Nalini chewed on her lips. She had spoken out of passion and he had caught her out with logic, as he always did. To convince him to hold back from his mad intentions, she would need another tactic: one of logic, nuance and reason that would resonate with him. “It is noble that you want uphold the true laws of Abyar throughout the Kingdom and beyond,” she said, carefully. “But there are practical realities for a sultan to consider when making a decision. The consequences can be grave if he gets them wrong.”
“You sound like Father.”
“Was Father wrong? He held the Kingdom together successfully.”
“Yes, but did Father take into account the consequences of sinning against Abyar when he wanted his body burned?”
Nalini sighed. It always came back to the cremation these days. Why did I say anything?
“We are cursed because of it,” Razilan continued, shuddering. “I feel it in my bones, like the oncoming of a chill.”
“A chill?” People tended to get a chill in winter, not summer. Not that Al-Jaraba had especially harsh, disease-breeding winters to the north of Volído and Loranca. Nalini had never been to any of those kingdoms and did not know what they were even called. But Emilio had told her about the winters in those places: to the north-west, the kingdoms were said to have winters that were cold, windy and rainy; while to the north-east, where nomadic horselords were to said to roam the endless grasslands, the winters were allegedly snowy and freezing, with a wind that cut through to the bone. “It is probably nothing more than a fever.”
Razilan shook his head and coughed. The cough sounded nasty, and when he removed his hand from his mouth, it was covered in green-yellow mucus. “No, it’s more than a fever,” he said, quivering. Then, he grimaced and rubbed his left shoulder, massaging it to alleviate the pain from the wound he had taken during the revolt. “It is part of the curse that Abyar has bestowed upon us for burning Father. Only a holy war can purify the Kingdom and save us from His wrath. I am convinced of it.”
“Well, you can at least wait until you are better before you-”
“No! There is no time to lose. Not unless we want to bring ruin to all that Father built. I have already ordered every writer in the palace to write letters, calling for every nobleman in the Kingdom to gather their armies and prepare for war. I will send letters to them all in the coming days.”
Nalini held back her tongue. Every fibre in her wanted to shout at Razilan again, to tell him to stop what he was doing. But she knew her brother. When he was convinced of something, he listened to no-one and did not care for the consequences; especially, when it came to religion in recent years. Now, more than ever, she understood why their father had been concerned about Razilan sitting on the throne.
“You were about to say something?” Razilan said.
An idea gonged in her mind. If my brother believes everything is part of what the Divine and His Messenger want, mayhap he’ll listen to another side of what they desire. “I cannot disagree that Abyar has reason to be angry with us,” Nalini said. “Nevertheless, we are in mourning. Abyar clearly states that we must withdraw from the world during this time. Thus, would it not be wiser to wait until our period of mourning is over before going to war, lest we anger Him further?”
5
-Stay Strong-
(Nalini)
Nalini placed her hands onto the balustrade of the balcony that overlooked the capital, and yawned. The moon was high in the sky. It was late and her day had been long. Yet, she just wanted a few moments to herself before she went to bed: to breathe in the cool night air, and stare at the city while it was still.
What am I going to do with my brother? Am I going to spend the rest of his reign stopping Razilan from himself?
She wondered if she had the strength. Sultan Razilan had agreed to delay his holy war until the moon had turned and their initial month of mourning was over. That had given Nalini some relief at the time. But several days had passed and Nalini had thought of no other way to delay his plans again.
Even from his bed, sick with fever, Razilan had still made sure that Nalini gave him nightly letters on how much coin she had siphoned off for the war. And every night when she had visited him with the accounts, he had told her to find more money. Nothing was going to stop him from this madness. Was there even a point to trying to stop him? If he was going to bring ruin upon himself and the Kingdom, would it not be better to let him do it sooner rather than later and save herself hassle?
Nalini sighed and rubbed her forehead. It was lumpy, like it had been when she had first flowered, and soon the lumps would form ugly spots. The burden of her responsibilities and her loss weighed down on her. It pushed out spots as an outlet, ruining what little beauty Abyar had given her. Nalini wished she could go back to how life had been at Greatmouth, before her father’s revolt.
Life had been simple back then. Even during the rebellion, life had been easier. Nalini had been responsible for running the castle while her father and brothers had been away. But, somehow, back then, her responsibilities had not pressed down on her like a boulder slowly crushing her. She had more luxuries and a more beautiful home now. Yet, the softer and lighter her possessions, the heavier they weighed on her. There was a joke in there, somewhere. But Nalini was too tired to put her finger on it.
The wind blew, softly stroking her cheek like a lover. Nalini craned her neck with the wind, watching as it pushed back the drapes to reveal her bedchambers, with Emilio snoring in their bed. Nalini chuckled to herself. At least with all the workloads she had on, she had reason to spend less time with her husband. That was a mercy, if only a backhanded one.
Nalini yawned again and decided to go to bed. She had an early morning and a long day of work coming up. She would need all the sleep she could get.
Nalini went back inside and took off her black, mourner’s veil. Her dark tress flowed down her shoulder, before she placed her veil onto her dressing table, next to her tiara. Nalini smiled at the tiara, wanly. Wearing it had always made her feel like a princess. If there were one thing that she looked forward to wearing again after her mourning was over, it was the tiara.
A knock banged at the door. Nalini’s heart thumped and she spun round as someone knocked at the door again. It was loud, continuous and had urgency to its rhythm.
“At this hour?” Emilio said, sat up and fully alert. “Who could that be?”
Nalini ignored him. The knock sounded again, and she pulled open the door. Wumla stood on the other side, eyes bloodshot and face ashen. A sense of foreboding grabbed Nalini’s throat. Wumla had been sitting by Razilan’s bedside every night since the fever had set in, frequently sleeping in a chair in the room. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Razilan,” he said, struggling to force the words out of him. “He’s coughing up blood!”
His words cut through her like a scimitar. “Since when?”
“J-just now. He coughed up phlegm, then he coughed up blood. This isn’t good, Nalini. He’s going to die. It’s the curse! We’re cursed and-”
Nalini stepped past him, cutting him off mid-sentence. “We’re not cursed,” she said, wanting to believe it, as she charged down the corridor. “And while Razilan is alive, you will not speak this way.” Abyar, may he live!
“I have woken Mother,” Wumla said, following behind her. “She has gone to find Grand Cleric Faas.”
Nalini nodded to conceal her thoughts. How had Razilan’s condition deteriorated so rapidly? He had been in robust health until he caught a chill in the marketplace the other day. What was happening to her family?
Nalini blinked and seemingly found herself inside the royal bedchambers. Sultana Olella sat next to Razilan’s bed, sobbing, while the Sultan lay in bed, shivering and sweating feverishly. His bedcovers had splatters of blood on them, with lined dribbles linking one splotch to the next.
Nalini walked over to her brother and sat on one of the two stools opposite the sobbing Sultana. Nalini clasped Razilan’s hand
and her throat tightened. It was all so horribly familiar. Like her father, her brother had been an impressive specimen of a man: tall, muscular and strong, with a personality to match. But now ailment had weakened him to the point of wreckage, almost unable to speak amidst the shivers. “You will come through this,” Nalini said. But the weakness in her voice betrayed her words. “I will…” she stopped and forced down the lump blocking her voice box. “I will still be arguing with you in the years to come, to stop you from going on your holy war.”
Razilan chuckled. “I would expect nothing less from you,” he said.
Nalini smiled. It was good to see that he had not lost his sense of humour, even though his fever was burning up. There was still hope.
Razilan coughed nastily. He spat out a gob of dark, bloody phlegm into the chamber-pot beside him, and Nalini’s mouth tasted of ash. No-one could cough up blood like that and survive-
No, Nalini refused to go down that line of logic. Razilan would pull through this, and she would do all she could to make it so. Nalini picked up the canter, poured a cup of water and handed it to her brother.
“No,” Razilan said, flicking the air with his wrist. “There’s no point.”
“You will die of thirst if you don’t-”
“It makes no difference anymore. It just tastes of blood and makes me cough. I cannot bear the pain in my chest and shoulder anymore.” Razilan then looked at their brother, standing next to Nalini. “Wumla,” he said. “Can you lead the holy war in my stead?”
Wumla’s his red-rimmed, oval-shaped eyes protruded from their sockets and he shook his head. “I-I don’t know,” he said, stuttering. “I don’t want to make any promises.”
Good. Don’t make promises that will bring ruin to the Kingdom, even if you intend to do it out of honour.
Razilan puffed out a lungful of air. “It is the only way you can remove the curse afflicting our family,” he said. “It is the only way you can stop aunt Ríma.”
Nalini’s blood went cold. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Razilan, tell me, please: what did that witch tell you when you walked with her in the gardens?”
“She is no witch,” Razilan said, faintly. “It is not what she said. But what she didn’t say. Aunt Ríma is a devout, ambitious woman, who wants…”
But then his voice became inaudible. His lips moved wordlessly, before his shoulders slumped into the pillows. His head flopped to the side and his eyes rolled forward; only, their usual twinkle of vigour had gone, giving way to dullness.
“Razilan?” Nalini asked.
He did not respond. Nor did he breathe.
“No, no… he can’t be,” Prince Wumla said. “I can’t be-”
Sultana Olella’s sobs loudened. Then, Mother came into the chamber and burst into tears. “My son is dead!” she cried, tears streaking down her cheeks. “The Sultan is dead!”
Nalini’s heartrate increased. Her body shook and water filled her eyes. She to say something comforting and hug her mother, sister-in-law and brother, to console them. But Nalini couldn’t move. Razilan’s death seemed to have frozen her.
Wumla sat down on the stool next to her. He hunched forward, with his hands over his face. He quivered as tears leaked through his fingers, and dripped onto the floor.
Nalini’s back ossified, and she retook control of her wits. News of Sultan Razilan’s death would sweep through the palace like a sandstorm. Courtesans and the Grand Cleric of Flourish would enter the royal bedchambers to pay the late sultan their respects soon. Wumla could not be seen crying, or to have been crying, when they arrived. Otherwise he would lose his authority before he’d had a chance to assert himself. “Wumla, you must not cry,” Nalini said. She pulled her stool toward him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You are the Sultan now. No-one but us can see you cry. Do you understand me?”
Wumla wailed. “I can’t do it! I can’t be Sultan. I’m not like Father or Razilan. Or you! Father made you a vizier at court, not me, because he knew that I am unfit for court, let alone rule.”
“It’s not true,” Nalini said, wanting to believe it with all her heart. “I don’t know why Father didn’t make you a vizier. But-”
Wumla wailed again. “I cannot rule. I cannot ru…” He choked on his words, prior to burying his head into the crook of Nalini’s neck, weeping.
Nalini looked up. The two Dowager Sultanas were staring at her, as if they expected her to have answers for Wumla and what would happen next.
In the name of the Divine, why are you looking at me!? Nalini wanted to shout at them, to get them to do something. What made them think that she had the answers? What was she meant to do? Nalini had never known a situation where a man cried like a child at the prospect of being Sultan. Most men wanted the Crown. Yet, here was a man as frightened by it as a rabbit caught in a net, with the hunter’s blade approaching.
Wumla wept. Nalini Inhaled deeply and stroked the back of his neck, like she did to her son to soothe him, while she looked within herself for inspiration. “Stay strong, Wumla,” she said, with all the compassion she could within her. “You will be a better sultan than you give yourself credit for.”
Wumla lifted his head. “Do you think so?” he said, as tears streamed down his face. “Even though I know nothing about ruling?”
Nor do I. But I am learning as I go along. The weight of responsibility then pressed down on Nalini again, but harder. This time, it dug into her shoulders. The workloads had been burdensome whilst Razilan had been Sultan. They were going to become mounds now that Wumla sat on the throne. “Yes,” she said. “And I will help you.”
“You will?” he asked.
I promised Father that I would do that all that I could to hold Al-Jaraba together. The promise had been made to curtail one sultan’s intentions. Now, it applied in reverse: to ensure that another would rule. “Yes, just… stay strong,” Nalini said, as much for herself as for her brother. “For the sake of the family and the Kingdom, stay strong.”
6
-The Treason of Date-Palm-
(Nalini)
Nalini put down the scroll. Her eyes were sore and her head throbbed. She rubbed her eyes and then her head, to alleviate the aches. A spot bulged from her temple, and it burst like a bubble when her fingernail pierced it. Puss and blood oozed out, wetting her finger. “Curse Abyar,” she swore.
Nalini had not had spots in years, and hoped that this one was not the start of many. She had to aid Sultan Wumla rule the Kingdom. She could not afford to break out into spots. All those around her would mock her, claiming that the stresses of ruling were too much for her. No doubt, some of those snakes at court would use that as an excuse to sway her brother to remove her from her position, for their own benefit.
Nalini put the thought aside and picked up another of the dozens of scrolls littering her desk. She internally prayed that this one would tell her something about what was happening at Date-Palm Port. Like a woodpecker at a tree, what Razilan had said before he died pecked at her mind. What had he meant when he said that their aunt was an ambitious woman? What did that entail?
Nalini unwound the scroll. But it was not about events at Date-Palm. Rather, it was about taxes from Greatmouth. Nalini groaned, prior to picking up a blank sheet of parchment to write down the numbers, before she would place the totals into the ledger; or write Lord Adelram Elnakhya a letter to remind him to hand over the correct amount of tax money if he had not-so-accidentally miscalculated the total amount he was required to send to the royal coffers.
The door to her work chamber opened and an ambling gait walked toward her. Nalini did not look up to know it was her husband, especially as his gait got more pronounced as he neared her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you ruling on crime and trade disputes,” he said, wryly. “Or are you writing threatening letters to your brother’s vassals to keep them in line?”
Nalini chuckled. “Something more boring than either of those,” she said. “Taxes.”
Emilio smiled wryly. “And what does His Majesty, Sultan Wumla, do if you are doing seemingly everything?”
It’s a good question. Has Wumla even left his chambers today? “Later today, I will speak with him and find out…” But she trailed off as Lord Krarim hurried down the corridor toward her work chamber. “My Lord, is something wrong?”
“Date-Palm Port is gathering its armies,” he said, abruptly.
“Why?” Nalini asked. “The holy war to conquer Zenith has been delayed indefinitely. I sent word to my uncle, following Razilan’s death, telling him as much. And I doubt my brother told aunt Ríma that she could assemble Al-Jaraba’s eastern armies against the express will of the Crown were he to die while they walked in the gardens.”
“That I can’t say. No-one overheard their conversation.”
“Did the witch cast a spell on everyone? Usually, gossip abounds the palace when two people speak alone. But on this occasion, how is it no-one heard a thing? If this isn’t an instance of dark magic, then I don’t know what is.”
Lord Krarim looked at her dispassionately. “I have yet to find any information connecting Lady Ríma with the use of dark magic,” he said, matter-of-factly. “All I have heard is that since Sultan Razilan died Lord Talekh has written to his vassals, claiming that the Kingdom is cursed; that plague, famine and war will come to Al-Jaraba so long as a bastard sits on the throne.”
His words knifed a nerve. “The traitor!” she shouted. “Uncle Talekh would never have said that while Sultan Daquan or Razilan sat on the throne! Now, I suppose he believes that he is Sultan, since he is the nearest legitimate male relative to Razilan. How convenient!”
“But Lord Talekh has no sons and Lady Ríma is old,” Emilio put in. “So, what would he gain rebelling against his own family? The male line of House Reba will die out with him if he does so.”
The Sultan's Daughter Page 4
