Dark Sea's End (Beyond Ash and Sand Book 1)

by Richard Nell

  "You called me the prodigal son mere moments ago, father."

  "All my sons are prodigal," King Etzil Mar muttered, then hissed air and scattered papers as he stepped from the table. "Embrace me, boy. And tell me what sins you've managed since this morning."

  Yacat went to his father's strong arms without discomfort. When it was over he winced because in fact he had been rather undisciplined. "I insulted High Priest Citla," he admitted. "A small matter. But I left him at the main temple of…"

  "Heavens tremble, boy, I was joking. Oh nevermind. Leave us!" Etzil gestured at the scribes, who rose and saluted as they left without concern, despite the bluster. The king of Copanoch's rages and temper were both famous and well known to be more act than emotion. When the three of them were alone, the king's face changed, his eyes and tone matching the truth of his nature—restless schemer, brilliant strategist, and the pure ambition of a man who had expanded a city into a kingdom.

  "I have two pieces of news and neither of them are good."

  Yacat sighed and sat beside his brother. "Shouldn't your other sons be with us before we start belly aching?"

  "No." The king sat, and for the first time Yacat began to worry. Meetings with only his father and the heir were rare and serious. "First, we've captured strange prisoners from the coast. Some kind of albinos—a giant of a man with demon eyes, and a woman the size of Uncle Anatzi."

  Yacat looked from the serious faces of his father and brother, and burst out laughing. "You were starting to worry me, father. This is why we're having a secret meeting? Because you captured a pair of freaks?"

  "There's more of them," the crown prince added. "Some farmers fled when they spotted them in the jungle. Our men say they ran to the coast, and took fishing boats to a strange warship they couldn't recognize or explain."

  Yacat shrugged. "Send a fleet. You're always whining our navy costs too much and has no purpose."

  Etzil waved a hand in dismissal. "Of course I have. But I'll want you to see the prisoners. Speak with the men who saw the vessel, and have your best men ready if I call. We can't afford any surprises. Not now. There's to be no feasts, no rituals, no raids or patrols or anything until I say otherwise."

  "You make me very happy, father. I despise all those things."

  "This is serious, Yacat." The king released a breath and sat back in his chair. "I've been speaking with High Priest Nahua."

  The name brought heat to Yacat's face and gut, for it was the brother of the priest he'd killed as a boy—and he had risen greatly in power in the temple since. "And what brilliant insight did the head fool have for us this time," Yacat refrained from spitting on his father's floor.

  "High Priest Nahua," the king emphasized, "told us not only to expect a dangerous omen before the festival of stars, but that both the other great cities have been in discussions without us on the matter of main concern."

  By this the king referred to the only thing he had been thinking of since Yacat could remember—the alliance of the three kingdoms of the valleys, and the discussion of an emperor. Yacat rolled his eyes. "So these strange slaves are your dangerous omen? You think he predicted it? No doubt the priests of Centnaz tell every family their allies are excluding them. They prefer us divided. They don't want an emperor. They want power for themselves."

  "Whether or not he predicted it is irrelevant," said the heir. "It has been announced. This will enter the minds of every family from here to the sea."

  "The priests of Centnaz have nothing against an emperor," said the king, and Yacat found he couldn't look away from his father's eyes. "They merely wish an emperor they consider a friend. An emperor they can trust."

  "Well that rules out the three of us," Yacat said plainly.

  His father took a long and disquieting breath, then released it. He leaned forward, which seemed some signal to Yacat's brother who did the same, taking a pitcher of oven-cooked agave and pouring it into three untouched cups set out by the heap of papers.

  "Our treasury has never been wealthier," said Etzil more quietly. "Our allies are loyal, our enemies are weak. The strength of our crops is second only to the strength of our army, and thanks to you my son, our borders are secure." When Yacat said nothing, the king met his eyes and held them. "If an emperor were chosen, our family would be all but certain to succeed."

  Yacat snorted. "The devourer's priests will never…"

  "Save for the priests." The King finished, and drank his cup. Both men waited until Yacat did the same. The heir refilled them, and the king went on. "But I have obtained certain assurances. The festival of the stars is coming. It coincides this year with holy dates on both the divine and civil calendar. This time more than ever will be seen as the truth of a family's commitment to Centnaz, and to their piety. We must therefore choose a sacrifice."

  Still Yacat said nothing. His mind seemed unable to comprehend his father's intention, save that he himself could be offered. Yacat had spent a lifetime disrespecting the new priests and their temples, preferring at all times the old gods and ways. He withheld tribute, he mocked their priests openly, he praised the other gods, and even beat a few of their disrespectful warrior-priests in his army when the moment arose. His life in offering would be logical, and if so, he would obey without objection.

  Death had not frightened Yacat in war, and it did not frighten him now. He had lived all his life honorably and for duty, and would die a hundred times for his family's dynasty, if that was what was required. Yet he did not think this was the answer. Yacat's father was not a wasteful man, and he knew his son was the most feared general in the valleys—that he was whispered of by their allies and enemies alike, loved and respected by the army. To discard him was to throw away his main weapon before a battle.

  "Your brother and I have discussed it," the king's tone had become neutral. "We have decided. An offering of royal blood will demonstrate our seriousness. If it was done well, if it was given the piety it deserves, with a single loss and a single night's work we might make our family emperors for two generations before another vote."

  Yacat nodded, his throat constricted in anger. Common or noble, he had reviled the practice long before he witnessed it. So many lives, so much needless death, the unnatural surrender of life to a silent god. The decision surprised him, but as he accepted his own death he found he was not unhappy. He had long tired of war, yet knew because of his family he would never be allowed to live in peace. Let it end now, he thought, let me die in service to my family, in honor, and be done with all the death.

  "We have decided to give the gods your eldest son, Yacat."

  The words seemed like some terrible magic that turned the air to water. Yacat found he could not move as they continued, like stones rippling through a pond.

  "I will honor my grandson," the king's words echoed through the water, forcing their way to Yacat's ears. "I will honor my family and my people and give up a boy I love. And in so doing, your brother will be emperor of all."

  Chapter 14

  When he again trusted his legs, Yacat stood and returned his cup to his father's table. "The priest," he whispered. "It wasn't your idea was it. It was the priest who asked for my son."

  The moment of silence was enough. Yacat sneered and turned to the two men he loved more than any others in the world—men he had killed for, men he would die for. "You know as well as I his brother wanted my wife, that she rejected him. He knows what this will do to her. Does this seem to you the request of a god, father, or that of a bitter, angry man?"

  The king shrugged as he stood. "It makes no difference, my son."

  "It does to me!" Yacat felt the killing urge itch his sword-arm, the hated call to blood he had always felt and always reviled. He heard footsteps and Uncle Anatzi stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. "Did you know of this?"

  Yacat met the man's hard eyes, and found them waver.

  "I…nephew…"

  Yacat closed his eyes and dropped to the cold stone. His kin came to him, puttin
g their hands on his face and arms, reminding him he had more children, that he was young and would have many more. He heard his father promise him more wives, more wealth, more lands—that he could embrace this moment, embrace the new god of Copanoch and the valley, discarding his past sins against him.

  "So many gifts," Yacat said when he could speak, feeling a rage beyond reason, an indignation he couldn't articulate. But understanding came. "Which of your gifts will give me back my honor?" he whispered. "Which will cleanse my betrayal of my child?"

  They had more useless words but Yacat didn't listen. He stood and pushed off their hands, and perhaps saw the first signs of concern in their eyes that he would rebel against them. His uncle wore his knife, and Yacat laughed as he saw his hand ready to seize it. He strode forward and grabbed his uncle's arms with all his considerable strength, holding the blade sheathed.

  "A man is nothing without honor, uncle, without devotion. Not in a hundred lifetimes, not after a thousand tortures or for the promise of eternal life would I disobey my king, would I strike him down." He met the man's already diminished gaze, then his brother's, then his father's. "All I have is yours. That includes the life of my son. But no stranger, no priest will do this thing. So I will be the one to give his life to your god."

  The king of Copanoch nodded slowly. Though it was clear he also felt sadness, he was unable to hide his pleasure. "He is all our god, my son. That is a truth you must embrace. When you give your boy, I will be there, standing beside you, with all my support and love."

  * * *

  Yacat walked the halls of his father's palace, feeling in a stranger's home. He saw the same scuffed porcelain tiles where he played with rubber balls with his brothers. The same beautiful artwork of painted murals and walls remained, the same sculptures of great men and old gods, the same breathtaking view of the city. None of it brought him comfort.

  Two hallways and a guarded gate led to the royal quarters of the king and his family. There Yacat would find his sisters by blood or marriage and their children, the harem and the favored extended family. His wife, Maretzi, and their children would be sleeping through the hot afternoon sun, perhaps snacking on fruit, or playing lazily with their kin.

  Yacat had once met two great warriors on the battlefield, a broken sword in his hand, and a war-dart through his arm, and he had charged without hesitation. But he found now he could not face his wife.

  Centnaz, the god of sacrifice, The Devourer, was a disease of the mind. He was destroying Yacat's people, and yet he felt powerless to stop it. When Yacat was a boy he remembered many more rituals and holy days for other gods, their priests near as influential in the court and temples. It seemed their moon had waned. The cult of Centnaz had spread amongst the noble families first, encouraging their young men to hate their neighbors for their impiety, then to war and glory as the remedy. At first it had seemed almost boldly political, full of contradictions and nonsense, without proof of result. Yet it seemed even his own kin had accepted it, and not merely because it was useful, but because they now believed in power more than tradition and honor.

  Yacat turned and descended through the palace halls and stairwells, trying to think of one person in the world he might sit and speak his mind with safely. He knew there was no one. The faith of The Devourer had spread until it consumed Yacat's world. Many now worshipped one god alone, and of those who did not, all considered him the chief amongst all others. To sacrifice to him had become natural and obvious. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the honor. And though Yacat's people had long sacrificed the present to be given gifts in the future, it was no longer chickens and goats to be eaten when the ritual was over. It was men. It was children.

  Yacat walked on, further and further until he found himself beneath the earth in the palace underground. Soon enough, he supposed, he would be there forever. Guards at the cellars saluted and stood at attention as he passed, and so dark were his thoughts, for the first time in his life he failed to return it.

  "Your father said you'd be coming," said the captain in charge of the prisoners. Yacat knew his name but found it was buried in a fog. "Right this way, Tahana. But you should take a weapon—they aren't bound, and though they haven't fought, they certainly could. They look very strong."

  Good, Yacat thought, I hope they kill me.

  But he discarded this thought because it would not save his son.

  "We've had the priests and scribes in with them for a day or two," said the guard. "Seems they don't speak a word, just gibberish."

  "Have they been tortured?"

  "No, Tahana. 'Honored slaves', are my orders. Not to be harmed."

  Not today at least, Yacat thought. But such exotic specimens would never survive the ever-hungry glory of The Devourer, not with so many holy days so close.

  He took a knife from the guard and stuffed it into his tunic. "I'll see them alone," he said, more on whim than anything.

  The guard's brow quivered and he looked to his men before he managed to respond. "My lord, I don't think…surely, the king would not…"

  "I am prince and General of the Border," Yacat's impotent rage spilled like rancid water from a cup. "You call me Tahana. Now do as I say before I show you why."

  The Captain paled and half-saluted as he fled with his warriors behind him. Yacat waited until the trembling fury in his hands relaxed, then stepped into the prisoner's domicile. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

  The 'albino' warrior was truly a giant. He stood on the far side of the prison with the woman behind him as if for protection. He seemed ready for violence, perhaps in reaction to Yacat's shouts. Though the roof had been built high, near thirty hands, the strange warrior was hunched. He was deathly pale like a corpse, his eyes gold and slanted like a beast. Yacat drew his knife as he met them.

  Most of his life he had been a warrior. He had killed before he was twelve, captured dozens in battle, long ago earning more honor than all but the highest ranks of soldiers; he had fought beside honorable knights, and base killers, and learned to spot the difference between the two. The man before him was neither. In his strange, golden eyes Yacat did not see a warrior weighing the threat of another man—he saw a tiger inspecting its prey. Yacat slowly put away his knife, and laughed.

  "A fitting end to Yacat, mighty hero, and Tahana," he said, sitting on a bench across from the prisoners. "To die quietly in his home by acting a fool." When he'd put away the knife, the woman emerged and took her own seat. Her skin was as pale as the man's, but her hair was long and golden brown and beautiful. Yacat had seen albinos before, and nothing about the man or woman's consistent pigment or eyes or hair were similar. He laughed again, though this time even he recognized the desperation in the sound. "You'll be from the far North," he shrugged, "which it seems my father didn't even consider. So deep is he now in his hunger for the throne, he loses even simple reason." Yacat reached in his pocket for a flask of agave wine, and drank deep. "As he loses his morality."

  The prisoners said nothing, but Yacat didn't care. He felt here in their presence was the only place he might speak words he had held deep inside for almost the entirety of his life. Whatever else they were, they were true, but his people no longer valued such things. "My family have lost their way," he managed before he felt his voice break. "They destroy children in their games for power." He felt the tears follow. "My people have lost their way."

  * * *

  Zaya sat on the uncomfortable stone bench and listened to the foreigner mutter nonsense. Ruka seemed enthralled, as if carefully noting every sound and intonation, as if he could understand.

  "Do you know what he's saying?" Zaya whispered. The shaman frowned, saying nothing until the foreigner stopped speaking.

  "I will learn. So must you. To be without words will make us animals to them."

  Zaya leaned forward, her excitement growing. "Do the gods speak to you? Do they tell you this?"

  The shaman's eyes narrowed and he looked away. "I tell you what
is true of all men. These ones will be no different."

  The way he'd said 'I will learn' had been so matter of fact Zaya had almost assumed it was boasting. Where they came from, men were always boasting of their deeds and abilities, though a shaman like Ruka was outside such things. Still, there were legends of his skill with words—he was not called the godtongue without reason. Men said he could remember everything he'd ever seen or read—that he'd sailed North to the new world and returned speaking every tongue of those lands. Zaya was a skald and heard exaggerated tales often, and so she did not believe this. But still, he did speak several languages fluently.

  The foreigner disturbed Zaya's thoughts with a kind of groan, his body drooping across his bench, eyes downcast with his head in his hands. His limbs were long and thick with muscle, his body a dark statue of carved oak. Even his face to Zaya was strong and handsome, and he looked like a warrior. But his weeping and defeated demeanor was not appealing.

  "Perhaps he is some kind of advocate? To stand for us in a law circle? His depression does not bode well if so."

  The shaman grunted. "Animals have no advocates. I don't know what he is. I suspect a kind of nobleman, perhaps a prince."

  "Then what is he…"

  The foreigner rose and paced across the room, muttering more of his nonsense with growing volume. He gestured with his hands, his face expressive and ranging from rage to sadness, his voice rising with drama. Zaya smiled as she watched him. The notes of a warrior's song echoed in her mind, and she wished she had her lyre. When the foreigner stopped and stared she realized she had stood and come closer to inspect him. Like the islanders he met her eyes directly, and though this made her uncomfortable she held his gaze and smiled. He was clearly taken aback, so she did what she had been taught all her life to do when others were dejected. She sang.

  The sad warrior reminded her of the tale of Avik, a mighty chief who served in the army of Imler the Betrayer. Avik was the only chief amongst hundreds who had turned on his master, helping the prophetess to destroy his army. But before his victory, all he'd loved was destroyed, and even those he had saved considered him a fallen man. A statue of him yet stood in the capital, his dejected eyes much like this stranger's.