Pride of Empires (The Powers of Amur Book 3)

by J. S. Bangs

  “Navran-dar, my lord and king,” he said. “What a pleasure to finally visit you in your own palace. Too long have the majakhadir of Ahunas been away from their lords in Virnas.”

  “Too long?” Navran said. “You speak sweetly.”

  “Not half as sweet as you deserve, my lord and king.”

  Navran snorted at the sycophancy. “Thudra is still safe in your house.”

  “Yes,” Yavada said. “For now. But that’s the matter I’d like to discuss with you.” He glanced around the room at Josi, his own guards, and Dastha by the door. “I’d prefer for us to speak alone, if it were possible.”

  Navran groaned. He pointed at Josi and Yavada’s men. “These may go. My guard will stay.”

  Yavada looked at Dastha with a little consternation. “Are you certain, my lord and king?”

  “I don’t trust you if you’re entirely alone.”

  A blush of surprise washed over Yavada’s face, but then his expression of calculated cheerfulness returned. “Very well.” He nodded to his own men, who followed Josi outside the door of the throne room.

  When they were alone, Navran fixed Yavada with his hardest glare. “You. Another message from Thudra?”

  “Not from Thudra, but about Thudra,” Yavada said. “Perhaps a way to resolve both of our problems.”

  “Both of our problems? My problem is your treachery.”

  “My actions are borne out of a deep necessity and the loyalty between the majakhadir of Ahunas and the kings of Virnas, which goes back to the early days of the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it even stretches to the days of Manjur. You understand, I could not easily turn aside Thudra’s demand for my protection.”

  “Just speak plainly.”

  Yavada smiled, but a little of his obsequious veneer melted. “I will. Thudra is not a valuable ally to me at this time. Perhaps it’s time I find another.”

  Navran shifted on his throne and rested his chin on his hand. “Go on.”

  Yavada raised his palms plaintively. “The majakhadir of Ahunas have been friends of the kings of Virnas for centuries. The kings of Virnas, not the deposed former kings who are trying to make their escape. In the moment Thudra appealed to me, I felt I couldn’t refuse him, and while he is a guest in my house, I cannot turn him out. But I have begun to regret tying myself too strongly to him. And you are the king of Virnas now.”

  “A ripe time for you to say this.”

  “Ripeness is relative. You are poor and perhaps naive, but honorable, and less afflicted by the feckless pride of Thudra and his father.”

  “You flatter me now?”

  “Do you think this is flattery?” Yavada smiled at him again. “If this is the richest flattery you’ve received, then the rest of your court is not performing their duties.”

  “I avoid flattery. Purse, Horn, and Hand: all are honest men. Or women.”

  “Wisely done. But let us discuss what each of us wants.”

  Navran rose to his feet and descended the dais. With an expression of alarm, Yavada, too, rose and backed away from Navran with a bow.

  “I want Thudra,” Navran said. “Nothing else.”

  “See, this is why I called you naive. Alliances are always built on mutual exchange.”

  Navran stepped across from Yavada and looked him in the eye. Navran was taller, and he looked down on the majakhadir from a close distance, hoping to intimidate. “You want something.”

  “I suggest we set up a deeper trade, one which will enrich both of us for years to come. Ahunas is the largest city between Virnas and Patakshar, and our interests often align—”

  “Speak plainly.”

  Yavada backed farther away from Navran with a little bow. “I have a daughter, you see.”

  A cold, heavy stone fell into Navran’s gut.

  “Utalni-kha is seventeen, never betrothed,” Yavada went on. “I have waited for an appropriate match. She comes with an appreciable dowry.”

  His mind churned like a millstone over gravel, seeking for alternatives. “I thought your daughter was betrothed to Vidham, Thudra’s son.”

  “My younger daughter Tuladi. Utalni is too old for Vidham. I have received other offers, but I have so far kept her in reserve. As I said, she carries a significant dowry.”

  “Enough to pay Thudra’s ransom?”

  Yavada laughed and clapped his hands together. “Thudra’s ransom demand was a mockery. You were never meant to pay it. Only a fool would even try.” Navran thought with chagrin of his frantic request to Sadja. “No, whatever silver and jewels may accompany my daughter, they are merely sweeteners for the real dowry, which is that I will give Thudra to you, and you may keep your ransom.”

  “I thought,” Navran said, his mouth dry. He closed his eyes and turned away. “You said he’s your guest. You can’t turn him out.”

  “There are ways around that. Are you… are you displeased?”

  “No. Yes.” Navran slouched up the stairs of the dais and slumped onto the throne, holding his head his hands. He said nothing.

  “Ah,” Yavada said after a moment. “You’re concerned about that other woman?”

  Navran raised his eyes. “What do you know about her?”

  “Rumors reach me even in Ahunas. But truly, my lord and king, I make you a better offer than her. My daughter is younger and more beautiful, and will bear you as many fat, beautiful sons as you desire. If you truly want this other woman,” he gestured vaguely, “kings have ways.”

  Navran shook his head. He had to find a reason to refuse Yavada. “It’s too soon. My mother died only four months ago. Must respect her. No weddings for six months after the funeral.”

  “The wedding may be easily postponed. A betrothal may be carried out at any time, no?”

  Navran murmured. “Have to ask Bhudman,” he said softly. But that thought lit a new ember of hope in his belly. “Ulaur. You are not Uluriya. I marry within the Law of Ghuptashya.”

  “That is remedied easily enough.”

  Navran stared with revulsion at Yavada’s fat, round, face and his pleasant smile. “Easily?”

  “It would be advantageous for us to join the cult of our neighbors and allies, the kings of Virnas.” Yavada clasped his hand together eagerly. “Surely we’re not the first who has sought to bring themselves closer to you in this manner.”

  No, not the first. There were the other toadies and sycophants, cloying him with the pieties, requests for patronage, and clawing after positions within his cabinet and his kingdom. But Yavada was a different matter. If they married, he would not be a sycophant, but nearly an equal. “Your family,” Navran said angrily. “You have ties to the dhorsha in your town. The temples of Chaludra.”

  “We will find a way to cooperate. I would welcome the chance to make ties as deep as these to the Uluriya bhilami.” A flicker of concern crossed Yavada’s face. “Are you… are you opposed to our conversion?”

  Navran covered his eyes. “Not opposed,” he said. “Bewildered. I am a poor king—”

  “At the moment, Navran-dar. With the cooperation between our two cities, I have little doubt we will put Virnas and Ahunas alike on solid footing.”

  So likely. So inescapable. The perfect solution to his problems, the one solution he didn’t want to take. A final feint came to him. “Mandhi,” he said. “Her child is my Heir.”

  “It does not remove the utility of the union,” Yavada sad pleasantly.

  “You would share your daughter with someone who would not even bear an heir through her?”

  “As I said, the utility of the union does not depend on having my grandson be king of Virnas. Being nephew to the Heir is enough.” An expression of concern, painfully sincere, crossed Yavada’s face. “But you are not forced. You could leave Sundasha-kha in Thudra’s care, let him go, or let him fall to Thudra’s hand. Or you could try to pay the ridiculous ransom.”

  Jahaparna. Yavada laid it out as beautifully and inevitably as Navran could hope for. As beautiful as any game he had seen
played. No room for maneuver, no possibility of retreat.

  The king’s bed, Sadja had told him once, may be for amusement. But his hand is always a tool.

  He had forgotten. He had hoped it was not true. He had been wrong.

  “I need time,” he whispered. “Time to think.”

  “I understand,” Yavada said. “May I approach the throne, my lord and king?” he asked.

  Navran nodded. The yellow-clad majakhadir climbed the steps of the dais and knelt before the throne, taking Navran’s hand and kissing it.

  “You may have as much time as you need to think, my lord. Seek the counsel of your advisors. Inquire with the saghada. Whatever you need.”

  Navran nodded. He kept his head bowed. Yavada stepped down from the dais, and Navran heard his steps recede toward the entrance of the chamber.

  “Wait,” Navran said.

  The footsteps paused. Navran looked up to see Yavada standing near the entrance, a few feet from the curtain. “My lord and king?”

  He knew what his advisors would say. If he didn’t do it now, he would never be able to.

  “I agree,” he whispered.

  “To the marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  Yavada hurried back to the throne. He bowed before the dais then came up on his knees, clasping Navran’s hand a second time and kissing it repeatedly.

  “A great choice,” he said. “You will not regret it. The alliance—oh, this is a great day for both of our realms. I’ll bring news of the joy back to Ahunas.”

  Joy. Navran held in a sob that quivered in his chest like a sparrow.

  He lay a hand atop Yavada’s head. “Go. You still need to talk to the saghada. I’ll send Bhudman to you. But…”

  “Yes, Navran-dar?”

  Navran shook his head. “Don’t spread the word in Virnas. I want to tell people myself.”

  Mostly he wanted to tell Josi. Or avoid telling Josi.

  Yavada nodded. He bowed again and left the room spilling effusive thanks and recognition, which swirled past Navran like lukewarm wind. When the man left, Navran slumped into the throne and watched the floor tiles. Eventually he looked up at Dastha.

  “I’m sorry,” Dastha said.

  Navran closed his eyes. “Was there another way?”

  Dastha murmured. “I’m not a politician. But I don’t think so. And…”

  Navran’s hand quaked, and he held his breath to fight the threat of tears. “Say it.”

  “I like Josi, my lord and king. But for a queen… Yavada-kha’s offer may be better.”

  He clenched his teeth together. The urge to weep subsided. He rose from the throne, stepped down from the dais, and walked slowly across the tiles to the window which looked down on the garden.

  “The problem, Dastha,” Navran said, “is that you’re probably right.”

  He rested his head against the stone sill of the window.

  “Damn it,” he whispered. “You’re right.”

  Kirshta

  For three days Kirshta tried to listen to Vapathi. His water ran out at the end of the first day, and on the second he forced himself to crawl to the river’s edge and drink. The act of swallowing was agony, the muscles of his throat pulling at his bruised windpipe and prompting spasms of agony. But he drank, and he did not die.

  On the third day he saw vultures flying overhead. One landed a few feet away from him. He picked up a stone from the river bank and threw it, but it bounced harmlessly through the grass. The bird hopped a few feet farther away, then turned its head to watch him with a black, red-rimmed eye. It opened its beak lazily, showing him a scarlet tongue.

  He had to move.

  Pain spidered across his back as he rose to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him. The tiger hadn’t gotten its claws beneath his waist, but lack of food had nearly done him in where the hunter had failed. He took a step forward and fell to a knee. He would have to eat something. Anything.

  He looked toward the mountains. A little path as wide as a hand crawled between the grass along the river bank, then clambered across the needle-strewn rocks before it disappeared under the eaves of the pines. Above, the gray crowns of the mountains gnawed at the bottom of a pale sky. Some distance to the northeast was Pukasra, where he would find food and shelter. He could beg or tell fortunes while he healed, and be strong and hale when his sister returned from her forced march through the mountains. Giving pleasure to slavers while they stole children.

  No.

  Vapathi might be as free as she wanted with sex. But he would not suffer his sister and his friend to travel to his old home and take children from the arms of their parents.

  A fire burned in his gut. He turned toward the mountains, and step by agonizing step he climbed.

  * * *

  He reached the village where the slavers were camped, shaking from lack of food, covered with blood, with a will as sharp as an obsidian knife.

  Not even the dungeons of the Dhigvaditya had focused him this way. He had been walking for eleven days, during which he had eaten only a few forest berries, some sweet grasses, and a handful of pine nuts. The pain in his chest and throat had ebbed to a low throb. By now pain was a familiar friend, singing to him in the darkness of the inner stillness. The mountain’s resistance to his meditation no longer encumbered him. His will cut through it like a knife.

  In the darkness he saw the endless rows of teeth, the throat that descended forever, the boundless hunger. He threw himself into it. There was no fear. There was only the fierceness of his resolve.

  So he caught up with the slavers, gradually, over many days of walking deep into the night with only farsight to guide him. He had passed through three villages on previous days. There were signs of the slavers’ passage through those villages, suggesting they had already plundered them and moved on. The villagers gave him cold stares when he walked through them. He had taken to walking the goat-herds’ paths high up the slopes, from which he could look down on the crooked valleys and pass by unremarked.

  A few hours ago he had passed the slavers.

  The sun was bleeding the last of its light on the teeth of the peaks to his west. Beneath him another village cowered, a nest of two dozen stone huts leaning against the mountain slopes, little pens of goats bleating in the darkness.

  The peaks were familiar shapes he had seen every morning of his childhood. They were close to his home village. He had probably visited the village below as a child, but its name had long since evaporated from his memory.

  It didn’t matter. The slavers were a few hours behind him, making camp in the knobby, wind-twisted pines. They would strike the village once darkness fell, and the village’s children would be plundered.

  But Kirshta could warn them.

  He began to descend the scree and scrub toward the village. By the time he reached the valley floor, the light of the sun was a brush of pink along the tops of the western peaks, and the sky overhead was a violet cloak shot through with stars. Lamps glowed in a few of the windows. Kirshta made toward the nearest house with a light in its window.

  It was a rough square formed from uncut stone, with cracked wooden slats forming the roof. A goat skull with black crescent horns hung above the door. Kirshta shambled up to the doorway.

  An instinct from his childhood had him reach and touch the horns of the skull. Why did he do it? If he had ever known a reason for the superstition, he had forgotten it now. He knocked on the wooden frame of the door and tried to call out.

  His voice came out dry and injured, like a wind across grass between stones. It had been twelve days since he had spoken aloud. He could barely hear himself. There was movement inside the house. The rough canvas over the door was pulled aside, and an old man peered out at him, lit from behind in the golden lamplight.

  A goat-herder, by the smell of him. The reek of boiled milk and unwashed clothes poured out of the stone hut. The man stared at Kirshta with his mouth half-open, a look of confusion and surprise in his eyes. His teeth w
ere black and yellow, and his white, thick tongue moved in his mouth.

  Kirshta tried to speak again. Only a grinding rasp came out. He gestured inside.

  The man looked at him in incomprehension, then let loose a stream of babbling, rapid speech. Kirshta’s mind reeled. The old language, the mountain language. He had known it once, and its sound knocked against long-locked doors in his mind.

  Kirshta gestured again at the inside of the house. The man grabbed Kirshta’s hand and pulled him inside. Cheeses hung from the cracked wooden rafters, wrapped in coarse hemp twine, and goat’s milk boiled in a blackened clay pot above a dung stove. The man took up a wooden ladle and poured a cup of hot milk. He pushed Kirshta down onto a mat of straw and set the milk in Kirshta’s hand. Kirshta took a drink.

  The man spoke again. The taste of hot goat’s milk and the sound of the man’s speech cracked open the seal over Kirshta’s memories, and he almost understood. He swallowed and tried his voice again.

  “I can’t understand,” he said. “Please, speak slowly.”

  The man looked at him as if he were a goat that had wandered in the front door and had begun to speak. “Where are you from?” he asked.

  He had not switched to lowland Amuran, but he had slowed enough that Kirshta’s mind was able to catch up with his words. Kirshta worked his lips slowly, trying to awaken habits of the tongue which had lain dormant for a decade.

  “I came,” he said cautiously. The man’s eyes brightened in comprehension. “I came from….” he gestured off to the east. “From Amur.” He could not remember if they called the lowland Amur, but he knew no better name for it.

  “And what are you doing here,” the man asked testily. He rested his fists on his hips, tapping at his blackened teeth with his tongue.

  “I got away,” Kirshta said. “From bad men. I escaped.”

  “They took you?” the man said with surprise. “They take only children.”

  Kirshta shook his head. “Many years ago. I returned.”