by Ziv Gray
Emmy took the female’s torso. Zecha took her stick-like legs. Emaciated, she could have been any age. They lifted her as if she was made of nothing. When they placed her on the bed, Emmy tutted. The creature stank.
‘I’ll have to wash her,’ she said.
Zecha ran a hand through his thick fronds. They were pale as straw.
‘And I should go,’ he said. ‘The sun’s down and I’m not supposed to be on the street.’
‘Why were you out so late, anyway?’ Emmy asked. ‘You know it’s not safe.’
Zecha looked at the scuffed toes of his boots. Fury rose in Emmy’s throat.
‘You were hunting again, weren’t you?’ she asked. Recalcitrant, Zecha nodded. Emmy crossed her arms. ‘One of these days, you’ll get caught with that bow, and you’ll be tossed into a cell—or even killed!’
‘I know,’ Zecha said, his words soft. ‘It’s just...’ He raised his head, eyes ablaze. ‘I can’t understand why they won’t let me join the service. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean I can’t fight.’ His indignation faltered. ‘I keep thinking that if I practice hard enough, become good enough, they might change their minds...’
His knife-edge sorrow made Emmy’s heart ache.
He dropped his gaze again. Emmy laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘It isn’t fair, I know,’ she said. ‘You’re as good with a bow as anyone I’ve ever seen, maybe even the best. But that doesn’t matter to them. When they look at you, all they see is a male, and males don’t fight.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Just like when they look at me, they see a demon.’
Zecha placed a hand on hers. His claws were calloused from his bow.
‘You’re not a demon,’ he said. ‘You’re my best friend.’
Emmy found herself enveloped in a sudden embrace. She stiffened for a moment, before relenting and returning the squeeze. Then she drew an arm’s length away and tipped her head towards the kitchen.
‘Use the rear door,’ she said. ‘You won’t be seen.’
Sorrow expelled, Zecha flashed a bright smile.
‘You really are my best friend, you know,’ he said.
Emmy planted her hands on her hips. Her lips quirked.
‘It’s not hard to be the best when I’m your only friend,’ she said. ‘Now shoo. Be safe. And don’t trample my herb garden!’
Grinning, Zecha waved, and slipped off like smoke.
Returning to the shop, locking the door, Emmy stared at the new mess that shone in the moons’ light. A heavy thud grabbed her attention, and she closed her eyes. How long has Krodge been calling? She won’t be pleased…
‘Emena!’ the old female screeched. ‘Where is my tea?’
Each word was punctuated with a strike of her walking stick. Dust fell from the roof beams.
‘Coming, Madame!’ Emmy called, hurrying to the kitchen.
A haze of steam hung in the air. Emmy prepared tea. An expensive import from across the sea, its scent was like smouldering parchment. She sliced hunks of bread and slabs of white cheese to accompany it, then journeyed up the creaking stairs.
Emmy listened at Krodge’s door for a moment before she knocked.
‘Get in here!’ came the reply.
Emmy acquiesced.
Krodge’s tawny eyes were on her straight away. Her thin lips curled with venom.
‘What in the name of the Goddess is going on?’ she snapped. For someone allegedly dying, her voice was powerful. ‘I’ve been listening to a commotion in my own home, wondering if I’ll be murdered in my bed. And where have you been? Ignoring the poor wretch who brought you up when others cast you aside! Come here!’
Krodge beckoned Emmy forward, curling one gnarled talon. A scowl framed her eyes, and her face was haloed by a tangle of fronds.
Though she knew what was coming, Emmy did as she was told. She always did. Setting the meagre meal by Krodge’s bedside, she waited for the blow.
It soon came.
Krodge brought her stick down on Emmy’s head with speed and strength that defied her age.
Stars danced behind her eyelids. Emmy’s knees buckled and her talons went to her head, claws digging into her scalp. She didn’t make a sound. The pain ran in rivulets down her skull.
‘Inconsiderate little darkling!’ Krodge cried. ‘I’ve given you a home. I’ve given you a profession that will keep you for the rest of your life. You’re to inherit this place when I’m dead. And considering what insufficient morsels you bring to me, my death is close at hand!’ She jabbed a finger at the tray, though stopped short of toppling it. ‘You don’t understand just how much you need me! Once I’m dead, there’ll be no one left to protect you!’
Emmy clutched her head, suppressing a groan as her sight returned. Through tears and blood, she stared at the creature in the bed. No one left to protect me? she thought. When have you ever protected me?
Krodge never admonished the bullies who called Emmy names, nor their parents. She encouraged the insults, joining in with glee. Darkwitch, Darkwitch! Go back to your hole and die! Emmy’s chest tightened. Her head burned.
She pictured herself snatching the stick from Krodge’s gnarled claws and driving its point straight through her dark heart. Beating back the thought, she stumbled. Shame and frustration filled her. She swayed, sucking in a hard breath.
Krodge glowered.
‘Get out!’ she screeched.
At that, Emmy fled.
Lurching to the kitchen, she leaned on the door frame. She clutched her head, her talons freshly red.
Then her ears twitched. Her brow furrowed. What’s that noise? Someone was knocking. This time, it was on the rear door. Still pressing her head, she crossed the kitchen. She lifted the latch.
It was Zecha.
‘Emmy?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’
His tone was soft, almost loving. Emmy lifted her hands from her head, staring at the blood. She tried to explain, but the floor disappeared and she was falling. The last thing she felt was a strong arm cradling her head. Then there was darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
The Two Princes
Being a prince of the realm had its perks. But it also had its pains. This was a moment of the latter.
Mantos Tiboli, Imperial Prince of the Masvam Empire, was heir to the throne by a hairline crack. He emerged from his egg first, all razor claws and a stubby tail. Then, after the briefest of moments, his brother Bandim escaped from his own shell. It was only by virtue of that second that Mantos found himself standing at the edge of his father’s bed, on the cusp of becoming emperor.
Lingering further away, cloaked by shadow, was Bandim. He stared at their dying father, unblinking.
‘Is he awake?’ he asked.
Slowly, Mantos shook his head.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Will he wake again?’
Mantos paused before he answered.
‘I don’t know.’
For the longest time, the brothers stood in the lavish bedchamber, watching the erratic rise and fall of their father’s chest, listening to the rattle of his breath and the spluttering of the candles. This was the same bedchamber they had been hatched in, some twenty-one cycles before. It was the bedchamber that would become Mantos’s upon his father’s death.
And what then? Mantos thought as he fingered the fine embroidery of the bedspread. The crown would fall upon his head, as would leadership of the largest empire in the land—an empire that swallowed everything in its path.
Until he lost the ability to speak three days before, Emperor Braslen still commanded his advisers, poring over the crinkled maps servants brought to his bedside. He was still talking strategy, showing Mantos the next steps in his grand plan.
‘We can break the Metakalans once and for all,’ Braslen said. Despite the wheeze in his voice and the tremble in his hand, fire still blazed in his eyes. ‘Too long have they held out against us. Now that the Selamans have been crushed, we can focus our attention on Metakala.
We will roll our borders into their lands, and then, we will strike against the Althemerians. Their queen disrespected me twice: once when she denied my marriage offer, and again when she would not marry her daughter to my son.’ Mantos had stepped back at the fury in his eyes. ‘We will crush them…’
Dutiful, the prince listened and nodded at the right times. He knew the Selamans had been crushed. He had been there. He planted the Masvam flag in their capital. He torched the banner that once hung in their ornate long hall. He slit the throat of the queen beneath its flaming remains. Crushed wasn’t even the right word. Decimated was closer to the mark. And for what? Mantos thought. Land? Power? He suppressed a snort. More like rebellion. More like death.
As always, he dared not share those thoughts with anyone. Once, he had a confidant, but… Mantos shuddered. Fonbir and I dare not communicate about these matters any longer, he thought. Princes on opposing sides of an impending war... It is not prudent, as much as my heart aches for him.
An obedient son, Mantos always played his part. He was a scholar, a diplomat and, most importantly, a warrior. It was expected. The heir to the Masvam throne, he could be nothing but. No matter what the Metakalans or the Althemerians or the Linvarrans believe, he thought, we see our males as soldiers, protectors, while they denigrate theirs. That’s why they resist us with blood and steel. They see our ideals as dangerous, against the natural way… But how can that be?
Mantos sighed and dropped the hem of his father’s bedspread. Bandim came a little closer, his face lit by the fine white candles their father favoured.
Like Mantos, Bandim had a fine figure. They were tall and wiry, strength without bulk, and favoured their mother’s colouring. Their skin was a deep brown, their armour burnished gold, with fronds straight and black as night. In the light, Bandim’s eyes glowed an opalescent yellow— just like Mantos’s. Both princes were adorned with jewellery: rings, bracelets, and a fine gold chain that wound around their horn crests, dripping with coloured stones. But their robes were black, a sign of respect for their dying father.
Soon, they would wear white. White to help Braslen’s spirit find its way to the temple, then to the Light.
But not yet.
Bandim fell in beside Mantos and clasped his claws against his flat stomach. His tail swished.
‘I think he doesn’t have much time left,’ he said. There was a pause. His tone shifted. ‘You will continue with Father’s plans, won’t you?’
It was phrased as a question, but said as a command. At that, Mantos drew himself to his full height, the scales of his neck rising. He stared at his brother. Hard.
‘I have given my word,’ he said.
Bandim twitched his tail and raised himself to meet Mantos’s eyes. His own neck pulsed.
‘Words are words,’ he said. ‘You can speak them and still not believe them. I know you’ve given him your word.’ He raised a claw and pressed on Mantos’s chest plate. ‘But the question is, have you given him your heart?’
Mantos’s nose slits widened and he narrowed his eyes.
‘Do not presume to touch me, brother,’ he said.
Bandim chuckled, though it was a mirthless sound.
‘Do not presume to act as if you are already the emperor,’ he replied.
With deliberate slowness, he withdrew his claw. When he smiled, his sharp teeth glinted.
Mantos’s neck scales did not retract until his brother stepped away.
‘Leave,’ Mantos said. ‘I want to be alone with him.’
Bandim lingered for a moment, then gave a shallow bow. He turned, robes whirling, and was gone.
Alone, Mantos listened to his father’s shuddering breaths. He brushed a stray frond from Braslen’s forehead.
‘I fear my brother will not obey me when you are gone,’ Mantos whispered. ‘What shall I do then? How can I command an empire if I cannot keep my own house in order?’
His father did not reply.
Exhaling, long and hard, Mantos remained at the bedside, waiting.
The Vigil was a long-held Masvam tradition. Offspring stayed with their dying parent, waiting for the spirit to break free of the flesh. Mantos’s first duty as emperor would be to share word of his father’s demise. There would be no herald. There would be no grand ceremony. Clad in white, he would walk to the ornate rail and wait to be seen. After the first pointing claw, a wail would go up.
‘The emperor is dead!’
A wave of white would spread across the empire. Mantos would stand on the balcony, saying nothing as the bells tolled, staring across the stone city to the temple. He would not move from his place until the beacon blazed in the cloak of night, starting his father’s journey to the Light.
I never truly thought I would be here, he thought. I imagined Father would live forever. Braslen of House Tiboli had reigned for twenty-five cycles. More advanced in age than their mother, he was on the cusp of old age when he took the crown.
Mantos clenched his teeth. Mother. Someone should tell her.
Phen of House Yru was a beauty in her youth, or so Mantos was told. For as long as he remembered, she was a sickly female, whose wits had long deserted her. Not long after his hatching, Mantos toppled from his nest and tumbled down a flight of marble stairs. The details changed depending on who told the tale, but each telling ended the same way. On seeing the youngling, broken and dead, Mantos’s mother had screamed her grief. From the depths of the palace, a temple novice appeared—and Mantos had lived.
His mother, blaming herself for the folly, was never the same again.
Mantos placed a claw on top of his father’s papery palm. Braslen did not stir.
‘Would things have been different if the accident had not happened?’ he asked. ‘If mother hadn’t lost her wits?’ Flashes of Bandim’s fury flickered in his mind. ‘Would my brother hate me less? Might he even love me?’
No response. Mantos lifted his father’s claw and rubbed circles on the leathery armour of the back of his hand.
Prince Mantos was good at many things. He was skilled with a sword and bow, and his mind was as deadly as any weapon. Not one book in the ornate palace library had escaped his greedy eyes. Yet, there was one thing he was not good at: understanding his brother. How can we look so alike, and yet be so different? It was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, no matter how many books and scrolls he read.
The solution eluded their father, too.
‘Your brother is a strange sort,’ was his standard response. ‘He concerns himself too much with lore and with...unsavoury beliefs.’
Unsavoury beliefs, Mantos thought. That’s a meek turn of phrase for the worship of a demon. Rumours lurked in every corner of the palace and down every dank alleyway of the city. Prince Bandim was in league with a Darkwitch, the false god Dorai—what a joy it was that Mantos was to be emperor, and not such a child of the Dark.
Since he was not heir, their father let Bandim’s curious habits be. As always, Braslen concentrated on Mantos.
‘You must lead the empire to new glories.’
Those were the last words Emperor Braslen of House Tiboli spoke to his son, just before he slipped into unconsciousness.
As it turned out, they were the last words he spoke at all.
Bandim didn’t draw his hood over his horned head. His face was clear for all to see. Why bother hiding? he thought. It’s no great mystery where I’m going. And in any case, no one could move against me. He would, however, set an ornate mask onto his face when he arrived, for his beloved priestess decreed it essential wear in the presence of the Goddess.
Bandim’s cloak swept behind him in a sable wave as he approached the Temple of Dorai. Nestled in an ancient stone dwelling in the heart of the city, its location was an open secret. An unsuspecting building in a narrow street of broken cobbles, only those invited were welcome to cross the threshold.
Few city folk craved such an invitation. Bandim snorted and rounded the final corner on his journey. As the sun set, the stonework of the
old buildings sparkled. The Light is dying, he thought, and so is my father. Well, if this sunset is his last, I need to be ready to act.
Outside, the temple was unimpressive. Inside was…different. Since finding the love of the Goddess Dorai many cycles before, Bandim had funnelled gold into the hands of her priestesses. Instead of the derelict monstrosity it had once been, the inner chambers were lined with black stone. The floor sloped into the depths of the city catacombs—into the embrace of darkness, what the followers of the Light called evil.
Fools, Bandim thought as he thrust open the doors, startling a young attendant. They look to the sky. They trust in Nunako and think the Light will consume the Dark. Accepting the offered mask and taper, he descended into the temple proper. Little do they know, it is the Dark that swallows their brightness. The Dark will always prevail...
The meagre light flickered, sending shadows dancing across the smooth walls. One day, he would not need light to see. Just like Johrann, he thought. Just like my priestess.
That was precisely who he was going to meet.
Masked figures drew back as he approached, bowing in deference. Face covered or not, they knew who he was. They did not question him as he swept through the underground caverns and into the altar room.
He fell to his knees before the five-armed effigy of the Goddess. As soon as his knees hit the stone, a voice bade him rise again.
‘An emperor does not fall on his knees,’ the voice said. Out of the shadows stepped Johrann Maa, high priestess of the Dark. ‘You are part of her. You are the Goddess’s Hand.’
Bandim rose again and climbed the few steps to the altar. This time, Johrann went to her knees. The tips of her horn crest tapped the floor. Her fronds were tightly bound, not a single one out of place.
‘Rise, dear Heart,’ Bandim said, reaching for her. ‘I am not emperor yet.’
Johrann rose, silent as a shadow, keeping her hand in his. Even in the darkness of the altar room, her eyes glimmered.
‘You are at the foot of your throne, my prince,’ she said. ‘It won’t take long to ascend the last few steps.’
