by Aderyn Wood
She waved her hand at him and Ri move on. Heduanna returned her attention to the barbarian, studying him over the rim of her cup. She’d never seen a man so tall, or shoulders so broad. His arms were as thick as tree limbs. His high cheekbones and narrow nose so different to a Zraemian face. He’d smiled before, just briefly, and two crescents dimpled his cheeks, and Heduanna wished he’d smile again. His skin was the colour of milk, and flushed now and then with a bloom of pink, especially on his cheeks. He had wide lips made for kissing.
“Enjoying the view?” Hadanash interrupted her thoughts.
“It seems Phadite has answered my prayers, brother.”
Hadanash raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“They’ve sent me a toy.”
Hadanash leaned forward, intercepting her line of vision. His eyes slanted at her. “Be careful, sister. If your future husband hears of such lowly misdemeanors as to what you’ve in mind, his fury will awaken.” He lowered his chin. “And King Amar-Eshu has a temper like none I’ve seen. Worse than our grandfather-king used to be. Think on that.”
“You don’t frighten me, Had. Urul is a world away. How would he hear of such things?”
Hadanash squinted, then lifted his head toward the middle of the dining hall where Qisht was talking with a servant. “King Amar-Eshu receives regular news from Azzuri. I used to wonder how, but since I’ve been back the answer has become rather obvious.”
Heduanna sat up straight and glanced between Qisht and her brother, her mouth falling open. “You don’t mean,” she hissed. “He’s a spy?”
Hadanash put a finger to his lips. “Who else is better placed to relay information but a once-loyal servant of the Urulan palace, and a gift from the previous Urul king?”
Heduanna leaned closer to her brother. “But, he’s sleeping with Father.”
“Indeed. He must be intoxicated with all his power.” Hadanash’s eyes narrowed. “Have you heard how Grand Blessed Lipit died?”
“I assumed he simply died from old age.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone is saying, but I’ve heard he was found with a blue tongue.”
Heduanna’s eyebrows shot up. “Poison? But who would—”
“Shhhh.” Hadanash nodded his head Qisht’s way. “I’m sure he had somewhat to do with it, and I’m going to find out.”
“What are we going to do?” Heduanna asked, her mind was aflutter with panic. Qisht! Of course he’s a spy. Why hadn’t I seen this? Why hasn’t Phadite shown me?
“Nothing for now.” Hadanash was smiling, but then he pursed his lips together and said, “I’ve got some men I trust gathering information. When the time is ripe, we shall hatch a plan.”
Heduanna noted the determination burning in her brother’s amber eyes, and for the first time felt a kinship with him. He must hate Qisht as much as I.
The following morning after a night of godless dreams filled with love scenes involving a tall man with milky skin and long red braids, Heduanna sat on her settee with a woollen blanket pulled about her, scratching a new verse upon a tablet.
Mirat, the elderly servant who was her new handmaiden informed her Qisht had called, and Heduanna groaned inwardly. Aside from Qisht’s general capacity for causing irritation, she was not in the mood for lessons today. The notion of sitting down to study the politics and peoples of Urul was enough to make her want to fake a headache and return to her bed and to her dreams of the barbarian.
“Would you like me to send him away, Princess?” Mirat asked.
Heduanna shook her head. “No, send him in.”
To her surprise Qisht had not called to give her lessons, rather he’d come to summon her to her father’s office.
“What for?” Heduanna asked.
Qisht shrugged. A look of irritation creased his brow. “Your father is not in the mood to explain himself today. I am as a mere messenger it seems. You are to be in his chamber by the mid-morning bell.”
Heduanna smirked. Clearly her father had not included his lover in his all his confidences that morning. Perhaps his father suspected somewhat of Hadanash’s suggestion that Qisht was a spy. Good, it was about time her father awakened to the weasel.
As Qisht turn to sashay away, Heduanna remembered the conversation with her brother the night before. “One moment, Qisht.”
The head slave turned, a mild look of surprise on his face. “Yes, Princess?”
Heduanna focussed her attention on the tablet still in her hands as she spoke. “Is it true you were wagered by King Amar-Khamunah, and that is how you ended up here in the Azzurian palace?”
Qisht didn’t answer and Heduanna glanced up to see his eyes narrowed on her. “Why do you ask?”
“Can you answer the question?”
Qisht swallowed. The lump on his thin neck bobbed up then down. “It is true.”
“Why would he wager you?”
Qisht glanced around the room. “He didn’t think he would lose.”
“He didn’t know my father.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Perhaps you don’t know him either.”
Silence stretched out between them for a moment before Qisht bobbed his head and silently left Heduanna’s suite.
By the time Heduanna arrived to her father’s office, the others were already present. Arch Priestess Siduri now took on Lipit’s duties, and would do so until the next high priest was appointed. She sat on a chair to her father’s left. Another priest, so old he appeared a skeleton with flesh, Blessed Ralja, sat next to her, and the initiate Belanum next to him. Her uncles were all present, as well as her brother who laughed lazily with Uncle-general. Qisht, of course, was busy flouncing around and pouring everyone drinks.
Heduanna nodded to her father and kissed his ring, before taking her own seat next to her brother.
“Let us begin.” Her father cut through her uncles’ conversation. A slight frown marked a shadow on the king’s brow. “Naturally, I wish to discuss more of your expedition,” he said, looking at Hadanash. “And our guest.”
“Guest?” Uncle-general spoke. “That is indulgent. Slave would be more fitting.”
Father’s frown deepened as he slowly turned his full attention to his brother-general. “Were you,” Father spoke slowly, his voice even softer than usual. “Addressing your king?”
The room suddenly grew cold.
General Mutat blinked, and forced a tight smile. “I only—”
“Were you?”
Uncle-general bowed his head in forced deference. “Apologies, Exalted.”
The king’s chin lifted, just a touch and he eyed each of them in turn. “Did I not instruct this circle of leaders that any hostage taken from our friends over the Sea of Death was to be treated with utmost respect?”
Silence.
“Did I?” Father’s voice was quiet, but cutting, like a Reaping frost.
“Yes, Father-King. You did,” Hadanash answered. “But—”
“Then. Please explain to me how you managed to misinterpret such a clear command. How is it our guest has whip marks on his back and a near fatal wound upon his leg?”
“Father, it was—”
“Brother-general.” Father was intent on Mutat answering.
Uncle-general shrugged. “Look at him, Brother-king. He is a barbarian. You should have seen the way they live. They’re barely more sophisticated than animals. Good for nothing but slaves, as I’ve told you—”
“And your treatment of him?” Father cut in. “It is of such lofty sophistication? Nothing of the sort mere animals would dole out?”
Uncle-general looked to his brothers, but Heduanna’s other uncles remained silent, the table before them, monopolising their attention.
“Father,” Hadanash spoke. “Mutat has a point. We could use these people not as soldiers, but as slaves.”
Father employed his mask of neutrality as he faced his son.
“When I was a royal hostage,” Hadanash continued. “My time in Urul revealed how the
y do things differently there. They are bringing captives in from Tarzyshta in the thousands and trading them as slaves.”
Heduanna frowned. No. That can’t be true! She thought of Kisha’s warning. Had her friend be right all along?
“It’s a brilliant ploy.” Hadanash must have taken Father’s silence as encouragement for he sat forward on the edge of his chair, his eyes bright. “It is how they achieve so much. Their buildings, their farms. It’s how they are winning so many battles. In border battles, they send slave boys in with spears to fight until they die, then the real soldiers finish what the slave boys start.”
Father’s neutrality melted away. His jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened when he grasped his circle of knot beads. “Is this what my son, the heir-prince of Azzuri, recommends we do with these people? Ignore the goddess’s message and turn them to slaves? Send their children into battle for us?”
Hadanash’s expression changed as Father’s disapproval became clear.
“I will explain again. I only pray that you all heed it this time.” Father’s demeanor had returned to his usual calm. “Danael of Drakia is our guest. He is to be treated as a diplomatic hostage. He is, as I understand it, a kind of prince in his own land. We have exchanged him for a prince of our own. He is not to be humiliated or disrespected in any way.” Father’s gaze moved between Hadanash and his brother-general. “Is that clear?”
“Of course, Father,” Hadanash replied with tight teeth.
“Danael’s people will help us win Gedjon-Brak. We need him on our side. We need him to help convince his people to fight our war.”
“Father,” Hadanash was shaking his head. “The Great War is but a legend. A tale spun by priests and poets. We have one threat, one city, one king who can defeat us and force us to submission. Urul.” Hadanash was breathing hard. “If you would only see the sense in following through with the promise of Heduanna’s hand.”
“I agree with Hadanash, Brother-king.” Uncle-general spoke, his voice gruff and blunt. “The King will be so infatuated with the beauty of your daughter, his lust for Azzuri will vanish. And a mighty alliance will ensue. One like no other.”
Father pursed his lips. “You never did learn your history, did you, Brother-general? A mighty alliance like no other? Have you heard of Pryshan and Uralg. Kythal and Urk. What of Huneria and Yurt. All made mighty alliances, and all at each other’s throats in less than a generation from sealing their partnership with blood. No.” Father snapped his attention to the table. “We shall not descend down a similar path.” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, bringing the knot beads to his lips. “Tell me of Sargan,” he said quietly. “I trust you left him safe?”
Hedaunna also breathed deeply. Her stomach roiled every time she though of her little brother, left there without anyone to protect him.
Hadanash shrugged. “They had no interest in hurting him. Perhaps they’ll put him to work. He might finally gain some form.”
“He was treated well enough, Brother-exalted,” Uncle-admiral Dannu said.
Father nodded. “Very well. It is time I share some decisions with you. Firstly, Sargan will not enter the temple when he returns.”
“You’re serious about that?” Heduanna asked. “That will destroy him, Father. Joining the temple has been all he’s ever dreamed of.”
“Your daughter-princess speaks the truth,” Blessed Siduri said. “And we of the temple have been anticipating the return of Sargan, so that we may begin his training. Azzuri needs a new high priest, and he will be a providential choice. The goddess waits patiently.”
Father looked at Heduanna. “But who better to serve as high priest than Phadite’s own hand?”
Heduanna’s head whirled.
“I hereby announce,” Father continued. “My daughter, Princess Heduanna of Azzuri, shall enter the temple from this day forward to begin her training as Azzuri’s next High Priestess.”
Part XI
Black Eagle Mountain
Wynter
Rayna’s cavern
5,847 years ago…
Rayna
Rayna peered up from her cavern’s entrance into the night sky. The moon was just a slither now, thinner than a pine needle. Utter blackness stretched out before her, and only silence accompanied it. She returned inside, retrieved an oil pot and basket, and stepped outside once more.
Snow had fallen heavily since the last moon, and Rayna followed the tracks she’d made to the wood shelter, a dugout by the western side of the cavern where she’d collected her wynter store of firewood. She placed the oil pot down next to the basket and began filling it with wood. She’d need a lot if she was to stay warm. She had no notion of how long the task would take. Perhaps just this night, perhaps eight. She stood and examined her load. Snow was falling once again and it hissed when flakes touched the heat of the oil pot’s flame.
Rayna sniffed. “I’d best collect another after this lot.”
Her raven gently quorked in his spot atop the wood shelter.
“Aye,” Rayna replied. “It’s too cold for woman and raven alike, my friend.”
In the end Rayna made three trips and heaved three heavy loads of wood back to her cavern. She stoked her fire and filled a bowl with a larger portion of her stew than normal, then sat down to eat.
Rhast clung to his perch, watching.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Rayna said. “What choice do I have? I’ve no notion where the mountain-folk are and Mook is too far to reach by foot, or by wing.” She scooped another mouthful of stew, not taking her eye off Rhast. “And there’s no need to shake your beak, either. You think I want to go into trance with naught but a scruffy bird t’ watch over me? Not bloody likely!” One of the first lessons her grandmother had taught her, all those years ago – always have someone watch over you when you go into trance. Rayna shook her head. She’d done it before and survived. It wasn’t pleasant though. Her body had released her piss and shit, and she was a right mess when she woke. Dizzy and sick for days after. Death was a risk, but she had no choice.
Rhast gave a soft quork.
Rayna finished her bowl, rinsed it in the wash bucket and put it back on its rack. She then donned her feathery cloak for a final visit outside where she relieved her bladder. Back inside she shook her head to dislodge the snow, attended the fire once more and returned her cloak to the hook by the door.
Rhast stared.
“I’m ignoring you, just so you know,” Rayna said, and she went about preparing the last of her dragonshade. Only a small amount remained of this lot, so there was no need to slice any off. She simply popped it into a pot of water and set it on the fireplace. Soon the familiar scent of its bitterness filled the cavern.
Rhast cawed softly.
Rayna filled her cup and placed it on the table to cool while she finished preparations. She arranged her blankets on the floor by the fire. “That should do it.”
She stood by the table and held the warm cup in her hand and turned once again to face Rhast. “Watch over me, friend. If I stop breathing, give me a jab with that mighty beak of yours, and if that doesn’t wake me, be sure to let Mook know.” She gave Rhast a serious look. “By whatever means you can.”
Rhast quorked once more and did a side shuffle on his perch.
Rayna swallowed the dragonshade tincture in one mouthful, her face scrunching as the bitterness burned her throat. She poured a small cup of water to wash it down, then extinguished the two oil pots and reclined on the blankets, laying on her back with her arms to her side, the dragonshade buzzing in her limbs.
She calmed her breath, closed her eyes, and within heartbeats entered the trance. In her youth, achieving such a state would take half the day, but now she could summon it easily.
Her physical body no longer weighed her down as her consciousness floated out into the world, the Otherworld, and she began to search for the one she sought – Mook. She summoned a picture of him in her mind’s eye, and focused on particula
r memories, his physical attributes, the way he talked, and his essence – that eternal, unseen part every soul housed deep within its existence.
Shadows and light flitted past as Rayna flew throughout the Otherworld, searching, seeking. A light, strong and shapely, grew clearer in the distance and Rayna moved toward it. A form moulded before her, its essence familiar. Someone heeded her.
Mook? She took a chance and called through the Otherworld.
Not him. A reply came and panic wavered her vision. Who then? Friend or foe? She calmed herself and the focus grew clearer. Abstract images morphed into familiar objects. Trees, rock, sky. Ahead, in a forest clearing, stood a man with skin dark and mottled, his eyes wide like an owl’s.
Rayna. At last, I’ve found you.
Part XII
Azzuri
Winter
Eighth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign
5,847 years ago…
Danael
“We use swords?” Danael asked Alangar who was busy tying Danael’s leather wristbands. Over the last two moons his understanding of the Zraemian tongue had improved in giant leaps. Frustration had provided him with ample motivation to learn.
They stood with the other members of their warband in the dimly lit nook of the armoury beneath the combat ring, which stood in the very centre of the barracks. Azzuri needed an entrire section of the city to house and train the soldiers that made up their army. It was another strange new concept Danael still grappled to comprehend – how a city could afford to have men dedicate themselves to one discipline. The soldiers in the army didn’t farm, or help build the galleys, or city homes. They focused on one discipline alone: fighting.
Alangar looked at him before glancing at the others. “Yes, and not the wooden swords either. The khopesh is our general’s choice. There’ll be blood in the ring today.”
