Vessel, Book I: The Advent

by Tominda Adkins

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  The Luna Latum historians always liked to point out that what happened next was not Ahmul's fault. Yes, they'd say, he was enamored enough of Zabur to go against his people's wishes. But it's been speculated that he made the decision with his head, too, and not just with his hormones. The safety of Nifushunm, however self-assured its people liked to be, had been in real jeopardy for too long. And sooner or later, powerful diviners or not, they were going to have to give in to Amphet or face annihilation from any number of sources. As it happened, Zabur was simply the most attractive solution to this problem.

  I personally never gave Ahmul so much credit. But I did agree: What happened next would have happened eventually anyway, maybe not to Zabur, but to someone else.

  There was outrage. Ahmul's people, his biggest fans, turned on him in an instant, calling him weak and treacherous, accusing him of betrayal and crying of disregard for the diviners. But Ahmul put his decision into immediate practice. He left with the envoy, bringing only a few attendants and high priests with him, reasoning with his people that the merger was a necessary reaction to a dangerous world. An increasingly dangerous and uncertain world, and not even the diviners could deny that.

  Ahmul's people didn't know that beneath his facade of rationality, their king had nothing, no firm standing on whether or not he was doing the right thing. But he left the devastated mob anyway and boarded a raft bound for the other side of the Ket, because he was certain of one thing: his own complete incapacity to deny Zabur.

  The merger had been entirely her doing, beginning with her instant and artful portrayal of a witch, and ending with the careful implantation of the marriage idea into her father's brutal mind. Amphet's king surely thought of the proposal as his own scheme, but it had sprung from Zabur's rapid fancy out there in the ruins, born the moment Ahmul had revealed himself to her.

  The girl adoringly whispered all of this to Ahmul before the barge even began its crossing, while the heralds lit colorful fires along the bank to show their king what the answer had been. Ahmul was at once impressed, terrified, outraged, and impassioned, but there was no turning back. This clever, royal wild thing beside him, who liked to lounge naked and unattended in the wilderness, who would manipulate centuries-old political structures on a flimsy romantic whim, would be his wife before the sun went down.

  The connotations were not good. Clearly he'd made a reckless choice. Yet he could not help feeling that the order of things was guiding him, that this was the most sensible, peaceable conclusion for both nations.

  Or maybe he was just telling himself that because he'd gotten a good look at Zabur's rack already. Who knows?

  Music and shouting met the envoy on the other side of the glassy waters, and the sand of the Amphetian banks could not be seen beneath all the people waiting to welcome Ahmul. His arrival marked a fantastic victory for Amphet, and all its people had their party sandals on. The envoy was immediately swept away in an impromptu parade through the city's passageways, and Ahmul walked with his attendants and diviners as if in a dream, deafened by the music and cheering, dodging the jewelry, food, and live animals that were being tossed every which way.

  Maybe Zabur wasn't that wild after all, at least not by Amphetian standards. Ahmul consoled himself with this thought, watching her as she rode ahead on the black horse, trying and failing to hold onto every flower and bracelet being handed to her. And as quickly as warm admiration fell over him at the sight, a hard and swift shadow fell over Zabur.

  In every direction, people darted and screamed. A column of stone had crumbled, toppled onto a swath of the crowd ahead. And most directly, most significantly, onto Zabur and her horse.

  There was a wash of panic followed by a glimmer of relief. Zabur had not been crushed, just dashed against the ground as the animal fell beneath her. In fact, as the dust settled and people regained their bearings, she appeared as lovely and whole as if nothing had happened. Her warm hands still clutched at flowers; her eyes were still liquid with light. The only sight betraying her life was a fast trickle of blood between her lips, dampening the earth beneath her, announcing her death.

  Ahmul had no time to react. Hands were suddenly upon him from every angle. Mass confusion and hysteria erupted, and he and his attendants, his priests, were beaten to the ground. The Amphetians were baying like animals, shouting about the diviners, about the murder of their beloved daughter.

  Ahmul was going to be ripped apart, he was certain of it. Everywhere, there were feet kicking him, hands pulling at his limbs, blunt objects striking him in the face. In the corner of his battered eye, he saw the skull of one of his diviners split open by a stone, and a group of people stabbing and stoning someone else over and over; he couldn't tell who.

  And then he saw Amphet's king, bellowing wretchedly from where his favorite child now lay dead. The volume of his grief and fury was enough to command the attention of the entire gruesome mob, until every last living ear was waiting for him to speak.

  The king was quick in his judgement. He surmised that this was base villainy, the work of none other than the diviners themselves. He no longer cared for their help. He no longer feared their power. Whatever the consequences, he would crush Nifushunm before the sun buried itself, and burn to death every man, woman, and child within its walls.

  He would start with their young, newly anointed king, who was at that moment too shocked and petrified to do more than chatter his teeth behind bleeding lips. A torch was set in the older king's hand, and he waved it with each promise of what would become of Nifushunm, of his Zabur's vengeance, of how Ahmul would burn before their eyes here and now, and the livid Amphetians shouted louder at every promise.

  But someone else was shouting. It was not the volume of his voice, but what he was proclaiming which made the Amphetians―even the king―halt and go silent before Ahmul could be set ablaze.

  This man was screaming for his life. He was, in those days, an older man, just under 30 years of age, frail but handsome, dressed in the tell-tale robes of white. The man was Dahrkren, the high priest and gifted necromancer of Nifushunm.

  Like all the other priests who had accompanied Ahmul across the Ket, he now lay crushed under the punishing feet of several vengeful Amphetians. But Dahrkren alone knew a truth that could instantly halt the execution of his brethren, himself, and his own king. And so he was shouting it as loudly as he could, again and again, the words ringing out across the baffled square:

  "I can make her live! I can make her live!"