it. “Everything quiet?” he asks.
She coughs. “The ambassador is—entertaining, as of this moment. We have posted two guards inside and another out.”
“Unconventional, but I’ll take it. The last thing we want is the man murdered by a dung-town whore on our watch.�
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“I am told she comes from a most reputable establishment. A noble-class whorehouse, as it were.”
How she can say those words with such a straight face amuses him. He sees the men smirk behind her and finds his own face cracking. “Such things exist?”
“I am told. But if I may speak freely, Prefect?”
“If I say no, will you listen?”
She ignores him. “She did not sound very classy to me.”
He snorts. “Well, the ambassador’s tastes are hardly our concern now. Carry on.” He waves her off and begins to walk. He has not taken two, maybe three steps, when she clears her throat.
“If I may be so bold to ask, Prefect…”
“Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“The tavern right outside the walls. Some of the others are there, I believe. Is there a problem?”
Her face remains impassive, but he can read her eyes. They light up like torches. It is just as well that the rest of the soldiers had proceeded with their patrol, because he does not know how they might take it, seeing him like this. “It’s just that you’re a senior prefect of a Dageian cohort. To be seen out in public like this…”
“I didn’t think we’ve had trouble so far.”
“So far.”
He stares at her for a moment, and then curses. “By Dorsin’s flaming beard, you’re right, of course. You’re always right, curse you.”
“I am not saying you don’t enjoy your day off, Prefect. I suggest a nice stroll out on the courtyard. They have fantastic hanging roses, as I recall, and I think I saw some butterflies…”
He does not like butterflies, but he finds himself in the courtyard, anyway. The roses are fantastic—he makes a mental note to check in with the gardener before they leave, maybe bring home a few pots to plant in his terrace. His feet take him beyond that, to the kennels, and he spends the rest of the hour conversing with the kennel-master about the proper way to condition hounds for a hunt.
He hears the trumpets, announcing another arrival—another pampered noble, no doubt, hoping an audience with the Holy King. He snorts. Good luck with that; they were there three weeks before they could set up a meeting, and that took all but thirty minutes of the king’s time. As irritating as Dageian politics are—so much paperwork, for instance—they are nothing compared to Gaspar’s. Here in Gaspar, there is no rhyme or reason. Gasparians seem to make everything up on the spot.
She, of course, will scoff at that. She has it all figured out. Not that she will ever tell him. “I got it all taken care of, Prefect. Just sign here.”
One of these days, he’ll sign over his own head and he would be none-the-wiser. He goes out to check on the new arrivals, anyway. The heat is becoming unbearable, and there is little else to do on a lazy afternoon such as this.
The servants’ gossip indicate they come from Southern Gaspar—a good month’s journey, at least. Retinue of a k’an from some minor province. The woman, veiled in brown with gold lacing (marking her as married, if he’d been paying attention to Mahe’s ramblings), is apparently this k’an’s daughter. The man, her husband, is not Gasparian. This sparks Daro’s interest. They say he is a rich merchant from the distant lands of the Kag.
The horse, now, is magnificent. All white and a mane shimmering with golden threads. Even the mages back home cannot conjure a beast half as lovely. The merchant presents her to the palace representatives and they seem to agree with Daro on the horse’s worth. They send her to the stables and slate a meeting with the king that very night.
That very night. Over a horse. So Dorsin help him! Over a bloody horse!
As it turns out, his anger is unfounded. The K’an ono K’an’s meeting with the newcomers included the Dageian ambassador as an afterthought. Just as well that they’d all had their rest, because he decides to return to work early and join his men to keep watch. They are given space to stand guard right outside the hall, about a spear’s-length away from where the ambassador is sitting. The king speaks with him a bit more about Dageian-Gasparian affairs, which is a good thing: it means they are that much closer to going home. The roses, Daro thinks; he mustn’t forget to ask the gardener about the roses. They would look nice in his apartment.
He is so engrossed in his own thoughts that he does not hear the scream when it comes. It is Mahe who rushes first. Her movement jolts him awake, and then he is grabbing his own sword, running for the ambassador. A spear’s-length is suddenly too far. He finds a blade at his throat, stopping him in his tracks. A hand pushes at his shoulder and shoves him to the ground.
He looks up and sees the king sprawled on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth. Even from as far as where Daro is standing, he knows he is dead. The Kag merchant, the Lord of Barun’s son-in-law, is on the ground, held by half a dozen guards. They are screaming, accusing him of murdering the king. The Kag merchant is not resisting, though he looks confused, all the colour drained from his face. Beside him, the Dageian ambassador is also in chains, head bleeding. Daro is not quite sure what is happening, but he realizes with a cold feeling of dread that they are all in trouble and that he is not about to come home for a very long time.
He stands there, frozen, knowing it is too late to do anything. He drops his sword as the soldiers run to him and holds his hands up. His one thought is that the Holy King’s blood is the same colour as his roses. Remarkably so.
Outside, the rain falls with all the water in the world, or so it seems as the man sits by the window with the infant in his arms. It does not bother her. She hovers between wakefulness and dream, her breath on his chest. The man looks down at her, cup of milk in hand, and she thinks he is thinking about eternity and this reality that did not exist before she came into his life. He is thinking he could tear the world apart just to keep this moment alive.
She yawns. He bends down and presses his thumb along her forehead. She smiles at him before falling into a deeper sleep, confident in the knowledge that at this moment, beyond all her expectations, she is loved.
ACT TWO
The King is dead! The king! A cup of poisoned wine at the Holy King’s lips!
-Heralds at the eve of King Zilfikar’s assassination
Keeping await over that threshold of love like a sin
Watching the window let the muted starlight in,
I sing of my love for you and a hundred other things.
I sing, oh I sing,
Of my love for you and a hundred other things.
-The Ballad of Aenith, Meranius’s Song, by Ermine Ranochi
Chapter One
The autumn skies were grey, filled with thick, ropey clouds that threatened to break into rain at any moment. A hint of rumble in the distance warned Kefier that he needed to walk faster. Sakku’s shrine, with its single lantern, looked like a bead of light at the top of the hill.
Kefier had never considered himself religious before, but Sakku of the Seas was the patron Goddess of Akki, and if anyone was going to care for Kirosha’s health, it would be her. He had built up the habit of stopping by the shrine every day since Kirosha fell ill from the break bone fever nearly three years ago. It helped that it was right on the road from the blacksmith’s. It also helped that the statue of Sakku—a robed, female figure, holding a net in one hand—was easy on the eyes. Other Jin-Sayeng figures, like the often cross-eyed Omionoru, the War God, and the Goddess Aniuha with the snakes leaping out of her chest, were not so lucky.
When he was done, he bowed to the figure of Sakku and stepped out of the shrine, dropping two coins in the offering bowl. He gave another to the beggar waiting for him along the road. The old woman blessed him, toothless mouth agape, and told him what she planned to buy with the coin for lunch. On most days, he left the smithy right before evening prayers, but the smith had taken ill and closed shop early.
He watched the beggar hobble down the road before deciding she had it right. Instead of waiting for a boat, he followed the fork to Lake’s-road, winding around the
lake to the eastern fringes of the southern city. A baker famous for making meat buns, so soft they melted in your mouth, had set up shop at the end of the bridge. He bought several—diced pork with salted egg, chicken, sausage, and cabbage—and then continued down the road to a village behind the stables.
Kirosha was waiting for him by the pond. That surprised him—he had not sent word ahead, and there was no way for her to know he was coming home early. She was sitting on a rock with her small hands on the balls of her knees, her hair a tangled mess across her shoulders. The puppy—they called it Opi, after a famous rat from a Xiaran story—was stretched out beside her, chewing on a leaf. At the sight of him, it wiggled furiously, but it remained rooted to the spot.
Kirosha glanced up. “Welcome,” she said.
“That’s how you greet your old man now?”
“Can’t move. There’s a fairy over there. She’ll see me.”
He glanced at the patch of flowers growing along the fence. “And this fairy…she, err, can’t hear?”
She looked at him like he was stupid, an expression she had somehow inherited from her mother. “She can only understand fairy talk.”
“Won’t she think it’s strange you’re looking at her instead of me?”
She sighed and got up to peck him on the cheek.
“Look what I got you. Just make sure you leave some for Dai. Where’s old Narani?”
“Upstairs. Someone with a bad leg came to see her. The fairy’s gone, now.”
“I’m sorry. Eat the buns while they’re hot.”
“It’s all right. She’ll be back.” She reached out, grabbed his hand, and tugged at his arm. Smiling, he allowed her to lead him back into the house.
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