The Darkest Bloom

by P. M. Freestone

  I’ve just finished my morning devotions and refastened my prayer band to my arm when Esarik points. “The Spine of Hagmir.”

  “The Alet Range,” Nisai says. “Did you know their full name is recorded in the old documents as Asmatuk Alet Tupeshto? Old Imperial Aramteskan for ‘the mountains that bite the sky’.”

  Esarik frowns. “Wouldn’t ‘the mountains that devour the sky’ be a more representative translation?”

  “Poetic. I like it.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  At the disembarkation point, several Rangers wait with a herd of camels. Iddo can certainly plan a journey. Half the animals are saddled with cloth-and-leather between their two humps, the others will bear our packs. Nisai grimaces at the litter, but doesn’t protest, and we strike out towards the tail end of the Alet hills.

  The river plains give way to parched scrubland, patterned with a network of dried-out irrigation canals. Esarik glances around, then frowns at his map. “They still haven’t updated it.”

  “Updated what?” I ask.

  “This used to be the breadbasket of Aphorai. But the Great Groundshake of 614 changed the course of the river. Little prospect of barley sprouting within these borders any more.”

  I shrug. At least it’s still flat.

  But soon enough, we begin to climb. And as we do, everything grows quiet.

  Too quiet.

  There’s no birdsong. No skittering of small creatures in the spiny vegetation clustered around the rock formations. By the time the road passes through a steep cutting, all I can hear is creaking leather and the snuffle and plod of the camel train.

  Until a pebble rattles down the gully.

  Iddo’s hand goes to his axe.

  An arrow shuttles past.

  I unsheathe my twin blades and move my camel between Nisai and the arrow’s origin. Another bolt arcs down, piercing Kip’s camel’s flank. The shaggy beast kicks out and lunges against its headrope, red blooming around its wound.

  “Get control of that thing,” an older Ranger barks at Kip.

  “Human shield,” Iddo bellows. “Two deep!”

  Almost as one, the Rangers fall into formation around the Prince and Esarik, so tight their camel’s rumps jostle for space.

  Within the circle, I’m the last defence.

  “Down,” I say. “Now.”

  The porters lower the litter and Esarik scrambles from his camel.

  “Brigands?” the Trelian asks. It’s little more than a whisper, his knuckles white around his mount’s headrope.

  I don’t reply. Surrounded by Rangers and camels, I can’t for the life of me get a view of the action.

  Another arrow whizzes past and thunks into one of the packs, crude fletching sticking out.

  Azered’s breath. This is a far cry from the training arena. My pulse quickens, blood thrumming in my ears. I fight to keep it in check. I’ve got to keep it in check.

  I catch a glimpse of Iddo outside the circle, axe aloft. A pair of Rangers break out from the ring, the others quickly closing the gap behind them, blocking my view.

  Shouts and the clang of blades reverberate around the rocky outcrops.

  A shriek of pain rends the air.

  Then it’s over almost as quick as it began. The formation relaxes enough for me to glimpse the two Rangers returning, half a dozen ragged figures driven before them.

  I shake my head. Boys, old men. Apart from the archer among them, they appear to be farmers armed with rusted scythes and hoes. What were they thinking attacking fully armed Rangers?

  “Is that all of them?” Iddo demands.

  “Aye, sir. Well, all of them bar one. But he’s not going anywhere.”

  The Commander nods. “Scout a perimeter. If there’s any more, flush them out.”

  Orders given, Iddo turns his camel towards the ambushers. He doesn’t bother with the first, who has dissolved into a blubbering mess.

  The second of the group stares straight ahead, his nostrils pinched white. When Iddo’s camel draws level, the brigand spits at the Commander.

  Iddo raises his axe.

  My eyes go wide. Surely he’s not going to—

  “Stop!” Nisai presses his way outside the ring of Rangers, who hasten to turn their blades aside. “Look at them, will you? They’re skin and bone. I doubt they’re even aware who we are, other than the first group to ride by when they were desperate for their next meal.”

  Iddo’s expression remains implacable. “Treason is treason. On the Emperor’s person or his roads.”

  “I’m not the Emperor yet.” Nisai spreads his hands. “I’m not saying they shouldn’t atone for their actions. But it needn’t be with their lives. If they were escorted back to the capital, they could serve in Ekasya’s fields until they’ve worked off the debt of the camel, and anything else you take inventory of.”

  Iddo shakes his head. “The Rangers have a saying: free one traitor and a hundred more will line up to betray you. There’s no choice in this.”

  “We always have a choice. And I’d risk those hundred other traitors than live with one death on my conscience.”

  “Then it will be on me,” Iddo says. He signals to the nearest Rangers, Kip among them. “Get this lot out of the Prince’s sight.”

  I’d swear the youngest Ranger’s jaw clenched at the order. But then she squares her shoulders and prods one of the farmers into a stumbling walk.

  Iddo looks back down to Nisai. “I’m sorry it needs to be this way, but I’ll always choose what’s best for you, little brother. And I’ll always choose what’s best for the Empire. You’re going to need to learn to do the same.”

  Nisai watches Iddo ride after his Rangers, wearing an expression I’ve never seen him regard his brother with.

  Disappointment.

  “We always have a choice,” the First Prince repeats softly.

  “So that’s what old Zolmal was on about in Journeys,” Esarik marvels when we crest the final ridge. He flings his arms wide, earning a snort from his camel. “Behold! The Sand Sea.”

  I’ve never seen the ocean, but looking out across this vastness, I’ll take the scholar’s word for it. Forget the scrubland and rocky foothills we’ve already crossed, this is true desert. The kind that features in tales of audacious merchant caravans bringing essences from Aphorai – desert rose, black iris, and the rarest of rare: dahkai flower.

  Down below, a hundred-strong unit of camel cavalry await us, decked out in full desert military regalia. They must have been waiting for awhile. Pennants with the Eraz of Aphorai’s sigil – the winged lion on a gold field – flap from every tent in their camp. It’s a strange feeling seeing so many of the stylized version of my own tattoo in one place, like returning to a home I’ve never been.

  I can only see Iddo’s back, his once-white cape caked in dust and tented over his camel’s rump, cloaking any clues as to what he thinks. But his heels are firmly down in the stirrups. At the ready. Waiting.

  The curtains of the litter part. “Is there a problem?”

  We hardly passed a soul after the skirmish, and Nisai has made a pretence of sleeping through the heat, though he would have been analysing yesterday’s events, going over and over them in his mind like picking at a scab until it bleeds.

  “Seems we have a greeting party is all,” I reply. “They fly your uncle’s colours.”

  Nisai sighs. “I was hoping we could avoid this.”

  “Ah, politics,” Esarik says, heaving an exhausted sigh and dabbing his brow with the kerchief he’s taken to wearing on the road.

  When we reach the camp, the Aphorain leader makes his way straight to Iddo.

  “Commander.” The man doesn’t nod or bow in greeting, though he’s technically a rank lower in the imperial military hierarchy. Bold move. “I trust your trip hasn’t been troublesome.” His tone suggests he knows otherwise.

  Iddo bristles. “Perfectly routine, Province Commander.”

  “Thank the stars.” He looks the Rang
ers up and down. “Well then, no need to keep your men suffering in this heat any longer. Mine can take over from here.” He juts his chin towards the unit of cavalry behind him, mounted on camels in every shade from sandstone to basalt. They appear as relaxed as the Rangers.

  “This is an imperial mission,” Iddo says.

  “Are you saying my men are any less servants to the Empire?” the Province Commander’s voice drops to a dangerous tone.

  “I’m saying my men are trained for missions of state.”

  The Aphorain officer makes a show of inspecting the Rangers. He gives a sniff of derision. “Oh, your lot look the part. But this is our land. We know the desert. And I know how perturbed the Eraz of Aphorai will be if you don’t accept his kind offer of an escort.”

  Nisai leans from the litter, artfully assuming an expression of wide-eyed naivety. “My uncle? Is he with you?”

  The Aphorain slides from his saddle and bends one knee in the sand. “Forgive me, my Prince.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. Province Commander, I thank you for your candour. Indeed, I would hear more of our province.”

  “It would be my pleasure. And, as it pleases you, your uncle has arranged entertainments for your journey into his estates in these sacred days before the Flower Moon. Tomorrow is the Feast of Riker, and we shall hunt in honour of the youthful god. A feathered lion. The greatest beast you have ever seen.”

  For the first time, Iddo looks interested in what the Aphorain has to say.

  But Nisai affects a crestfallen demeanour. “Alas, the only way ballads will be composed in my honour is as a wielder of words.”

  “No need for false modesty. You’re Aphorain. You’ll come into your reign anointed by the gods like the great kings of old.”

  There’s the slightest tightening around Nisai’s eyes, a change I’m confident only I notice. “My thanks. Given the day fades, do you have any objections to remaining at camp for the night?”

  “Of course not, my Prince.”

  “Then let us eat, and rest, and set out fresh tomorrow.” He nods to Iddo and the Aphorain Commander as a pair, neatly sidestepping their contest of rank. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  We’re shown to a tent in the centre of camp. Before our bags have been brought in, Esarik’s already off again, peppering the Aphorain soldiers with questions.

  Nisai sets about lighting incense. Myrrh and oakmoss – an offering to Kaismap, the god of his starwheel spoke. The god of foresight.

  “What’s brought on this pious streak?” I ask, taking a seat on the edge of my bedroll and setting out the essential oils I’ll need to reinfuse the prayer braid tied to my arm – a different scented strand for each deity.

  He shrugs. “It’s no stench up my nose to burn a couple of sticks.”

  After the last couple of days, I’d agree. I hate to think what else this journey has in store if the gods desire some idle amusement.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I like the smell. It helps me think.” He sinks on to a rug piled with cushions, crossing his legs, leaning elbows on knees and chin on hands. He’s looking my way but not at me, his attention caught somewhere in the air between us.

  “Those men in the mountains – they were in such a desperate state. I thought the capital had sent aid to this region. Wasn’t that the impetus for my father’s last trip? After the shake? The reports said the situation was assessed, help was given to rebuild. But did you see any sign of that aid? Little wonder the Province Commander was prickly.”

  “You’re still gnawing on yesterday?”

  Nisai rubs his temples, a pained expression creasing his brow. “I should have handled things differently.”

  “How so?”

  “I sounded impetuous in front of my brother, in front of everyone, and yet when I was challenged, I faltered. I let those men die. The Empire had already failed them, and I let them pay the ultimate price.”

  He buries his face in his hands. “Ash, what if I’m no better at this than my father?”

  I’ve always felt a conflicted affinity to Riker, the young deity who struggled against his darker side to be true to the goodness in his heart. But when we cross from the dunes into the tended land we’re informed marks the outskirts of the Eraz’s estate, embarking on a hunt in the youthful god’s honour, I feel anything but heartened.

  As we walk towards our chariot, I try to dissuade Nisai from playing along with this nonsense. There’s no reason to expose himself to such risk. “My Prince—”

  “Scents, Ash. Don’t you start calling me that.”

  “Sorry. I was going to say … you don’t have to do this.”

  “You’re wrong about that.”

  “I thought you said we always have a choice?”

  “We do. But this is a test, and I intend to pass.”

  I drop my voice to a level that will reach only his ears. “Your father’s not here.”

  He halts midstride and rounds on me, but keeps his voice equally low, wary of the Aphorain soldiers. “It’s more than that, don’t you see? Look at the way the Province Commander challenged my brother; dissent comes easier this far from the capital. With every word, every action, they’re deciding if I’m fit to be Emperor.”

  “Killing a lion does not prove you fit to rule.”

  “For them it does. Even at Ekasya, the emperors of old would kill any beasts that threatened flocks or farms. In times of peace, it was their only way to show their willingness to fight for the people, to show that the gods favoured them to lead. It may have gone out of style in the capital. But here? It’s an honour.”

  “You’re the First Prince. Tell them to keep their sport for their own lords. Your uncle will get over it.”

  “And what of the capital? The Council? They may not care if I can hunt lions, but I will be judged on whether I can hold this lumbering beast of an empire together. Aramtesh has its faults, but it’s staved off war for centuries. If that’s not something to work for, I don’t know what is.”

  We climb into our chariot, an Aphorain at the reins, an oversized brute about an age with Nisai and me, wearing nothing but sandals, leather kilt and a sash across his broad chest. Nisai nods, and the Aphorain slaps the reins against the rump of our chariot’s camel.

  We’re off.

  I never thought I’d see a lion, especially not the ancient feather-maned breed. Their ilk no longer ventures into the cultivated land around Ekasya. But I suppose Nisai’s right – out here is a different story. There’s only so much fertile ground, only so many places for man or beast to find a meal.

  The chariot wheels along a spring-fed rivulet trickling through the Eraz’s estate, a grove of rock figs lining its banks. It broadens into man-made irrigation channels enclosing a tapestry of crop fields, from the grey-green spikes of leeks, to fronds of carrots and dill. The green is incongruous with the dunes still rippling the horizon. Part of me wonders whether the gods upheave this land with groundshakes because they never intended for people to dwell here.

  Our driver points ahead. A flash of tawny fur disappears over a rise and we pick up speed. Nisai nocks an arrow to his bow, his features taking on a grim, wild cast I’ve not seen before.

  We track our quarry to where the estate borders a rocky canyon, dunes rising from the other side. The lion comes into full view and my grip on the side of the chariot tightens.

  It’s enormous. Far bigger than the depictions in the Ekasyan palace tapestries.

  Massive jaws and watchful eyes are crowned with a full mane of feathers – one moment near-black, the next swirling with irridescent colour. Beneath the mane, it’s all power, from hulking shoulders down golden flanks to hind legs ending in black talons.

  Cornered, the beast circles, feather-tipped tail lashing the air, measuring us. It lets out a roar that thunders through my chest. As it reverberates, I can’t help but think of kinship, of like greeting like, as if he can sense what I am, as if he is telling me he sees me.

  There must be some way out of t
his hunt.

  “Nisai.” My first attempt at gaining his attention is lost in the thud of hooves and the rattle of the traces. “Nisai!”

  But the prince has drawn his bow, training his aim.

  The lion charges. It’s mesmerizing in its magnificent ferocity, muscle and sinew bunching and stretching beneath velvet hide.

  Despite all the hours we’ve spent training, I’ve failed to make a better-than-average swordsman of Nisai. But he’s an archer to rival Etru the Hunter. He holds his bow steady, stance wide, sure-footed on the bucking floor of the chariot.

  An arrow catches the beast in the shoulder.

  The lion roars. Roars, and keeps charging for us.

  Iddo barks orders from his chariot. “Circle round! Come at him from the flank! Give our Prince room!” The eldest imperial brother rides without helmet, chestnut hair ruffled by the breeze. He’s enjoying this.

  The men on the other chariot holler, but the lion is having nothing of it, its golden eyes fixed on us. Blood blooms from the wound in its shoulder. It’s only when I taste metal that I realize I’ve bitten my lip.

  Nisai nocks another arrow. He may be keeping his composure, but his face is pale, his jaw clenched.

  The lion changes tactic and angles for the camels. The beasts shy away and careen to the side, swinging the chariot wide. We lurch after them, heading for rocky scree at the edge of the canyon. It’s about to become a bumpy ride, but there’s nothing I can do. If I stop them, we’ll be within reach of the lion in a heartbeat. I have to trust Iddo to take care of it.

  “Hold on!” our driver shouts.

  Nisai refuses to drop his bow. He lets fly again, somehow managing to steady himself. The arrow thwacks into the lion’s flank and the beast’s rear leg gives out before it rights itself. Surely the only thing keeping it going is pain and rage.

  We’re into the scree now. The chariot judders beneath us, lurching to the side as the wheels slam into something. Then the world is tipping sideways.

  “Nisai!”

  I’m thrown clear, rolling to soften the impact. Ahead, Nisai lands awkwardly, bow pinned beneath him. He lets out a groan.