by Aderyn Wood
Yana shared her table with other young women, all Sargan’s royal cousins, and she wished Saraf was allowed to sit with her. The cousins tittered and chatted in quick, whispered Zraemian Yana had no hope of understanding. They cast glances her way now and then. Yana felt like a plain old skinny carrot sitting among a table of pretty roses. All the women in Zraemia were beautiful, with long shiny hair and various colours painted on their faces, and trinkets that trilled and jangled on their ears, wrists and ankles when they moved.
Yana ignored the cousins’ silly giggles and focused on the elevated table at the front of the dining hall. The king sat with his children and other important personages who would have been invited to dine with the king during the feast.
She recognised most of the people up there. Sargan sat next to the woman who was in charge of the temple. Blessed Siduri. She was called an arch priestess. Sargan’s face was animated and Yana felt a stab of pain for him too. All he wanted in life was to become a priest, perhaps the high priest one day. He had yabbered on and on about it back in Drakia. But now his father had put a stop to that, and Sargan was to become a soldier. Yana couldn’t understand it. On the ship, Sargan had worn the sword on his belt, but he’d never handled or polished it the way the others did. He couldn’t even bring himself to lob the head off a duck back in Drakia. How would he ever kill an enemy in battle?
Next to Sargan sat his sister, the Princess Heduanna. If Zraemian women were the epitome of beauty in all the world, then Heduanna was at the very top. Yana found herself wishing she had gleaming hair and round proportions like the princess, instead of skinny limbs and a scar on her lip.
She sighed and her gaze went to Danael, who also sat at the king’s table. She’d noticed the lingering looks between him and the princess on more than one occasion, and it wasn’t long before she spotted another one. Danael gave the princess a lengthy stare, and Heduanna openly returned it before looking away. Yana bit her lip. Danael had been good to her, checking in on her all the time after the incident with Patch on the ship, and every day he would meet with her here in the palace to inquire about the ducks and tell her to summon him if she needed anything, no matter how trivial.
They looked at each other again. They love each other. But nothing would come of their love. The princess was to be ordained in the temple within the year, and priests took oaths of celibacy. Sargan said his father’s mind was made up. He wanted Heduanna to be the next high priestess of Azzuri. Sargan’s eyes drooped when he’d told her, but he’d come to terms with it now, or so he said. His ambition now belonged to his sister. He had to let it go.
Yana watched the king next. He was in deep conversation with his son, the heir-prince Hadanash on one side, and another personage of importance who Yana didn’t know on the other. King Amar-Sin was a strange mix of cruelty and kindness. The way he treated Sargan, the way he didn’t understand about Patch, often these thing made her hate him. But she couldn’t bring herself to make a straight comparison to the khanax. No. If anything, King Amar-Sin reminded her more of Khanassa Ashrael. His facial expression remained largely neutral with only a slight smile, or raised brow from time to time to reveal somewhat of his thoughts.
And he was fair, at least that’s what Sargan thought, despite all he’d been denied. The king held court, something like the Drakian clansmote, every two or three days, just as he’d done on the ships. He’d listen to endless complaints, from rich men and poor alike, and cast judgment according to his codes.
Sargan had proudly informed her of Azzuri’s low crime. There was little in the way of murder, theft and other misdemeanors, unlike other Zraemian cities. Yana had gaped. Murder was so rare in Drakia the only ones she knew of were the famed murders the visiting sagasts would sing of. Unless it were true the khanassa and Yana’s father had been murdered. What if I’ve left Ma alone with a murderer?
King Amar-Sin suddenly looked at Yana and gave her a nod. Yana blinked and sipped her wine, her cheeks flushing. Ever since Yana informed the king of his death, rather than him being angry as she expected, as Krasto would have been, he’d grown more respectful toward her. On the ship, she had been guarded well and the royal cousins no longer looked at her, or her ducks.
“More wine, lady?” One of the servants asked her. It was Ri. He gave her a smile that made Yana’s stomach swirl again and she nodded, holding up her cup.
Ri said something else to her but the words were too quick and they eluded her. He flashed her a smile and she liked the way his gaze lingered. Her blush crept along her neck which only worsened when the royal cousins at her table renewed their giggling. She gave them a glare. They could laugh all they like, she didn’t care.
She sipped her wine. Sargan had helped her learn Drakian and Zraemian, as well as the desert speech. He said he knew more languages too, and she wanted to learn them all. She’d been born worse than a mute in the eyes of many, mumbling her own strange language. But now she couldn’t get enough of words. She seemed to master languages the way she mastered animals. And she yearned to visit the strange places so that she could speak the foreign words at length.
Yana glanced around, looking for someone willing to practice her Zraemian with. The young women at her table were all focussed on each other, still talking quietly and giggling now and then, but she didn’t want to talk with them anyway.
This feast was much quieter than the one held to celebrate the king’s return. There were fewer people present and unlike the other feast there’d been no entertainments. No dancing or fire spinning or poetry reading. Sargan said he was often called upon to recite his poetry on such occasions, but he showed no sign of moving from his chair that night, or this one.
Her eyes followed the servant, Ri. He appeared to give a number of people the same kind of smile he’d given her. Even the young men. Yana frowned. That was another oddity about Zraemia. Here, men loved men. Sargan told her that with a shrug as though he spoke of naught but the weather.
“What about the women?” she’d asked.
“What about them?”
“Do they love each other too?”
Sargan gave her a quizzical look. “Some do, naturally.”
Yana glanced at the guests on other tables. She noticed two women lean close, their heads almost touching. Were they lovers?
A movement caught her eye and she looked to the front of the hall. The king rose and turned to leave. Yana watched him go but a tap on her shoulder made her turn back.
Qisht stood by her chair, looking even stranger than normal. He wore the red paint on his lips and cheeks and the gems in his ear gleamed a similar rouge hue. “You’re to come with me, young Yana.”
Yana swallowed. Qisht made her nervous and she didn’t like the thought of going anywhere with such a strange man. She glanced at Sargan but he was still in conversation with the priestess.
Qisht leaned down and spoke quietly, punctuating each word so that she could understand him. “The king requires your presence.”
Yana followed Qisht who walked silently, with a particular way of swishing his hips, almost as though he floated, from the hall and through the passageway, until they came to a modest room. It was rather plain compared to the other grand rooms in the palace. There was a large oval table in the middle and the king sat at the far end. Another man from the feast, the old man with the dark skin and bald head, sat next to him. He gave Yana a warm smile and the tension in her shoulders eased somewhat.
Qisht gestured for her to step forward and she did so, then the servant left them.
“Thank you for coming, Yana.” The king raised his hand with the ring on his finger glimmering in the dim light of the sconces along the wall.
Yana glanced at the old man who gave her another smile and which seemed to say there’s nothing to be afraid of.
She stepped toward the king’s outstretched hand and took it in her own small and sweaty palm. She held her breath, waiting for the set of images that came to her last time, but only the blackness filled
her vision as she closed her eyes and kissed the king’s ring.
“Please, take a seat.”
Yana sat in the large chair next to the king, and avoided the gaze of the old man who didn't shift his eyes from her.
“This is Zamug, he is a desert seer. Has Sargan told you about him?”
Yana nodded. Sargan had told her this old man could see the future, and that he travelled the desert with his tribe, returning to Azzuri now and then. Sargan’s father held him in the highest regard.
She thought of Sidmon back in Estr Varg. He too was supposed to be able to predict events in the future, but such guidance was only for the ears of the seeker. And Hador would freeze over before Yana would ever approach Sidmon. Few did, for the power of a seer of Vulkar meant the time and place of one’s death could be revealed and few heeded such knowledge. Yana frowned with the realisation that she’d seen the king’s death. Did that mean she was a seer of Vulkar’s too? But such a thing was impossible. Only men could follow Vulkar.
“Do you know what a desert seer is, Yana?” the old man asked in perfect mountain speech.
Yana blinked. “You speak my language!”
“The mountain speech? It is similar to our desert speech.” His gaze remained on her as he spoke. “You did well to kiss the king’s hand. It is expected.”
Yana glanced at the king.
“No need to look his way, child. Now come closer would you? I need to see you.” He waved his hand.
Yana stood and stepped past the king until she came to stand in front of the old seer. From this vantage she could see the deep lines on his dark face. His bald head held not one hair.
“The king tells me you saw a prophecy about his death.”
Yana swallowed. “That’s right.”
“I’m going to look deep into your eyes, child. It may feel a little strange, but it won’t last long and then you may go. Now, look at me, and don’t move your focus from my eyes.”
Yana took a breath and forced herself to peer into the dark discs of the seer’s eyes. His irises were as black and infinite as his pupils. A sudden giddiness fell over her and she resisted the temptation to turn her head. She swayed on her feet but still she held the seer’s gaze, not that she could move her eyes from him now, he seemed to hold her attention with an invisible force.
The old man groaned then and reached out a heavy hand to grip her shoulder.
“Great Mother,” he uttered, and the spell was broken.
Yana stepped back to catch her breath.
“What is it?” the king asked.
“Yes, she has it. And it is strong,” Zamug replied in Zraemian.
The king looked at her. “It seems you are more than a mere duck herder, Yana.”
Danael
Danael ran into Ubranum in the passageway on the second level of the palace.
“Good day, barbarian.” Ubranum smiled.
Danael gave a curt nod. “You make your way to the barracks?”
“Yes, shall we walk there together?”
“Of course.”
“It will be hot out on the plains today.” They spoke of the combat training they were about to undertake with Danael’s fellow Drakians as they fell into step, going out onto the terrace and descending to the ground level where they walked through the palace gates with a nod to the guards.
Once on the city streets, they headed for the barracks. Ubranum slowed his pace, and lowered his voice. “Have you seen the princess yet, friend?”
Danael cleared his throat. He’d thought of little else since his return. It was why he trained so much. He spent his days duelling in the ring with any willing opponent or helping other Drakians learn the secrets of Zraemian warfare in the fields until the sun sank well beyond the horizon. Swordplay and warfare were the only pastimes that kept his mind from Heduanna. Or his murderous father. He’d spoken at length with warriors he trusted from Estr Varg, Oryn especially. It was well rumored in Drakia that somewhat was amiss with Danael’s father, and many suspected him of foul play, but no one had the proof needed to bring their concerns out into the light of day.
“Only from a distance,” Danael replied with short clipped words.
Ubranum stopped walking and placed a hand on Danael’s shoulder. “I didn’t—at least I don’t think I did. That night. Aktu.”
Danael smiled. “I know. She told me.” He kept walking. “You were too drunk to stand and piss let alone love a woman like her.” Danael nearly choked on his words. It still riled him how she’d chosen Ubranum that night, irrational as the feelings were.
“You miss her?”
Danael paused his step. “I do. But it only makes it worse when oafs such as yourself bring it up in conversation.” Danael gave Ubranum a shove and they raced the short distance to the barracks.
The barracks had been extended in recent moons. The combat ring stood in the very centre, as always, but new buildings had been erected along the eastern side, and encroached on the field beyond. The buildings were mostly dormitories that now housed the new Drakian army.
In the armoury, Danael was reunited with his warband. They hadn’t been together since they’d all left the ships and it proved something of a welcome reunion to see his band of friends once again. He was even pleased to hear Varashti’s whining about the coming field drills.
Ru and Tizgar gave the merchant’s son a shove.
Ibbi reminded Danael that he owed him at least three cups of beer from a wager he’d lost on the ship.
Nanum gave him no more than a nod, before returning to polishing the hilt of his sword. A new one given to him by his uncle in celebration of Nanum reaching his eighteenth sommer.
Lu sidled up to Danael and asked, “Will you be a commander now, Danael?”
Danael dropped the leather skirt he’d been handling and looked at them. Their wide eyes signifying the matter was foremost in each of their minds. Shouts and muted conversations wafted to them from the other side of the armoury, but they didn’t take their eyes from him.
Danael frowned. “I’m not even captain. Why do you ask?”
“What is the king thinking?” Lu began pacing and brandishing his arms in flying gestures the way he did whenever an idea, or an injustice, took hold in his restless mind. “Can’t he see he needs you to lead your brethren? I’ve always liked you, Danael, but you’re nothing like your barbarian brothers.”
“Don’t forget the sisters,” Ubranum said with a grin. “I do so love watching their golden hair, and long limbs.”
“Haven’t touched one yet, have you?” Ibbi looked up from his tablet. “One of those spearwives will cut your hand off if you tried, I’d wager.”
Ubranum smirked and pointed to his face. “Not if they saw this handsomeness. I’ll take that wager, Ibbi.”
Lu threw his hands in the air again. “Would you two be serious for one moment!” He turned to look at Danael once more.
“I know what you mean, Lu.” Danael shook his head. “My Drakian friends have just about drunk all the beer in Zraemia and slept with all the whores in both Phadite’s houses.”
“Well,” Ru said, honing his favourite dagger. “At least it means they’re learning the language. I mean they must at least know some words to undertake such transactions.”
“Not necessarily,” Tizgar replied. “The language of love is a common one.”
“I think there’s more to it than an erect cock in your back, lover.”
Tizgar raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Funny, it always sends the right message for me.”
Varashti put his two hands over his ears. “How many times have I told you two I don’t want to hear your bedroll antics.”
“Yes, I’m getting a little tired of them myself,” Lu said, looking between Ru and Tizgar down his long nose. “If it’s not you two flirting your skirts off, it’s Ubranum here bragging of his latests conquests in the palace.”
“Do I?” Ubranum said, a look of innocence on his face. “I can set you up with one of the
royal cousins if you’re interested, Lu.”
Lu rolled his eyes and spun back to Danael. “The whole city has done nothing but go to ruin and degradation since the arrival of the barbarians. It’s as though we’ve gone back to the days of Amar-Yassur’s rule. Does the king think he will win Gedjon-Brak by making our enemies drunk?”
“Well, it’s been done before,” Nanum said, without looking up from polishing his sword.
Lu sighed with a dramatic drop of his shoulders and pinched his nose. “Yes, Namum, it’s been done before, on foreign tribes who knew no better. It will not work on a wizened and beer-drinking enemy. For remember, it will be Zraemian against Zraemian in the Great War to Come, and half of us are destined to die.” Lu’s voice had escalated and echoed around the armoury. A moment of silence filled the space and they eyed each other warily. Any mention of Gedjon-Brak always made the Zraemians nervous.
“I say again,” Lu almost whispered. “What is the king thinking?”
Danael let go a slow breath. “It’s impossible to get to the king since our return. I know not what he thinks about this war or anything.”
“Nor do I.” A new voice entered their circle and they turned. Sargan stood before them looking more despondent than ever.
“Sargan,” Lu hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Sargan slouched and took a step closer to join their circle. “I’ve just come from my brother’s office. He instructed me to join you.”
Danael narrowed his eyes. Hadanash had been acting in the general’s stead while Mutat was still at what remained of their defences at the Five Sisters. “You mean, he wants you to take part in the drills today?”
Sargan nodded and the others all raised their eyebrows in response.
