* * * * *
That desert witch hadn't been kidding around. When Ahmul returned to Nifushunm and his nervous people, a message from Amphet's king was already waiting for him. It was long and recited by heralds, who repeated word for word their king's well-wishes and blessings. They also repeated his proposition, which was not unlike the invitations he'd sent before things had soured: a stated need for the diviner's unanimous assistance; a request that Ahmul become part of Amphet's own court, and for Nifushunm to likewise become part of Amphet.
Ahmul already had his answer: No.
Nope. No thanks.
Nifushunm's citizens were pleased by that. They liked this kid. In stark contrast to the battles raging out beyond the desert on all sides, the tiny state of Nifushunm was in a jubilee, throwing celebration after celebration and thriving on new hope. Maybe now things would turn around for them. Maybe all they'd needed was this young and fearless king.
One week later, more heralds arrived from Amphet with a second message. In so many parroted words, they claimed foul play on the part of the diviners. In retribution, the king threatened to revoke Amphet's long-standing protection of Nifushunm. He warned of the warring tribes ebbing closer, and reminded Ahmul of how defenseless his small nation would be without the protection of Amphetian armies. He demanded that Ahmul cease the meddling of the diviners, and offered him peace and protection should he join Amphet's court.
"No," was all Ahmul had to say.
And the crowd went wild. Again, the citizens of Nifushunm praised their new king and celebrated his sass. Again, they scoffed at the absurd idea of becoming barbaric Amphetians. Amphet's threats were empty, these people believed, so long as the diviners were feared, and so they gloated without worry.
A week passed, and again a message came. Ahmul's blood bubbled. This was the third message. And this time, it wasn't just the heralds who showed up―there was an envoy at the gates.
The message began with the usual complaints and requests, a list of grievances blamed on the diviners, a plea of logic outlining why Nifushunm should accept Amphetian citizenship. And then it got right to the point:
Marry my daughter, Amphet's king proposed through the talking heads of his heralds. In short, he wanted to include Ahmul as a figure of Amphetian royalty, thus orchestrating a more peaceful, enticing merger. Ahmul could continue ruling Nifushunm as he pleased, and would answer only to Amphet's king.
The people in Nifushunm's court laughed openly at this desperate attempt. A king of Nifushunm, bowing to another king, taking a wife. A barbaric Amphetian wife! What a riot. They turned to their crowd-pleasing leader, ready to hear some cheek.
But Ahmul was silent. His heart was crushed and divided. Was this really what the desert witch had meant? Was this a mistake? It had to be. She had said his people would rage against him, but this? The idea was too cruel. He cursed her face in his mind, which had been so full of the rest of her these past few weeks, and so empty of any original thought.
The laughter gave way to silence as more of the envoy entered. In the center of it, Ahmul suddenly noticed, was a rare and splendid creature. A solid black horse. And sitting astride it, now fully and finely clothed, was Zabur, the daughter in question, the desert witch herself.
She was doing everything in her power not to laugh. The result was stunning. Her face was like the Datura blossom at sunset, just about to burst open for the night.
Yes, was Ahmul's final answer. Absolutely, yes.
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 14
