by Aderyn Wood
“But you must dismiss such ambition and cast it aside. For the temple is not where your path lies.”
“Who?” Sargan struggled to get the words out and his voice cracked when he spoke. He clenched his fists tight. “Who is so worthy to enter the temple in my stead?”
“Your sister.”
Sargan sucked his breath.
“She is the hand of the goddess. It should be no surprise to you of all people.”
“But she has no interest in the temple’s teachings. No interest at all in—”
“She has begun her journey, and you must begin to accept that.”
Sargan nodded and raised the cup to his mouth. One hot fat tear fell from his left eye and mixed with the wine. He forced it down as he tried and failed to let go his disappointment, and his hurt.
“Let us turn our attention to the khanax once more,” his father said. “I believe he’ll be easily persuaded. But the game I must play is a dangerous one. I am going to treat with him tomorrow, and I need you to act as translator.”
Sargan nodded, his whole body felt numb. “Of course, Father.”
“You must agree with everything I say. Do not question it. And try to conceal your emotions. You must learn to wear your face as a mask that hides all emotion. Even when you learn of a friend’s death, or a failed ambition. Give nothing away, Sargan. Not to your enemies, nor to your allies. Can you do it?”
Sargan's bottom lip quivered, and he bit it down with such force he tasted blood. It had been a year since he'd shed tears. Petar, Ana, Yana, all of the Drakians had showed him the futility of self-pity. He was not a child anymore, and he would prove it. “I will, Father.”
Yana
The old goat trail took Yana to the highest mountain peak on the isle, where the ancient beacon stood – a tall rock tower, used in old times to signal to Adala Isht, who would in turn signal to Uthalia Isht, who’d finally signal to Kania Isht. It was used in the Darken Days, when Drakians suffered enemies far more terrifying than the Halkans.
Things were unusually still by the beacon. Few trees survived up here, and the ones that did were twisted and bent. Normally, the wind whipped up a frenzy and Yana sometimes felt as though she’d be blown away over the sea to fly like a bird. Sometimes she’d climb the beacon. From its top, both Estr and Westr Varg clans spread out like a child’s muddy construction. And to the north, the dark shadow of Adala Isht loomed on the horizon, as long as the sea mist wasn’t obscuring it.
Yana bent her neck back to gaze up at the tower. A pair of eagles were flying high above it. Perhaps they’d nested again in the beacon’s old bonfire pit. She didn’t have time to find out, and with a last look at the eagles soaring on high winds, she turned and strode down the other side, continuing along the goat trail.
Only two people used it now, two that Yana knew of. Herself, and her grandmother. There was a cave down there where the waves crashed against the sheer rock of the isle, and it led to another black tunnel. There were many tunnels all over Varg Isht, and the other isles in Drakia as well, but no one held the knowledge of their destinations anymore. Yana had explored more than a few of them as a child, some went so deep that sea water rose to meet her, while others had filled with fresh mountain water. Many were dark and echoed with sounds of wraiths. It was never the darkness that stopped Yana’s exploration, she could see well enough, it was the goose bumps and shivery jitters along her spine that always made her stop and turn back. She’d not ventured more than half a day through the narrow and dank passages. She’d taken Sargan once, and he’d been much braver than expected.
Sargan. There he was again, dominating her mind. Yana tried not to think of him, but as she trekked ever down, her ponderings continually turned back to him and her stomach would swirl. He’d be leaving soon.
She gritted her teeth and forced her attention to other things, even the sadness of her father’s passing, but Sargan, and his round-cheeked smile would return. There was no denying it. She was going to miss him terribly when he left. She’d enjoyed their days together learning Drakian. He’d taught her other languages too, and she knew a good smattering of Zraemian and even some of the desert speech, which was similar in many ways to mountain speech.
The sun had risen a hand’s breadth above the horizon and then disappeared beyond incoming clouds by the time Yana arrived at Cockle’s Inlet, a narrow bight on the northernmost point of Varg Isht. The inlet was largely left well alone due to the narrow and steep trail one had to traipse through the mountains to reach it. Through the trees, Yana could make out the sea glimmering in the morning light. Her heart thumped a quick beat as she considered what she might find, and she tried, not for the first time, to temper her hope. She skipped down the trail where it leveled off near the edge of the sheer cliff, and froze.
Someone lingered there, by the cliff face. Yana paused, squinting. Could it be Grama? She took a quick breath and moved forward over the rocky ground. But as she got closer the figure did not resemble that of her short and proud grandmother. The very opposite. Tall, broad shoulders. Long red braids. A young warrior. She drew closer until she recognised the interloper. Danael.
She approached him without softening her footfalls, and he turned to face her.
“Yana.” His eyes seemed to hold a swirling mix of emotions, like he was glad to see her, but pained also. “I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a brave warrior. He never held back when it came to helping the Drakian cause.”
Yana snapped her head to the sea, not daring to let one tear fall.
“You must miss him. Indeed, I miss him.”
Anger filled her chest with heat, making her nostrils flare. “’Twas your father killed him.” Spit flew from her mouth. “He killed your mother, too.”
Danael’s eyes widened.
The gentle sea breeze brought a touch of cool to temper Yana’s rage, and a twinge of regret pulsed through her. She shouldn’t have said that.
Danael’s mouth fell open.
Yana looked away, peering down the sheer ridge of the cliff. Only sea birds flew above the breaking waves. Their high-pitched squawks filled the air. No raven flew among them, or anywhere, and no old woman walked the cliffs. Grama wasn’t coming. Then why do I dream of her?
She looked back at Danael. He was breathing fast, pacing back and forth. Yana blinked when she noticed the tears streaming openly down his cheeks and his hands pumping into fists.
“Danael. I’m sorry. I—”
He strode to her and clutched her arms in his large hands. His teeth were bared, his voice raw. “Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me all you know.”
Yana traced her way back along the mountain trail to the rondhus. Her stomach growled, protesting that it’d missed breakfast. The ducks would be hungry too, and her mother would wonder what had happened to her. Danael had taken up much of her time. His anger dulled into something even more frightful as she explained what Sargan had overheard, and her father’s theory about the khanassa’s death. And finally, she’d told him his mother’s dying words. “Forgive your father,” she’d whispered. Danael grew quiet then, and still. He remained as motionless as the mountain rock when she left him.
Yana quickened her step. There was much to do now that Da was no longer around. She had the beehives to attend, and she was keen to spend the afternoon with her ducks. They were the only things that could bring her peace now.
But the exit to the forest trail was blocked by the dark-haired figure of Sargan. Yana hit a log with the stick she’d used as a walking staff and threw it under a bush. She had no wish to face Sargan’s questions now. She didn’t want to hear the lies he’d tell her about how he didn’t want to leave Estr Varg. She just wanted to eat something then attend to her chores. Alone.
“There you are! I've been looking everywhere for—”
“I don't care. Leave me alone!” Yana shouted as she elbowed past him.
“Ow! Yana, that hurt!” Sargan crouched with a hand clutching his arm, and a confou
nded expression on his face.
“I think that uncle of yours is right about you.” She stuck her chin out. “You are a hopeless warrior. What will you do when us Drakians overthrow your people? You will be the first to die.”
Sargan’s dark eyebrows came together. “Yana? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just leave me alone.” She moved on, then turned her head over her shoulder to shout one last insult. “Don't bother coming to say goodbye when your father takes you back to your palace. I don't want to hear it. I don't care. Good riddance!”
Yana stalked to the duckyard, temper blazing. Her anger bubbled and boiled and refused to cool no matter how she tried to calm herself. She decided against breakfast. Her hunger had faded under the giant fire in her belly. She focused on spreading a layer of scraps for the ducks, and ignoring Patch who waddled to her, quacking. She collected the eggs in a basket then charged down the well-worn path to the market.
The village appeared sombre today. Despite the clear blue sky and the morning heat, few people were out. The Zraemian encampment had caused fear to ripple through the village. Especially when the young Azzurian warriors with decorated and polished swords, and their curtain-skirts, stood ogling and laughing at them. Some villagers would not come out of their homes at all.
Yana grimaced as she entered the village proper. It’d be different if the khanassa was around to reassure them. It’d be different if Da was around. The whole clan had turned into nothing but a frightened mob of fragile old rabbits. What happened to their fighting spirit? They were Drakians!
At the market, Yana spotted her mother already at the stall, laying out her potions on the table. The khanax was with her, standing too close in Yana’s mind. He wore a strange smile on his face that gave Yana more shivery jitters along her spine, especially when she recalled her grama’s words about how the khanax desired her mother. Her anger flared again, and she stomped past the stall, dumping her basket of eggs on the table. She gave her mother a glare, before continuing on to the waterfront.
“Yana! Where are you going? Have you had breakfast?" Her mother called, but Yana ignored her.
At the escarpment, she climbed up to the ramparts and looked down at the sea. The water was a shimmering blue and clean and just looking at it made her feel calmer. But the ships belonging to Sargan’s father were out there too – a constant reminder of the Zraemian presence. Their dominance. Their power.
A temporary bridged floated on the water and connected the nearest ship to the jetties below. The ships were more sophisticated than the simple Drakian boats. They were larger and could transport more warriors than all their war boats put together.
Yana’s shoulders slouched. Everything was changing. Her father was gone, so was the khanassa, and soon Sargan would be gone too. Yana clenched her hands into fists. She wished her grandmother would return to them, but she also hoped she’d stay away. As soon as the khanax laid eyes on Grama, she would be outcast once and for all.
Danael
Danael sat uncomfortably upon the hard chair in the king’s tent. Commander Rigut and the captains had been sent out, and Danael found himself alone once more with the king, who poured them each a cup of Praetan wine.
Danael gulped it down. The fire of it burned through his veins and gave him some relief from the swirling emotions that had ruled his stomach since he spoke with Yana that morning.
“All Drakian leaders have been summoned and will each bring an army of a thousand soldiers here to Estr Varg,” the king said. “Of course, it remains to be seen if they will stand for, or against us. I will meet with your father soon, to resume our talks. If all goes well, I intend to leave your isles within the moon’s turn. We must return to Azzuri before summer’s end.”
Danael stiffened as the king refilled his cup, vaguely aware of how unusual such a gesture was. Back in his palace, the king didn’t lift a finger for such domestic trivialities as pouring wine. A servant was always on hand to perform menial tasks. Danael wondered if it provided the king with an odd novelty. The way wearing the linen skirts had for Danael when he first arrived at Azzuri. He sipped his wine. It all seemed like another lifetime ago.
“You are a free man, Danael, or soon will be once you are exchanged with my son. If it is your desire to remain here you may do so. It seems your people need strong leadership now. And with all you know of me and my people, you would be a calming influence for them.”
Danael frowned. He wondered what the king’s intentions really were. “You're right about the leadership. My mother was a fine khanassa. Brave. A brilliant strategist in war. She is missed.”
“And your father?”
Danael inhaled a sharp breath. It was difficult for him to keep control now when he thought about his father. He was angry enough that his mother, and Petar, had died. But was his father truly responsible? The possibility wasn’t easily dismissed.
“Danael?”
“My father is not even half the leader my mother was. I have concerns. Concerns I would rather not share at this moment.”
The king nodded. “I understand. But I have not changed my intentions. The goddess has instructed us to take ten thousand of your warriors back with us so that we may face the challenges to come. I would prefer to do so peaceably, and with your people’s consent. What can I offer your father in return?”
Danael clenched his jaw. “You really think you can tame our warriors, if you need to?”
The king brought the circle of wooden beads to his mouth for a moment, his eyes not leaving Danael. “I do not know. But I will have no choice in the matter if your people refuse to follow me.”
Danael winced. They must avoid bloodshed if they can. “My father has always been overly fond of gold. A rarity here in Drakia. But if you want to win the people, you could offer to help us drive back our eternal enemy. It’s what Petar worked so hard for.”
The king’s posture remained straight, his demeanor calm. His only movement, the twirling of the little wooden beads in his right hand. “We could offer gold and more besides. Tell me again of Drakia’s enemies.”
“The Halkans.” Danael hissed the word.
“They dwell north of here, yes?”
Danael nodded. “In the mountains, and beyond to the west. They return each summer with more warriors than the summer before. They occupied one of our isles, Kania Isht not five summer’s past. Kania is our largest and richest isle. The longhus there is like a palace of sorts, and has always been considered the symbolic head of Drakia. Most of the Kanes fled to neighboring Uthalia Isht, to the south, with their Khanassa, Bera. But many were captured be the Halkans and have become enslaved by them. Two summers ago the Halkan horde launched an attack on Uthalia. We sent our warriors with the other isles to drive them out. We thought we’d succeeded but were sorely mistaken. They’d fortified atop a mountain in the very middle of the isle, and stuck it out all wynter until reinforcements met them in the summer. The last campaign Petar fought was to drive their replenished forces from Uthalia. But we failed, and now the Halkans occupy two of our isles.”
“What interest is there for them here in Drakia? Why are they so intent on occupation?”
Danael’s lips curled. “They want our silver, mostly. There’s a never ending supply of it in the mountains, if you can stand mining the stuff in the depths of the tunnels. We take what we can, but extracting the silver is dangerous. It’s embedded in a black rock that explodes into fire too readily. Many have died seeking their riches.” Danael shook his head. “Their country to the north is filled with gold, or so we’ve heard.” He looked at the king. “Why are they so hungry for our silver? I think it’s us they want. Slaves.”
The king put down his cup and folded his hands across his lap. “They are expanding for some specific purpose, perhaps slavery is that reason. I will help your people. I will give your father my solemn word that once our war is complete, and we have attained the valorous victory Phadite has promised, we shall return to drive the Halkans back.
”
Danael stared at the king. “You would do that for us?”
The king shifted on his chair. “My father, King Amar-Yassur, is now considered by many to have been nothing more than a drunk who wagered everything he owned, his riches and his people – daughters, nieces, nephews. But few remember his early reign. It was my father-king who brought so many leal cities into Azzuri’s fold. My father wasn’t much of a warrior, he did not build our city so much through conquering as through negotiation, and fostering relationships. He nurtured close ties with other cities very early in his reign. What one city does for another, that city will gain back in a different way. That is my understanding of how political ties must work. It is the way we should transgress from this moment forward. War is a futile notion. It only brings death. But this new world order, this new way of surviving, it means we work together and that will be my promise to your father.”
“It is a generous offer. I hope my father heeds it.”
“Do you have suggestions as to how I should negotiate with him? You know him best.”
Danael shrugged. “I wish I could praise his merits just as you do of your father, Exalted. Unfortunately, my father is and always has been a selfish man, with a quick and unpredictable temper. The very opposite of my mother.” Danael looked the king in the eye. “You had best appeal to his selfishness. Emphasise what he personally will gain from this bargain and you will have a better chance of winning his assent.”
The king tilted his head. “And what of you? Will you remain? Or, will you return with me for another year to prepare for Gedjon-Brak?”
Danael licked his lips. “I need time.”
“Take your time. But not too long. I will be gone before the next moon.”
Sargan
When Sargan approached the stream that afternoon, he could tell just by the way Yana held her shoulders that she was still in her peculiar mood. Being in no temper for her reprimands, he back-stepped and turned to walk down to the village, avoiding her altogether. Anyway, he was late at it was.
