“The good Queen Over the Mountain does, my lord,” Tuthalya wanted to smile but knew the gesture would be off-putting to someone that suspicious.
The man’s eyes flitted to the signet at his shoulder, and he gave a barely perceivable nod of the head. “Then you ought to see our Holy Sisters,” the man made a motion with his hand, and one of the soldiers came forward and took the reins of the ram from Tuthalya. Tuthalya let them lead him through the winding gates into the walls of the city. The narrow hall was lit above by a series of grates, and Tuthalya could see soldiers staring down at the quiet procession as they passed.
They exited the dark passageway, but to Tuthalya’s surprise, they hadn’t entered the city but merely a wide moat, and on the other side was another wall, identical to the first. Again, they entered and went through the winding passageways. He had always heard the walls of Nesate were impenetrable, but now he knew it to be true. Even if by some miracle the first wall was breached, the army would only find themselves facing another, lined with angry soldiers who could easily shoot them with arrows or drop boiling pitch on them.
Finally they left the claustrophobic passage, and there, Tuthalya finally laid eyes on the city of Nesate. It was the height of summer but still the city seemed grey and dull. Nesate was known as the highest valley in the kingdom, so it was no surprise to him that the wind still had a bitter chill. He was not looking forward to staying here past the summer, but he would do it. He would not leave here until the war was finished, until there was only one undisputed king, until his child could grow in a land that was not rife with constant fear.
Provided they did not execute him immediately.
The men formed a circle around him, with the lord leading the way. The streets of the city were a confusing maze. The city of Hattute had been built with straight roads set on a grid, but here, he was immediately put off by the constant twists and turns the men took him on. There was no hope of remembering the way, and once again, he felt certain these streets would confuse any army and stall their advancement.
And then another great wall stood before them. For a moment, Tuthalya thought they had gone in one great circle and come back to the outer wall. Only by the curve of the wall could he tell it was not the same one. Again they entered another passage that forced them into single file, again it was lined with grates in the ceiling for an attack from above, and again it lead to a moat with a second wall. Tuthalya almost laughed it was so ridiculously well-guarded. There was no way Hatturigus would ever lead a successful assault on this city.
They emerged and Tuthalya saw the black palace. It was fairly low, three or four stories at most, but far taller than any other building in the city. It wasn’t beautiful; it was blocky with wide square towers and clearly built for durability instead of aesthetics, but it was incredibly wide, giving the impression that a thousand people could live comfortably within its walls. Before the palace was a plaza, and they walked up the steps to it. On the the plaza, left of the great doors, was a menacing-looking, bronze ram, standing as though protecting the castle. Curiously, underneath the statue was a fire pit. Tuthalya couldn’t help but dislike it.
Before they entered the massive doors, the lord turned to Tuthalya.
“You can walk from here, and give us your weapons,” he held out his hand.
Tuthalya jumped from the ram in one swift movement. “I have none to give over.”
The lord nodded to one of the soldiers. “Search him.”
Tuthalya sighed and held out his arms to allow the search. The soldier gruffly grabbed his limbs, riffling through the folds of his wool cloak and heavy dark green linen tunic. Then, when the soldier could find nothing, he searched him a second time.
“I would not come armed before those I mean to serve,” and now he did allow himself to smile.
“Bah,” the man looked away. “Come on then.”
And so they walked through the doors, and the soldiers once more encircled him. He wondered why they bothered with so many soldiers. Two would have been more than enough to restrain him. Most likely they were just trying to show off. We have so many soldiers we can spare a dozen just to guard the likes of you, or some such nonsense.
They went through another series of confusing and narrow passageways before coming to a large wooden double door, before which was a large statue of a woman holding a sword high above her head, wearing scale armour and the jacket of a soldier. On her head was a helm with the Mountain Queen’s signet and a triangle encircled by a gold band. He wasn’t entirely certain who the woman was supposed to be but had no doubt it was a former queen. Likely in that very spot, the statue of a king had once stood guard.
The doors opened and they entered a long hall with a high ceiling. Along the wall were high windows and running down the centre in two rows were many fire pits that made the hall bright and warm. For the first time since entering this city, he felt there was life here, and he felt the relief wash over him. There were several people in the hall, clearly come to see this stranger who had come to their gates. They were all finely dressed, mostly women—clearly the elite ladies and lords of Nesate.
And there at the end of the hall, sitting on stone thrones high up on a dais, sat four women. One of the smaller thrones was empty, but Tuthalya paid it no mind. His eyes focused on the woman sitting in the middle, on the largest throne. She was far older than the others, her back slightly hunched over, her skin wrinkly and loose. She was a little too heavy; her dress looked tight and uncomfortable, and her hair was so thin she was nearly bald.
“Holy Sisters,” the man gave a slight bow of the head while the soldiers went down on one knee. “This man has come from Hattute and says he means to serve the Queen of the Mountain.”
Tuthalya stepped forward and went on his knees, bowing his head down low. “My queens. Thank you for receiving me.”
A cold cackling filled the room, and Tuthalya raised his head to see the woman on the centre throne laughing, her head falling back and her mouth opening to reveal only five or six teeth left in her dark gums. Tuthalya tried very hard not to cringe, and forced a smile onto his face instead.
“My queens, I fear I do not understand the joke.” He looked to the other women, middle-aged but stately looking, noticing their slightly uncomfortable shifting.
“None of us are queens, though I do say I look like a queen,” she said after a few more gasps of laughter escaped her mouth, “but that is only thanks to the throne I sit upon.” Then she tapped the side of her forehead with a long bony finger dotted with liver spots. “No crown sits on this head, though.”
“You are addressing Kessara, the Princess of the Mountain,” the lord who had guided them in said in a loud voice.
“Thank you, Lord Mittata. I can speak for myself,” she said with some vehemence in her voice.
“Yes, princess,” he bowed his head and stepped back.
“There is only one Queen, and these four are the Sisters who help guide her. Each of us are blessed by the Moon God. I, Princess Kessara, am regent in my mother’s stead. Are you finished grovelling? Stand up like a man if you really are one,” the princess turned her attention back to Tuthalya.
After a moment of surprize Tuthalya got back to his feet.
“The Queen is too weak these days to sit court. If you were hoping to hold council with her, I’m afraid you only have disappointment coming your way. Now, tell me what you are doing in my home.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” and for a moment his well-rehearsed speech was lost, but then he regained his composure. “I was raised believing the men who sit on the thrones in the Hall of a Thousand Gods were the true kings, but my eyes have been opened. Now I only see their cowardice and foolishness. I can no longer accept their lies.”
“So you come here?” She looked far too skeptical, and he doubted any flattery would help him. She did not seem the sort to fall for such patronization.
“No, first I went home. I was born in a small village in Kuwana Tak.” Always m
ix a lie with the truth, “I left the kings’ service and went home to start a family, but—”
“But?” She leaned forward ever so slightly.
“The false kings care only for themselves and Hattute. The rest of the valleys are forgotten. Without protection, we are at the mercy of the wild men of the mountain. They come down in raids, steal our livestock…and our women,” he looked down at the floor, clenching his fists tightly, trying to look as though he were trying to keep himself composed. “They came one night and burned our village. My wife—” he shook his head sadly, and when he looked back up, his eyes were glassy. He saw he was having the desired effect on these women. The four of them had locked their eyes onto him, pity and sadness mirrored in them. Kessara hardly looked sentimental, but her face had softened just enough.
“I cursed those men who call themselves kings. I came here, to find a true ruler, a queen, to find the ruler who could take back the mountains and unite Matawe again! Someone who can protect the valleys from something like that ever happening in the future!” He looked around at the other lords, trying to see if he was swaying any of them with his story. Some looked intrigued. Others, though, looked bored. When he turned back to the princess, she had leaned back in her throne and was taping her fingers on the stone arm. Her face was ice, and he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“A fine story, but you missed an important detail.”
“…Oh?”
“Why did you leave Hutturigus and his puppy’s service in the first place?”
He’d practiced this as well. He sighed loudly and hung his head. “I’m afraid… it is rather foolish on my own part.”
“More the reason to tell it. I want to know what kind of man you are before I accept you into my service.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling and thankfully, winced from the pain. He looked up again, trying to look as embarrassed as possible. “There was a woman who travelled to Hattute while I was still the captain of the palace guard. She was a…Whisperer of the Dead.” That started a round of muttering through the onlookers. Good, he thought, maybe Tersh has reached these parts after all. “She said she had come to warn the kings, that the gods were angry and meant to punish the world. The men who call themselves kings laughed at her and sent her out onto the streets.”
“And? So the usurpers ignored a Whisperer. No shame on them for that.”
“I cannot explain it, accept to say when she spoke in the hall, I could feel the eyes of the thousand gods carved in the walls staring at me…judging me. It seemed to me that someone who had travelled so far and risked so much should be treated with some respect, even if you didn’t believe her. But they laughed at her and ignored her warning. And I can’t help but think…there was truth in her words. The world is in pain. Matawe is awash with blood over this civil war. I don’t know if the gods mean to punish us, but they ought to. Those usurpers sit by idly instead of protecting their people and land. They laugh when someone tries to move them to action.”
“And what of I? Do you not think we sit idly by?”
“Oh no,” and now he dared to take a step forward. “I know you are simply biding your time, building your forces, waiting for the perfect time to strike and rightfully take back what is yours.”
Even if it wasn’t true, there was no way she could deny such a thing, and he knew it. She nodded. “Of course. That is the truth of it…” and she narrowed her eyes just slightly, suggesting she knew she was being played. “How astute of you to notice.”
He let out a soft sigh. “I am relieved to hear it, princess.”
“Tell me,” one of the other women sitting on the throne spoke up. She sat to the right of Kessara and looked to be nearly as old as the princess, but time seemed to have been much kinder to her. Her hair was still thick, tied together in a long braid, strands of dark grey and white, and her bright eyes had a sharpness to them. Unlike the princess though, she wore a crown, a circlet of gold with the symbol of a bushel of berries on the front. “What became of this Whisperer?”
“Honestly, I know not. I heard she was still in the city when I left, living in a part of town we consider to be cursed, but I did not know if that was just a fanciful tale.”
“Husband,” she said and Lord Mittata stepped forward. “Why not bring our recent guest? Perhaps these two know each other.
“Yes, wife,” he bowed low and left.
Tuthalya swallowed the dozen or so questions he had, knowing each one would probably be insulting to the Sisters, but he honestly hadn’t realized any of them were married, and really he shouldn’t be surprised. The women were the ones sitting on the thrones while they forced their husbands to run errands. This city had been turned on its head when a woman had decided to sit on the throne.
They waited an uncomfortable amount of time. The lords watching took to engaging in loud conversations, and the princess motioned for a singer to come forward and serenade the sisters, who were also having whispered conversations together. Everyone ignored Tuthalya and the circle of kneeling soldiers around him, so he stood and waited in bored silence.
Finally, Lord Mittata marched back through the large wooden doors, this time followed by two guards, and between them they dragged a rather pathetic looking human being. Tuthalya cringed inwardly, recognizing Tersh under the dirt and rags. He had hoped Tersh would be treated better than this, but he had to admit to himself that he’d known it was a possibility she would get thrown into a dungeon, which is why he hadn’t told her. He hadn’t wanted to scare her away from coming.
They didn’t throw Tersh to the ground so much as let her fall. They had stripped most of her clothes away, leaving her only the tattered tunic she wore now. She looked weak, disoriented, and was filthy. She looked even thinner than she had been before.
“Is this the woman who came to warn the usurpers?”
Tuthalya looked at Tersh hard, and finally the Whisperer looked up at him, her eyes widening slightly in recognition, and Tuthalya only hoped she had enough sense in her mind not to act like she knew him. He leaned down, getting as close as he dared, looking hard at the bruised angles of her face. Tersh looked confused but then slowly seemed to understand, and a look of annoyance crept into her eyes.
“It’s hard to tell,” he finally said, getting back to his feet. “It was a year ago, at least. “I do recall the woman had a small crook in her nose and wide eyes and short black hair. But…well the woman I saw wore a cloak of bones, the cloak all Whisperers wear.”
“Her rattlecloak?” Lord Mittata asked, throwing a cloak down on the stone floor in front of him. It did indeed rattle as the bones hit the ground, and Tersh reached out for it but was restrained by the two guards at her side.
“Yes, the very same. I am certain of it. I could not stop staring at her cloak when she came,” Tuthalya nodded.
“You can understand her ravings then?” Kessara said with an annoyed sigh. “None in my court can understand the tongue of Mahat well enough.”
“Whisperer,” Tuthalya slipped into a different language as easily as changing cloaks. “They tell me you speak the tongue of Mahat. They tell me they understand a little, though not well enough to have understood if you were friend or foe.”
Tersh nodded. “No, they could not seem to understand me,” her voice practically growled, and Tuthalya could tell she was upset, and perhaps she had every right to be.
“Can you tell me what it is you wanted them to know?”
“Tell them I come in peace. Tell them I am a messenger. Tell them I have no ties to or love for Hattute and the men therein. And for the love of the gods, tell them to give me back my cloak!”
“Don’t worry Whisperer,” Tuthalya couldn’t help but smile. “You can trust me.”
NEPATA
ACTING AS JUDGE, I MUST BE FAIR TO ALL
Time was a thing Kareth had never been aware of before. He thought he had been—everyone thinks they understand time—but for him it had always felt like a bit of a
nuisance to track. Time in the desert was a simple thing. You kept time by the sun, the moon, and the stars. There were days and nights, about thirty in each turn of the moon, and then the twelve constellations that Zera would cycle through over twelve years. That was the time it took a child to become a man. In Mahat they had stricter rules for time, months, and years, and they split the day and night into twelve hours, though he’d never bothered to learn about them. Now, it was all he could think of.
Alone in the dark, all you think about is time. How much time had passed, how much time would continue to pass. There were no windows to mark the passing of the days or to check the phase of the moon. The only light he had came from a small opening cut into the heavy wood door through which boiled oats and weak beer was delivered. And how often would those come? Once a day? Twice? All he knew was that he would finish it as quickly as possible and afterwards, still feel a pit of hunger in his stomach.
He slept on a hard wood bench, which was certainly preferable to the cool stone floor where he could hear rats scurry across. If he wasn’t fast enough getting to the small wooden bowl of bland gruel after it was thrust under the door, the rats would beat him to it. He wished he was fast enough to catch one of those rats. He wondered if Tersh would have been able to.
Sometimes, he would try to reach his hand out from under the door or call out to anyone who might hear him, but the only answer he ever got was someone telling him to shut up, and the only thing his hand ever found was a swift kick from a passing foot. Other times he would just cry, but he always tried to muffle the sound. He hated the thought of a guard on the other side of the door snickering at his misery.
Unable to wash or shave, he felt the hairs growing on his body once more. Before he had come to Mahat, only a few strands of hair had started to grow on his chest and around his groin, but now there were countless more. Although he could tell he was still nowhere near as hairy as his father had been, he felt some comfort feeling the tuft of coarse hair on his chest and arms—and most pleasingly on his face—and would often just hug himself.
Pekari -The Azure Fish Page 23
