by Aderyn Wood
Danael was struck once again by the vastness of the desert. Golden sand extended all around them, an impossible distance, as though all the world were made of the stuff and the blue seas and mountain forests of Drakia were naught but a dream.
Heduanna stared at the horizon. The fire in her eyes matched the glow of the dusk sky. “I’ve remembered,” she whispered.
“Remembered what?”
“Princess,” Zamug called out as he approached them.
Danael looked at the group before them. The Cassites were readying to leave, their camels stood with their odd-looking dignity. Heads held high and humps loaded lightly with the tribe’s scant possessions. The tribe’s scraggy collection of desert dogs ran in in circles, tails wagging, eager to get going.
Zamug took Heduanna’s satchel from her. “Here comes your father-king, princess. You must say your goodbyes and then we leave.”
Danael turned to see the king stride toward them, Sargan at his side. The king looked tired. Dark rings marked his eyes and he seemed to be perspiring quite a lot. He paused a moment to tell his guards to wait, then he stepped closer.
“You didn’t lunch with me, daughter,” the king said, giving Danael a sideways glance.
Danael swallowed a hot lump of saliva, his cheeks warming with more than desert heat.
Heduanna wove her small hand through Danael’s. “I was with the man I love, Father. Only Phadite knows when I shall see him again.”
The king gave an almost imperceptible nod. Danael tried not to wince and turned his gaze to Sargan. The prince’s eyes were red and swollen and his mouth worked in a quivering fashion.
“Well, daughter,” the king’s voice cracked slightly when he spoke and he cleared his throat. “Let us have our goodbyes. Sargan, say goodbye to your sister-princess.”
At that Sargan seemed to lose his composure and his shoulders slouched as he stepped forward and embraced his sister. “I’m going to miss you, Hed.”
Heduanna wrapped her arms around the prince. “And I you, brother. But remember all I’ve told you. You’re a man now, not a child, you must be strong for what is to come.”
Sargan nodded and stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm. “I will.”
“And look after, Yana.”
“Of course.”
“Father.” Heduanna stepped forward and kissed her father’s hand then his cheek. “The goddess has one more message for you.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “One more? I thought you’d told me all you saw in the visions.”
“I had thought so too, but there was another. I’d forgotten it, but,” she glanced at Danael. “My dreams have revealed it once more.”
The king nodded. “Go on.”
“Phadite’s message was specifically for your ears, and ran thus: let all the venom that lurks in the sands spring forth.”
The king frowned. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a riddle,” Sargan whispered.
“I believe I know what it means, or rather who it means,” Heduanna gave her father a level stare. “I think you know too, father.”
Danael squinted. I think I know also.
“I will think on it,” the king promised. “Farewell, daughter, I shall leave you now to say goodbye to your beau. I will miss you, always.”
Sargan and the king walked forward to speak with Zamug.
Heduanna wrapped her arms around Danael’s torso and lifted her chin to him, without a care that they were in the open and her father-king was not ten paces from them.
Finally, she drew away. “Goodbye, lover. We shall meet again. Be ready for that day.” She smiled and turned, walking a few steps toward the tribe before turning back to face him. “Remember your role, Danael.”
Danael nodded.
He watched her fall into step with the tribe, and he stood in that spot watching until they were swallowed by the sands and the sky faded from a fiery yellow, to orange, to purple and then black.
He thought of the queer message from Phadite to the king. Let all the venom that lurks in the sands spring forth. Was it a riddle, or something more obvious?
He shrugged and turned, allowing his feet to take him into the city. His friends would be in one of the beer houses now. He headed toward the river streets. Tonight he would get leglessly drunk.
Yana
Yana made her way through the bazaar, speaking over her shoulder to Ilyag who acted as her guard, again. “Should we visit the tea house first?” It was a strange thing to have a khanalla guard her. According to Zraemian custom, Ilyag was royalty. There’d be no way Heduanna or any of the royal cousins in the palace would act as guard for a mere duck herder like Yana, but then they didn’t know how to handle a sword like Ilyag did, and Danael insisted Yana was guarded whenever she left the palace gates.
“What be the hour?” Ilyag asked, gripping the hilt of her sword at her belt and glancing toward the temple.
“A hand past mid-morn, perhaps,” Yana replied.
Ilyag grunted. “I’m supposed to be in the ring soon.”
Yana’s forays into the city squares and bazaars had become something of a habit, and Yana and Ilyag explored the city nearly every day. Yana especially enjoyed the days when the bards could be found in the great plaza. Their old Zraemian epics reminded her of the sagas at home, and her father’s stories.
At first, Ilyag didn’t seem too impressed about Danael’s order for her to play guard for a skinny duck herder. She’d described Yana as “odd in the extreme”. Drakians didn’t take well to being given instructions by anyone other than their Khanassa, and especially those born of a Khannan hus like Ilyag. At home, Ilyag was considered an equal to Danael, both of them the children of Khanassas. Though Ilyag wasn’t the eldest of her sisters, so it was unlikely she would win a Choosing to become Kania’s next Khanassa – if they were ever able to rid the Halkans from the isle once and for all.
“Let’s go straight to the meats stalls then,” Yana said.
“And what oddity will you dine on today?” Ilyag asked, her mouth pinched as though she tasted something foul.
Yana grinned. “You’ll see.”
When they’d first explored the city, they’d drawn curious looks from the citizens. Ilyag’s appearance was typical of the Drakian people. She was tall. Taller even than some Drakian men and she towered over the Zraemians. She was well-muscled on account of her warring and her practice with both spear and sword. Her skin was fair and often blushed pink from the hot desert sun. Her hair was golden and when she combed it out it ran to her waist, though usually she wore it in tight braids. Most of the glances from curious onlookers had been focussed on Ilyag, though by now the Azzurian people had grown used to the tall light-haired barbarians, and they walked through the city like any other native-born citizen or visitor from far off lands.
Yana, on the other hand, didn’t look all that different from any Zraemian young woman. Though she wasn’t as beautiful. And her skin was paler, but she could pass as Zraemian with a bit of that makeup they wore. Especially a Zraemian from one of the coastal cities like Praeta, at least that’s what Sargan told her.
They wove their way through the bustling crowd. The various scents from perfumes, cooked goods, burning oils and incense filled the alleys that made up the trading market the Zraemians called the bazaar. Yana wished she could bring her mother here to show her the many wonders.
Her Ma’s herbs and potions would bring a lot of trade, perhaps even gold. Yana’s heart flared with the possibilities as she pictured her mother in one of the stalls, before she remembered Krasto. She bit her bottom lip hard and wrenched her mind back to the present. There was no use worrying about Ma. Stuck here, there was naught Yana could do. She forced her attention back on the various stalls.
Everything was ordered in Azzuri. Yana liked that. She liked the straight streets, some of which were even given names. She liked the way the bell tolled each hour, and how the hours also had names. She liked hearing the differe
nt languages too. Everyone spoke Zraemian, but there were dialects from various cities, and also the desert speech and languages from lands far to the east. Not even Sargan knew those ones. Though Saraf did, and Sargan was keen to learn from her. Yana’s stomach clenched whenever she thought about Sargan spending time with Saraf. He seemed interested in her for more than the lessons in Tarzyshtan speech.
“Yana, wait a moment.”
Yana turned to face Ilyag who had paused outside a stall selling makeup, perfume and oils for making the skin supple, apparently. “Something caught your eye?”
Ilyag frowned. “What’s the stuff called they put under their eyes here?”
“Kohl?”
“That’s it,” Ilyag smiled, but her smile faded when the stallholder, a little Zyrrian man wearing a blue turban and a gold ring in his ear approached.
Sargan had told Yana that blue was the most expensive cloth as the dye must be ground from lapis lazuli. Being wealthy, or at least appearing so, was important to Zraemians.
“A glorious morning to you, barbarian friend,” the merchant said. His smiled broadened almost as wide as his head. When he spoke he gestured wildly and his heavy perfume tickled Yana’s nose.
Yana looked at Ilyag, but the khanalla stood with that frown still planted on her face.
“Good morrow, friend,” Yana replied in the Zraemian custom, even though she wasn’t the one who was interested in what the merchant had to sell. “Ilyag, are you going to trade for something?” She switched back to Drakian.
Ilyag blinked. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I still can’t speak their confounding tongue.”
“What do you want? Some kohl?”
“Kohl?” the merchant said. “Allow me.” He walked to the back of the stall to retrieve a tray filled with clay jars.
“Why do you want kohl, anyway? Are you going to start putting paint on your face?” Yana asked.
Ilyag shook her head. “I believe it gives them an advantage in battle. It helps with the blasted glare.”
Yana nodded and leaned closer to Ilyag. “You know I used to be virtually mute?”
“Mute?”
“Aye. The best way to learn how to speak is to force yourself to do it. So I’m going to skip over to the meat stalls and you can trade for your kohl.”
A look of terror filled Ilyag’s blue eyes, and she reached for Yana’s arm, but Yana dodged and skipped away leaving Ilyag to her purchase.
The meat stalls were filled with the aroma of charred meat. There were so many different types of meat that weren’t even heard of in Drakia and Yana was intent on trying them all. Alligator, river cow, desert hare, turtle, river snail, and camel. And there were exotic smoked meats that came from the coast along Praeta like sea snail, cuttlefish and shark. Today, Yana decided it was time to try a Zraemian delicacy. One that had seemed as exotic to her as the desert itself when she’d first seen it. Now, she was ready to try the strange delicacy.
She paused at the stall and in a heartbeat the merchant appeared before her. “Good morn, Yana,” he said.
Yana lifted her chin the way Sargan did when he bartered. “Good morn, Yossif.”
“Is your friend the prince with you today?” Yossif’s brown eyes scanned the crowd and she detected the distinct glint of hope. All the merchants enjoyed it when the prince traded with them. It was good for business.
“No, he’s guarding my ducks.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. Saraf was supposed to be guarding them. Sargan was with her for his lessons, or so he said. Her stomach tightened again at the thought of them sitting by the stream, watching her ducks, their heads together.
“Ah, your famous ducks.” Yossif smiled as he tapped a temple where his greying hair had been pulled back tight into a knot atop his head. “Will I ever get to sample of their meat?”
Yana put her chin higher. “Perhaps, one day. It will be far superior than any meat you’ve tried before.”
“Perhaps we should make a wager on it.”
“Wager?”
Yossif’s eyes sparkled. “It’s a serious claim, young Yana. Why not put it to the test? We could do a blind tasting, Five of my most luxurious meats against your finest duck. A worthy wager wouldn’t you say?”
Yana had her chin up so high she was virtually looking down her nose at the meat merchant. “You’re on, Yossif, though we’ll choose two panelists each and the order of tasting shall be random.”
Yossif bowed his head. “I agree to those terms, young Yana. Now, can I tempt you to sample some of my finest meat today?” He swept an arm over the table before him.
“What do you have?”
Yossif’s hands performed dramatic flinging gestures as he talked her through each delicacy. There was smoked eel from the Bablim forest streams, pickled octopus from Praeta, freshly fired spider’s legs all the way from Tarzyshta, local marinated rat’s legs, hog’s trotters, goat’s tongues, and much more besides.
Yana screwed her nose up at the spiders and rats legs, but held her gaze on the tray of roasted cicadas. “I’ll try one these please.”
Yossif grinned. “A fine choice.” He picked one up and sprinkled a pinch of salt on it and handed it over with a flourish.
Yana took the morsel. It was hot and smelled good, but its bulging eyes gave her the jibbers. It was a cicada, that was certain. A fried cicada. Can I really eat it?
“Are you really going to eat that?” Ilyag had found her and watched with a look of horror on her face, as though Yana was about to eat a mouthful of mud.
“What have you done to your face?” Yana asked, unable to retain a grin. Ilyag looked nothing short of ridiculous. Pink rouge had been liberally smeared on her cheeks, and the kohl beneath her eyes was clunky and crooked, and she wreaked of a perfume far too sweet.
Ilyag gave her a scowl. “I told you not to leave me with that merchant.”
Yana laughed.
“Well are you going to eat that or not?”
Yana nodded, closed her eyes and popped the critter in her mouth. Crunchy but delicious, just as she expected.
“Disgusting.” Ilyag was shaking her head.
“Did you trade for your kohl, or just get your face painted?” Yana asked, with half a mouthful.
“I got some, with no thanks to you. Don’t ever leave me again with a merchant. I ended up trading a perfectly good silver bracelet my sisters gave me before I left.”
Yana’s eyebrows shot up. “You were robbed.”
Ilyag looked around, startled. “When? Where?”
Yana laughed. “No not like that,” she said. “It’s a phrase the Zraemians have if you are unfairly traded in the bazaar. They say you were robbed of your wealth.” She shook her head. “Never mind. Sargan and I will get the bracelet back for you.”
“Good,” Ilyag said with a huff. “Now, I best get to the combat ring.”
“Yes, and I best check on my ducks.”
Ilyag looked at Yana squarely. “You know the locals often attend the ring for some entertainment. They watch us duel and train. It’s quite fun, actually. Why don’t you come watch?”
Yana shook her head. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t be able to tolerate poor Sargan getting walloped.”
When Yana returned to the palace gardens, her ducks were sleeping, bills firmly tucked under wings, like little puffy clouds on the grassy bank.
Saraf approached with a wide smile. Being a slave from Tarzyshta, Saraf’s skin was as dark as coal and when she smiled her teeth flashed a brilliant white. Saraf was an animal lover just as Yana was. Together they marveled over the bright colours on the wings of the insects that sought shelter in the coolness of palace crevices, or the rainbow plummage of the partridges that flew into the gardens daily and shared in the feed for the ducks.
Here in Zraemia, there was a never ending supply of wheat. Grain was so abundant that it was the basis for trade currency. People at the market traded in grain tokens. Little clay discs given out by officials that allowed the people access to a quota
of grain. One clay grain token gave enough wheat to feed the average family for a quarter-moon. Sargan had told her that and like everything else in Azzuri, Yana found it fascinating. Any Azzurian citizen could go to the granaries and present their token to collect a quota of grain at any time. Or they could trade their token for something else.
“They’ve had their wheat?” Yana tried out Saraf’s language as she approached.
“Yes, mistress,” the servant replied.
Yana frowned. “Please don’t call me that.”
Saraf threw a palm to her her mouth. “Apologies, m—Yana. I always forget.” Her smile broadened. “Come, there is something I’ve been waiting to show you. You will be so pleased!”
Yana follwed Saraf across the bank, somewhat disappointed to see not one duck had raised a lazy head to greet her. In the duckyard, Saraf gave Yana another smile before she pointed to a bed of wheat straw. “A nest, uncover it and look for yourself.”
Yana’s heart skipped as she gave Saraf a smile of her own. Slowly she bent and pulled back some of the straw, and there in the middle of the nest lay a perfectly white egg. Yana let her breath go. “Oh, Saraf!”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Saraf said. “Finally they are laying.”
Yana picked up the egg, it was still slightly warm. “Yes, I was so afraid they wouldn’t.”
“Soon we shall have ducklings, yes?”
“Well, it will be a little while yet. But this is a good sign.”
“Yana.”
Yana turned to see Sargan limping toward hair. He carried a heavy satchel. As he drew closer the bruise on his forehead was clear to see. It was a hard lump, red and angry-looking.
Yana shook her head. “You’ve been hurt again? I thought Danael was protecting you?”
“What? Oh, this,” Sargan pointed to his forehead, as he gave a sideways glance at Saraf. “It’s quite all right. Just a light touch from Danael.”
“Danael! He’s hitting you too now?”
Sargan threw his hand in the air. “No, not at all. It’s not like that.” He glanced at Saraf again. “I can look after myself, you know. And Danael’s been teaching me how. And I’ve been learning much about battle strategy. I never realised just how fascinating it is. And the way your people go warring.” He shook his head. “I wish you’d told me earlier about this kind of stuff, I might have included it in my histories of your people. Well, I will start another history on Drakian warfare, anyway—”
