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

by Richard Nell

  As she sang the foreigner stared as if frozen. When she was finished he stared as if he'd forgotten where he was, the stillness finally broken with a blink of his dark eyes, and he spoke words Zaya didn't understand. The tone was familiar, however, and she smiled and bowed her head, then sat again by the shaman. The dark warrior made a gesture with his hand over his heart, then turned and left them alone.

  Zaya felt the curious gaze of the Godtongue, and shrugged. "Animals can't do that, now, can they?"

  The shaman shook, and for a moment Zaya was alarmed before she realized he was laughing. The sound came after, a loud chuckle that seemed almost painful for the man. "No," he said as if in admission. "The birds of paradise can sing, but not like you, Zaya, daughter of Egil. Not like that."

  Zaya nodded in thanks, and did her best to hide her pleasure. "What will they do with us?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wished to know.

  The shaman's good humor faded, and he leaned against the stone and closed his eyes. "They will take us, sooner or later. Make use of what time you have. Watch. Listen. Remember. We must understand this place. Its existence may shake our already trembling world." He lifted his head and met her eyes. "We do not control the future, Zaya. But I do not wish war and sickness and death as our people brought to the isles. I wish to avoid it. You say you have come to me with fate. You say you are my skald, as once your father was. There is a task now before us, if we've the courage. Will you help me?"

  For a moment Zaya could not speak, feeling bathed in the warmth of sunlight. If ever there was a moment she knew she had been right to leave her home, and brave the sea, knowing the gods were watching, it was now. Her fears drained away, pushed out with purpose—the great shaman, the godtongue, needed her help! She took a deep breath and nodded.

  "I swear on the mother, and the mountain, whatever is needed. I will help you."

  Chapter 15

  Though his family and people had…disappointed him, Yacat was reminded he still had things he could do. He had brave soldiers to pay, rituals to organize, an army and navy to keep in check. Then when his obligations were complete, and all that remained of his duties were to himself and to his Gods, perhaps, yes perhaps, he had a great deal of priests to kill.

  "Move the prisoners into my guest rooms," he commanded the guard as he found them. "They are to be attended by palace slaves and kept fit and healthy until I instruct otherwise." When he saw the man's terror prevent his questioning Yacat sighed and put a hand to the man's shoulder. "The king will want whatever knowledge they have. He has left the task to me. All is with his blessing."

  The captain visibly sagged with relief, and saluted. "Apologies, Tahana. It's just…I'd feared for your safety, if something should have happened…"

  "You've done your duty, nothing more. Continue that wisdom now and do as I ask."

  "Lord." The captain and his guard saluted again as Yacat left them.

  He walked along the palace corridors, smiling as he thought at the difference a few moments could make. First he would see his wife. Together they would weep for the fate of their son, but Yacat knew he must be strong. The festival of stars was not for three months. This meant he had sixty days to test the loyalties of noble sons he had commanded in war; he had sixty days to gather his most loyal troops, confound and flatter his enemies, then slaughter them. So much time was a gift, as music and health and strength were gifts. Strange that it took a beautiful slave to remind him.

  "Cuexta, the legend of Trist," Yacat half-embraced the royal bodyguard who held the entrance to the harem. Though his eyes smiled, Cuexta did not return or even flinch at the affection, as was his way. "How many men did you kill on that bridge?"

  "Six, Tahana, as you well know."

  Yacat looked at the ceiling as if lost in thought. "I know nothing. I wasn't there, was I? Perhaps you dragged the corpses before you and declared yourself a hero?"

  The man loosed his signature growl, which had been a delight since childhood, and Yacat laughed as he released him and walked past. A dozen royal children played in the enclosed garden. The hot afternoon sun kept the women and servants along the walls in the shade, drinking fruit juice and playing tablegames, or lost in lazy discussion.

  For a moment Yacat watched the children play and said nothing, locking the moment in his mind. He found his wife sitting with the other primary wives of his brothers, and as ever his heart warmed to see her. She was a princess of high birth from Tlanopan, both attractive and intelligent, from a line renowned for its fertility. She had, in other words, been a prize fit for a king, secured for Yacat by his father after his first major victory in war. He had met her once at a festival for noble youth, and when the king asked what he wanted, he asked only for her. No man could ask for a better wife. She had given him three children and many days and nights of joy, and he had not asked for any other wives or concubines. Now he would tell her their son would die.

  She recognized his look and excused herself without being called, turned towards her chamber, and dismissed the servants that followed. Once inside, they stood alone on the carpet, surrounded by the many honors and trophies Yacat had earned in war. She bowed in respect. "You honor me, husband. I didn't expect to see you until this evening." He took a deep breath and said nothing, and her expression transformed. "What's wrong, husband? Is everything alright?"

  "No," he managed, things will never be alright again. Yacat was not a man prone to small talk and his wife did not expect it. In any case, it would not help what he had to say. "I have spoken with the king. He and my brother intend to make their claim for a newly made position of emperor of the three cities." Maretzi knew Yacat well enough to know this news alone would not please him, for it would surely mean more wars for him to fight. But she said nothing, perhaps recognizing there was more. Yacat forced the words. "To win the support of the priests of Centnaz, a great sacrifice will be required."

  Maretzi had not understood, and nearly collapsed when he told her. He took her to her bed and held her until she was ready to speak.

  "Why? Why our son, husband?"

  He felt his jaw clench as he tried to explain. He could have told her about the priest who had wanted her, who had insulted them both and challenged Yacat, forcing a duel to the death. He could have explained his own lack of piety and respect for the religion of blood. But it didn't matter. So he said only: "It had to be someone's son."

  "But why yours?" her eyes were wide and she clawed at the bedding. "How many battles have you won for them? What trouble have you ever caused? Your brother Itzil drank all day and night until you and the others stopped him. Patlee wouldn't know his duties if you dragged his whoring face through them like mud! You are the best of your brothers!"

  For a woman from another noble family to speak of Yacat's brothers in this way was almost unthinkable, even if it was true, but he understood and merely held her. "Perhaps that is why, my wife. All will know this is not convenient, not easy, but a true act of piety."

  She wept then, with shaking sobs of agony. When it was over she had a look Yacat didn't understand. She wiped the tears from her eyes and nose as if renewed, smiling through the sadness. "I'm supposed to wait another month, and for the priests and physicians to bless it, but I must tell you, it must mean something. It must be a sign. I am two month's pregnant, husband, or so they think. I dreamt it would be a son."

  Yacat stared into her eyes, so confounded by the lows and highs, and the strange reaction from his wife. Before he could even think of what to say Maretzi took his hands.

  "Don't you see, husband? It's the will of Centnaz. He is welcoming you into his grace. He is showing us that with sacrifice comes reward—he takes the life of one son," she choked back the gasping sob, "but replaces it with another."

  He pulled her face to his chest to hide his expression. He touched her hair, and tried to comfort her, to agree. He had known he would have to be strong. She held his chest and wept, and when he left her he saw her going to her personal shrine t
o pray and burn incense. Yacat knew he himself would not pray.

  He walked through the harem smiling at the children because his misery was not their fault, but was glad he didn't see his son. He nodded in respect to the wives and concubines and then to Cuexta at the door, feeling as if he'd been dipped in the icy waters of the sea.

  He had lied to himself, he realized. For a moment he had found comfort in a path of destruction, imagining a war against a god, cutting as much rot as he could before his demise. But he knew if he betrayed the priests, it would not just be him who was destroyed. It would be Maretzi and all her children. He had thought perhaps she would feel as he had—that the betrayal of their son was not the comings and goings of divinity, but the shattering of their world. But Yacat knew he was like flint—sharp, and brittle, where his beautiful Maretzi would bend like copper, and so she would survive. His other children were young and they too would recover, until perhaps one day they'd forget even the memory of their older brother. For them he understood he must live a lie, betraying himself as he would betray his son.

  Perhaps for some sin in a past life it was his punishment to live without honor. In a way, he envied his son in that moment. He alone would be given the mercy of death.

  Still, there was work ahead. First Yacat had a duty to his king, only then to his family. He was a prince and general of Copanoch, and soon a brother to an emperor. Perhaps the toil would save him. Perhaps if he fought the wars to come, if he dealt with these strange barbarians and smiled through his teeth at the priests, keeping order and serving the law as he gave those who deserved it dignity, and those who deserved it death—perhaps if he spent every waking moment of his miserable life helping others in all the small ways he could, it would redeem him.

  He left the harem resolved, knowing that was his only path. But as he crossed the halls and the terrace, out from the palace and into the light of the sun god, whose light revealed all darkness, he knew, too, that was another terrible lie.

  * * *

  Zaya's night dreams still lingered when her jailers came. It wasn't the guards, who had largely been polite, but rather three men in white cloth and feathered headresses, their limbs circled with rings of gold and silver. They lifted her up, and when the shaman rose with his quiet menace they panicked and barked for the guards, who came forward with spears and swords and nets, gesturing to withdraw.

  "I'll be alright," Zaya told him, trying to feign confidence, though she was terrified. The shaman took a deep breath and stepped away, then the guards motioned for him to come with them.

  "If death awaits us. I am sorry."

  "You warned me", she said. "It was I who insisted."

  A strange relief came with the words, for she was reminded of the unlikely chance of their meeting, and that the gods watched over all.

  The feathered men dragged her roughly back to the streets. The city seemed all but asleep, the bustling roads she had seen in the day now dark and lifeless. The men pushed her onwards, though she didn't fight them, and once or twice she nearly lost her feet on the slippery cobblestones.

  They walked along the buildings, only one or two of which glowed with dim light and murmured with happy voices. But the men did not go into one of these.

  Instead they took her to a vast stone building much like a palace, save that it seemed composed almost entirely of steps leading to three layers of flat, square platforms. It didn't seem like a place people lived. They marched her to the first platform, where other robed men and a gathering of mostly naked men and women were waiting. The robed men dabbed these others with paints or doused them in incense. Her escorts brought her to this line, and began tearing at her clothes.

  She fought them, which earned her a hard slap across the face as four men seized her and pulled her to her knees. Her heart hammered now, and still she fought, even as the men cut the sailor's shirt from her body. Near the hard stone of the platform, she began to smell the blood. It was old and rancid and stained everything. Before the line of painted captives she saw an altar, a cauldron, and a table set with knives.

  Her mind blanked, resistant to what seemed the only conclusion, and she stared at the fine, white robes of the men. She clung to this, thinking men who killed would never wear such things, that the blood would stain them and never come out. As if they had read her thoughts, most of these robed men stripped their clean, white robes and placed them together in a pile. Beneath they were painted with images of wild beasts in reds and blues. Their bodies were often scarred in neat rows, as if the damage had been self-inflicted and controlled.

  Zaya roared as she fought to her feet, thrashing at the men who held her. None of the others resisted. Her captors seemed almost confused, enraged, and began calling up the steps for men in armor, who descended towards Zaya with spears. There were so many. They were above, below, all around her. She couldn't escape.

  They bound her hands roughly and pushed her towards the altar, one of the robed men sneering and hissing harsh sounding words in her ear. She couldn't stop them. At least five men held her arms and legs, bracing her forward as one yanked her head back by her long hair. She stared up at the sky and sang the song of Haki the brave, forcing her breath and will to hold the sounds, and so show the gods she would die without fear.

  More angry words echoed around the square, but in a voice Zaya recognized. At their sound several of the hands released her instantly, and she was able to turn to see the sad warrior from her cell at the bottom of the square, panting with a handful of men at his side.

  For a long moment the men stared and said nothing. Then the maybe prince came forward and Zaya could see veins bulged in his neck, his eyes wild with a rage she could hardly believe. The robed men panicked and took up their knives, yelling at their warriors as the men came to blows.

  The prince moved like a hunting cat. He pushed aside a spear as if he swept a branch, crushing the wielder's face with a brutal strike of some wooden club.

  Men were shouting "mahala!" on both sides, as if both in encouragement or terror, and Zaya wondered if this were the name of their god. The prince struck down another guard, and soon both sets of warriors were together and wrestling over spears and swords. In heartbeats it was over, and the prince held the man who had escorted Zaya with his hands around the man's neck. His eyes were bulged, his lips curled in a terrible sneer of pure hatred. His men seemed to be calling to him, trying to pull him away. He whispered words Zaya couldn't understand, and released his grip.

  He gestured to Zaya with a hand, almost in dismissive afterthought. She reached for the torn rags of her shirt and the prince barked in a language-crossing order of haste. She abandoned the efforts and crossed an arm over her breasts, following her savior and his warriors down the steps and back to the streets without a glance back at the strange temple.

  In something of a daze, she was lead back to the palace, far away from the cell she had been in before, down corridors and up stairwells past intricate carvings and murals of men and beasts.

  At last she entered a room fit for a queen. A huge washing basin that looked like bronze or gold stood in its center; animal furs covered the floor, leading to a wide-framed bed, and walls cluttered with wardrobes and tables. It smelled of pine and spice, and a young, flat-faced girl waited beside the bed on her knees, almost in supplication. The prince gestured inside, then turned away and closed the heavy door without a word.

  Zaya stood with her arms crossed over her chest, still trembling as the girl rose and managed to lead her to the basin, gesturing inside. An image of the steaming cauldron at the temple flashed before her, but she forced it away, disrobing what remained of her clothes to sit in the tepid water.

  She still saw the look in the men's eyes that had held her—the fanatical gaze of zealots locked in the throes of religious fervor, immune to and perhaps even relishing her screams. She had no idea why they had taken her at all, never mind why her specifically and not the shaman, or why she'd then been saved. Terror clung to her mind from be
ing trapped in an unknowable prison. The shaman's words came again, ringing like prophecy in her ears. 'To be without words will make us animals to them.'

  She wondered then how a sheep must feel, ripped from the herd though it understood nothing—led blindly to the slaughter without knowing why it had been trapped or chosen or killed. Men, after all, did not explain themselves to sheep.

  The girl washed the paint from Zaya's skin, humming as she picked dried blood from her hair, while Zaya stared blankly at the stone.

  Chapter 16

  On the third day since their landing, Chang found an armory in Ruka's quarters. Along with several stacks of papers—usually detailed drawings of sea animals, or star patterns—there was a collection of iron weapons and armor hung neatly on the walls. At first Chang simply goggled, running his hands over the spears, swords and long daggers, all of which were smooth metal from end to handle, rather than wooden shafts with metallic tips. He had never seen such a thing, nor metal with an almost blue tinge to the finish. Beside these, there were ten sets of fine chain links almost like 'shirts', too small for the shaman, or indeed any man of ash. Chang could only conclude they had been made for islanders.

  He informed the captain, who insisted on seeing the items for himself. When he arrived he stared and shook his head, muttering, 'god cursed savage' beneath his breath.

  The crew were promptly equipped, with their thickest cloth worn beneath the iron rings for another layer of protection. They complained of the heat and the weight, but after testing each other's armor with playful—and utterly ineffective—thrusts and stabs with their weapons, they soon quieted.