by Aderyn Wood
Danael continued to scan the milling crowd for his father, but there remained no sign of the khanax.
“Khanal,” a voice boomed and a group armed with swords approached. It was Jathor, limping as he lead a group of youths on the cusp of adulthood.
“Jathor,” Danael responded with a smile. “Are you the war leader now?”
“I am at that. I’ve organised our warriors since the Halkans surrendered.”
Danael crooked an eyebrow. “Surrendered? Jathor, for Prijna’s sake will you tell me what’s happened?”
“Much and more. We wouldn’t have believed it if we didn’t see it with our own eyes. She came in the night, and brought a huge firebeast. A firebeast! I know you won’t believe us.”
“You mean Yana.”
Jathor’s eyes narrowed. “You know?”
“She was responsible for wining the war in Zraemia too. Turns out, it was her all along the Zraemians needed to fight their war. So she dealt with the Halkan threat here? What about the rest of Drakia?”
“All gone, she’s delivered us from our bondage.”
“They enslaved you?”
“Aye, every last one of us.” Jathor turned his head to spit on the ground. “She’s on her way.”
Danael frowned. “On her way?”
Jathor turned and pointed up and to the north. Danael followed his line of sight and his eyes widened. There at the top of the highest mountain peak a flame burned bright and sharp agains the blue sky. A black plume of smoke formed a clear line that slanted sideways with the breeze. “The beacon is working.”
“Aye, the queen told us to light it when you arrived. She’ll be here soon.”
“Queen? That’s a Zraemian word.”
Jathor shrugged. “It’s a Drakian word too now. It’s what we call her, Queen Yana, protector of Drakia.”
Danael shook his head in wonder. “And my father?”
Jathor’s eyes shifted nervously. “I’ll take you to see him directly.”
A small rondhus opposite the escarpment proved to be the place Danael’s father was held. He’d lost his status as the clan’s khanax when his treachery had been revealed, Jathor told him as he led Danael down the muddy lane. The news sickened him. His father, with Sidmon’s help had welcomed the Halkans with open arms the very moment Danael had left with the Zraemians.
Outside the rondhus, two young women stood to attention with their spears, both part of Jathor’s team of warriors. Their job was to guard the ‘prisoner’. Danael swallowed a bitter lump as he entered the dark interior where two more young guards stood. Jathor dismissed them and left Danael to face his father alone.
Krasto sat in a chair and gestured for Danael to sit opposite.
Danael ignored the gesture and assessed his father with a long stare instead. He’d aged. Wrinkles and grey hair dominated now.
“It’s good to see you, Danael.” His father’s gruff voice was exactly the same and it made Danael’s conflicting emotions fight all the more.
“I have one question for you, old man,” Danael said finally. “Did you kill her?”
His father returned his stare with green eyes that spoke of sadness and regret. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I had to if I was to gain the rule of the clan.”
Danael felt sick with anger and grief. His father’s treachery was one thing, but murdering his mother quite another. He turned his back. He couldn’t bear to look at his father any more.
“Ruling the clan was so important to you that you’d kill your own wife.”
“I had to. It was the only way to stop the deaths.”
Danael spun to face his father again. “That’s nothing but goat dung. You wanted the power all to yourself. If only to teach those who had sneered at you a lesson when you had the control. I remember the resentment you bore toward Rayna. I’m sure there were others who faced your vile rancour. Petar comes to mind.”
His father’s lip slanted down and his green eyes burned with hatred. “I’ll not regret killing him.”
Danael shook his head slowly. Petar was outspoken, and sometimes too rash in battle, but he was a good man. Danael suddenly remembered the night raid when he’d discovered the small camp of Halkans and the tall stranger with horns. He was what Yana called a magi – a powerful magic user who had manipulated everything Jathor had told him. Danael returned his father’s snarl. “How long were you in league with them? The Halkans? Do you remember the raid led by Petar in Uthalia? I saw something strange that night – a silver chalice belonging to our clan. How did such a thing come into our enemy’s hands?”
His father looked shamefaced for once and he turned his gaze to his hands. “They wanted Drakian silver. I gave it to them.”
Danael’s nostrils flared as renewed anger shot through his veins.
“I wanted to appease them. To stop the bloodshed.”
“How many times did you meet with our enemy behind my mother’s back?” Danael bared his teeth as he spoke. “What secret deals did you make to elevate your own position?”
“Danael—”
“I don’t want to hear it. You make me sick.” Danael strode out of the rondhus and into the welcome sunshine. The smell of roasting meat and the sound of singing wafted to him and helped to dispel the fury that bubbled in his blood, and he walked to the village circle once more.
Midway through the feast, a screech echoed through the village and off the mountaintops. It was a sound vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he noted the smiles of the villagers that Danael realised what it meant.
He stood and walked with everyone else and cocked his head to scan the sky. Above them circled the firebeast. It screeched again and a cheer went up from fellow Drakians.
The dragon landed in the village circle, and created a wind that sent the flames of the braziers sideways, and a flush of leaves spiraled down from the old oak. It was the closest he’d been to the firebeast that he’d only spied from the river in Zraemia. He took a moment to gaze at it in wonder. Its black scales shone in the sunshine and Danael couldn’t be sure if it were truly black, or if each scale weren’t streaked with blue, like a raven’s feather. Its eyes were all blue fire though, and its unpredictable nature seemed to resound in them.
A movement caught his eye, and Danael realised someone had been riding the dragon. A young woman, with black hair tied back, wearing a black suit that also glimmered blue in the afternoon sunshine. She descended from the dragon’s back and a cheer went up.
“Welcome back, Queen Yana!” someone cried.
Danael stared. “Yana,” he whispered.
She drew closer and Danael could see this young woman was indeed Yana. Her hair so long, so dark, as were her eyes, and they contrasted sharply on her pale skin. Her arms were bare and he noted the vest and breeches she wore were made of a series of scales, black and blue, just like the dragon.
“Well met, Danael,” she said in perfect Drakian. She no longer had that awkwardness about her that had clung to her so as a lass.
He nodded. “I understand you are a queen now.”
She smiled. “In truth, I’m a Sage.”
“Sage?”
“It’s a word of the mountain speech, but queen comes close enough.”
“So you rule Drakia?” he asked.
Yana glanced at the growing crowd that formed around them. “I do. Though it be their choice.”
Danael gave her a questioning look.
“They held a Great Choosing, and every last Drakian voted for me as their leader, their protector. They asked me what the Zraemian word for leader was, and I told them.” Yana shrugged. “That is why they call me queen.”
“And what do you command of us now, my queen?”
Yana looked around her and took a deep breath. “I rule that Khanal Danael of Estr Varg be crowned Khanax, to rule over and protect Estr Varg until the end of his days, long may that be. Who says aye?” She looked to the crowd and a mighty roar emanated over the village and into the bay as every Drakian yel
led “aye” eight times over.
Yana gestured to Jathor who brought the whale bone crown and Yana placed it upon Danael’s head. “May your rule be just and true,” she said, smiling.
The crowd cheered, and tears formed in Danael’s eyes.
That night, the feasting and drinking continued until well after midnight. Zraemian and Drakian soldiers set up camp along the escarpment, just as King Amar-Sin had done once before.
Danael was pleasantly drunk. His Zraemian friends had congratulated him, as had his Drakian fellows. Ilyag had kissed him long and hard on the mouth and he knew he would find her in his furs later. He’d a mind to make the arrangement a permanent one just as his mother had once planned. She was a khanalla after all, a good match for a new young Khanax, and she was someone he trusted. A pang of regret and the raw pain of lost love threatened to flood his mind with a sudden memory of Heduanna, but he pushed it down with a long swig of ale. He'd grown weary of grieving.
“Khanax.” The word already felt familiar and Danael found himself turning his head to the speaker. It was Yana, she stood in the shadows and beckoned him over. “Walk with me,” she said.
They walked the ramparts and looked frequently over the sea toward the south. Yana explained in more detail what had happened and how she’d found the Halkans in rule when she’d returned after the Great War. It sickened Danael to hear, once again, how they’d enslaved the Drakians, making them hus-thralls and worse. And his father’s role in it with Sidmon had made him the sickest of all.
“It’s not entirely your father’s fault,” Yana said. “He was influenced by Sidmon, and another called a Ravnak.”
“You mean the magi? Jathor told me. He sounds similar to the ichorseer in Zraemia.”
“They were both working together. I had to defeat them to destroy their hold over the Halkans, and to claim back our isles.”
“I saw the magi once. He was a tall, menacing man with horns?”
She nodded. “They are a race called the Ravnak.”
“Are they still a danger to us? Are they still in league with the Halkans?”
Yana pursed her lips. “It is what I must work to ensure – that they are kept at bay.”
Danael frowned. “How does this new structure work exactly? I’m the khanax, but you’re the queen.”
“My main role is to ensure the Ravnak never gain an upper hand again. Neither here, nor in Zraemia.”
“Are you saying they were influential there too?”
Yana nodded. “You remember the ichorseer then.”
A shiver sprung up Danael’s spine like a squirrel up a tree trunk. “I do.”
“The Ravnak were working through him. They intended to dominate Zraemia as well as Drakia.”
“How will you do it?” Danael asked. “How will you deal with the Ravnak threat?”
Yana lifted her chin. “I need to find more people like me, and my grandmother, and the desert seer Zamug, and even people like Sidmon. People with the gift who we can teach properly to help prevent such dangers as the Ravnak in the future.”
“And people like Heduanna.”
Yana placed a hand on Danael’s arm. Her touch was surprisingly warm in the cold night air. “I’m sorry about Heduanna. If it wasn’t for her we would have lost in Zraemia. I wish more could have been done for her.”
“As do I.”
They walked in silence for a few moments before Danael paused and stood to face her once more. “You’ve come quite a long way from being a humble duck herder.”
Yana gave him a smile. “Yes, though I already have my own flock in Kania Isht.”
Danael raised an eyebrow. “Is that where you reside now?”
“It’s where Argath has settled. And so it must be my new home too.”
“He’s quite a force that firebeast of yours.”
“He is that. And he’s necessary for the battles to come.” Yana glanced away. “I will leave you now, Khanax.”
Danael gave her a grin. “That term doesn’t feel so strange, you know.”
“Because you are the rightful leader.”
Danael thought of King Amar-Sin and Sargan. “I hope so. Speaking of rightful leaders, Sargan – King Omar, I mean – he asked me to pass on his greetings. He misses you, I think.”
Yana gave a wistful smile. “I will see him again. Though when I do, everything will be different.”
“Everything's different now.”
Yana touched his arm again. “I will return to you in good time, but if you ever have need of me just light the beacon and I will come.” Yana turned and walked back along the rampart. Danael watched her go before casting his gaze over the village. Things had quieted now as most people retired to their furs. His looked to the last rondhus on the corner. Danael sighed and forced his feet onward.
A red streak bloomed on the horizon, but mist draped the sky as it had the dawn before. Danael watched as the three figures approached. His father’s form, tall and lumbering, set his stomach to clench once more.
Finally, the guards paused in front of him and Danael forced himself to meet his father’s gaze.
“You’re Khanax now,” his father said with bitterness. “Perhaps you’ll finally know the sharp edge of rule. It’s not easy. You’ll make mistakes too.”
“I’ll never kill the mother of my children, no matter the reason.”
His father squinted. “You say that now. You never know what the future brings.”
“I know what it brings for you.” He gestured to the fishing skiff. “Get out of my sight. You’re banished.” He took three steps before the shakey voice of his father made him pause.
“Danael. Son—”
“Don’t call me that,” Danael rasped, his throat constricting. “I’m no longer your son.” He nodded to the guards who began helping Krasto onto the skiff.
“Danael, please, don’t do this!”
Danael scrunched his eyes shut, and thumped his fists into his legs as he continued walking along the jetty.
“Danael! I’m an old man. Please, just kill me.”
Danael’s vision blurred and he blinked into the hazy mist, quickening his step and resisting with all his might the urge to cover his ears, to block out the pleas from his father. He’d wanted to kill him. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than to plunge his sword into the flesh of his mother’s murderer. But his mother’s last words must be respected.
“Danael! Please, forgive me!”
“Aye,” Danael whispered as he walked. “That’s what she asked of me, so be thankful for your life, Krasto.” Danael forced his legs forward at a quick pace and took the narrow steps two at a time. He didn’t stop until he was behind the walls of the little rondhus and his father’s cries were silenced. He fell to the floor, opened his mouth, and keened like a child.
Part XXXII
Kania Isht
Wynter’s End
Ninth year of Sage Yana’s rule
Yana
It was early spring in Kania Isht, and a light snow fell adding to the drifts that clumped around the ground and forming a curtain of white over the bay.
“Shall I fetch your gloves, Sage Yana?” The novice looked at Yana with a shiver. Her teeth chattered softly. Snowflakes rested on her young cheeks.
Yana glanced down at her bare hands clutched together in front of her. She wore only her tunic and dragonscale cloak. The snowflakes melted as soon as they came into contact with her bare skin. “No thank you, Dhali.” She returned her attention to the novice. “But you should fetch your cloak.”
The girl gave her a look of thanks before hurrying back to the temple.
Alone on the clifftop, Yana turned back to Kania’s bay and the incoming vessel. She sucked an icy breath and began making her way down the steps to the jetties below.
It was a joy to watch the Praetan ship return and anchor in the glassy Drakian waters. It had been many years since she’d spoken the Zraemian tongue and she whispered a few words under her breath as she
waited in the falling snow for the small boat to deliver her guest to the shore.
Gradually, the boat drew closer and Yana’s gaze fell on her old friend. He was as plump as a summer plum, and a web of wrinkles lined each eye, right beneath his kohl. His hair was thick and long, and streaked with silver.
The boat moored and the Zraemian guards helped her guest from the boat to the jetty.
Yana gave him a smile and bobbed her head. “Welcome, King Omar.”
The king stepped forward and took her small hands in his soft ones, “Sage Yana, it warms my heart to see you,” he said in flawless Drakian. “A welcome thing too for I’d forgotten how cold it gets here.” He threw his arms around her and the two old friends embraced as the the king’s helpers cast confused glances and the snow continued to fall.
“And you call it a temple? The Zraemian word. Why?” King Omar sat on the chair closest to the fireplace and warmed his hands as the novices arranged a meal of sorts on the table. He’d sent his entourage back to the ship, after much protesting on their behalf, the king assured them of his safety.
Yana smiled at the sense of awe on her old friend’s face as he took in the surroundings. The inner walls had all been painted with detailed frescoes, each centering on a lesson of the lore Yana taught. Some showed the stars of the Dark Wynter sky, others the eight pillars of knowledge, others still revealed colorful art depicting moments in history, like the firebeasts of aeons past who’d transported the first Drakians to their new island homes. The look of wonder on the Zraemian king’s face made her recall him as a young man, when he was still called Sargan, and someone no one would think of as being king of one city, let alone the whole desert realm of Zraemia.
“I wanted a place of learning to teach those with the gift.” She paused. “Those like myself, and your sister.”
