Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  The slave-boy bowed his head then left to do the king’s bidding.

  The king glanced at the other slave-boy. “Rasa, tell Qisht the desert seer is here. We require refreshments and his presence.”

  Heduanna bristled at the mention of the head-slave’s name. Why does Father always insist on that weasel’s presence?

  “Let's be comfortable.”

  They moved to another section of the king’s reception room and reclined on the settees around a low table. Her father exchanged pleasantries with Zamug, asking about his travels and details of smaller cities until Qisht and the refreshments arrived. Wine, goblets, and an assortment of food – figs, peaches, olives and halom cheese. Qisht seemed to be wearing even more make up than usual. He was probably flirting his skirt off with all the stately guests. Hedaunna was pursing her lips, and she forced them to relax. She suddenly regretted removing the mask.

  “It is true,” her father said after a pause in conversation. “Heduanna has grown closer to Phadite.”

  Zamug’s eyes narrowed on her, and Heduanna could guess what he was thinking. He’d tried to convince her father before that her special gift needed proper instruction, something he could help her with if she were to travel with them for a year in the desert. She wondered if the seer would ask again. But Father needed her here now more than ever.

  Qisht dismissed the slave-boys and served the wine himself, first her father, then their guests. Heduanna was served last. She took a gulp and the coolness of it helped to settled the fire in her belly Qisht always managed to inflame.

  “Pour a cup for yourself, Qisht, and sit with us,” the king said.

  Heduanna took another gulp as Qisht sat as dainty as a desert daisy. This always incensed her too – having to pretend the slave was an equal.

  Heduanna glanced at Enlil. Pleasingly, the bard’s gaze remained fixed on her. She couldn’t help imagining his strong arms around her waist and those dark hands on her golden flesh.

  Her father was speaking. “I want to share some of the goddess’s messages with you, Zamug.”

  “Of course. What you say will not be repeated.”

  The king clicked the beads. “It seems the goddess is intent on war.”

  “War? Yet she values peace over all else.”

  “Apart from love, of course,” Heduanna interjected, glancing once more at Enlil.

  Zamug tilted his head. “Indeed. Though the two are as paired as the sand and the sky.”

  Qisht leaned forward. His hands placed demurely on his knees. “We believe the mighty Phadite may be preparing for Gedjon-Brak.”

  Zamug stared at him.

  Qisht continued. “Gedjon-Brak is known as the Great War to Come. The war to end all wars. The war of—”

  “Zamug knows of Gedjon-Brak,” Heduanna said, with a touch too much bile in her tone. “He does not require instruction.”

  The head-slave bowed his head her way, and Heduanna took another sip of wine. She needed to remain calm. Not let him get the better of her.

  “Yes, I know of it,” Zamug said. “But it is one prophecy among many others the gods have passed down to your people over the aeons. It has always baffled me as to why Zraemians adhere to that particular foretelling more than any other. Or perhaps it doesn’t.” Zamug looked at the king. “Perhaps I see all too clearly the purpose in such scaremongery.”

  The king smirked. “I see your wisdom is as sharp as ever, old friend.”

  Zamug shrugged. “If only my bones were as strong.”

  “Surely the answer is clear.” All eyes turned to Qisht.

  “Tell us, Qisht. What is the answer?” the king asked, clicking another bead.

  Qisht looked at the table. “That the prophecy of Gedjon-Brak was relayed to Htamish, the greatest poet in all Zraemian history and was written down by him in his most renowned work, the Auranann. It is quite simply the most sublime piece of literature ever written. Its very nature proves it is divine and a direct message from the most powerful god in the land, Zroaras.”

  The king looked at Zamug and the two of them seemed to share a slow smile.

  Heduanna frowned. She had to admit, reluctantly, Qisht was right. He’d relayed the precise reasons why the prophecy of the Great War to Come was widely accepted. Even her father accepted it as truth. Didn’t he? She gazed at her father-king with a renewed curiosity, wondering, like she had countless times before, what in Phadite’s name he was thinking.

  “I, too, do not doubt the veracity of the prophecy,” her father said. “However, I also accept that some legends are hoisted up high on the hot air expired by men.”

  “You mean the prophecy is given such prominence due to the whims of those in power?” the weasel asked.

  “Just so.”

  “You do not fear retribution from Zroaras by voicing such doubts?” Qisht looked the king directly in the eye before bowing his head. “Exalted.”

  “I do, but the goddess protects me.”

  “Exalted,” Zamug said quietly. “Perhaps you ought to tell me of the visions?”

  The king nodded. “Daughter. Tell Zamug of our future ally.”

  Heduanna relayed the details of her latest vision. She told him of the voracious army of savage warriors who existed far and away to the northwest, and who would one day fight for them in Gedjon-Brak. As always, a swirl of unrest stirred in her core as she spoke of such violence. It was against the goddess’s natural proclivity to lead them to war, and Heduanna felt it in her very bones.

  “Unfortunately, however,” Heduanna finished her tale. “These people exist beyond the Sea of Death.” She sat back and took a sip of wine to settle her stomach.

  Zamug glanced around the room, and she thought she detected alarm in his eyes. He raised a hand to scratch his bald head.

  Enlil’s mouth had fallen open at the mention of the Sea of Death.

  “Princess,” Zamug began, “you are sure of the accuracy of your interpretation?”

  Heduanna’s lips pursed again. It was the same irritating question the high priest always asked, and it was the last thing she’d expected Zamug to say, especially as he knew of her gift of prophesy. She’d been interpreting visions from the goddess all her seventeen sommers. She’d foretold of wars, battles and peace treaties. Floods, droughts and plagues. Why must these men continue to question her? “Of course I am sure.” She glanced at Enlil and caught him gazing at her once more. She raised an eyebrow at him. Her anger dissipated at the giddy thought of having him under her.

  Zamug was shaking his head. “It does not please me, this message.”

  “We have that in common, my friend,” the king replied as he shifted in his chair. “You more than any other would know if there is such a people who live so far away we can only reach them over treacherous waters. A people tall, proud and strong, so fierce in battle, even their women partake in the practice. In your knowledge, do they exist?”

  Zamug frowned. A deep chaos seemed to broil within him. Heduanna could read most people the way she read her visions. It took energy and concentration, and only worked when the goddess was with her, but if she wanted to she could reach out with her essence to touch the essence of another. She did so now. Reaching for Zamug. It made her dizzy, her limbs listless, but she could feel his intensity – a contained inner maelstrom.

  The old man raised his gaze to Heduanna before shifting his dark eyes to the king. “Yes, they exist. Though I’ve never seen them.”

  Heduanna leaned forward. “I sense your uncertainty. Why are you reluctant to accept the goddess’s message?”

  “I do not question the goddess. I am merely saddened things must come to this grim reality. Ruling over others is a demeaning thing.”

  “True,” the king spoke. “It’s not certain these people will tolerate our rule. Perhaps they will resist us and refuse to fight for our cause. Perhaps,” he glanced at Qisht, “perhaps Urul will win power over all Zraemia in Gedjon-Brak and once Azzuri and all her leal cities have submitted to their
dominance, perhaps then the goddess will reveal these foreigners to the enemy King Amar-Eshu and they will be forced to submit to his rule rather than mine own.”

  Zamug nodded solemnly. “Peace is a worthy cause, and great sacrifices must be made to achieve it. It is a sorry and confounding paradox, one which many seers have tried and failed to fathom. I’m afraid I cannot fathom it either. But know this,” Zamug looked Heduanna in the eye. “You serve your goddess well, child. You must continue to do so no matter the external pressure placed on your heart. Phadite is one of the old gods, this much I know. Her wisdom runs deeper than a desert spring.”

  Heduanna stared. A shiver ran along her spine.

  A slave-boy entered and Qisht rose to meet him. The boy whispered in his ear.

  “What is it, Qisht?” the king asked.

  Qisht faced him with a dramatic gesture. “Exalted, King Amar-Eshu of Urul and his retinue have arrived. Your son is with them. He appears well and in good spirits. They make their way to the palace as we speak.”

  A flush of flutters gripped Heduanna’s insides. It was time for her to face her newest suitor, and her brute of a brother. She reached for her cup, but it was empty.

  The king stood. “We must meet them at once. Qisht, make ready.”

  “Of course, Exalted. The Hall of Gold is already prepared.” Qisht bowed and left.

  Zamug and Enlil stood. “Your attention must turn to more important people than us, Exalted. But whenever you have need of us, we shall come,” Zamug said.

  “Thank you, Zamug, Enlil. Our city is your home for as long as you have need of it.”

  Heduanna watched the two desert men leave and wished they could stay for what was to come. Despite his enigmatic ways, Zamug had a calming presence.

  Her father paced, making the fronds of a fern wave back and forth, and the action released more nervous flutters in Heduanna’s stomach. Her father never paced.

  Finally he sat and flinging his beads gestured for her to sit closer. “Are you ready, daughter?”

  She looked at him. A warm kindness emanated from him. Her father loved his children though his seat of rule meant he could rarely show it. She wondered what he’d decided about her brother’s notion of offering her hand in marriage to their enemy. She could only trust that when it was time, he would discuss it with her before making a public declaration.

  “I am ready, Father,” she said.

  “I hope someone has found Sargan.”

  “The whole city would have heard of the enemy king’s arrival. Sargan will make his way back.” Heduanna fixed the mask back on her face.

  Her father looked at her. “Your manner of dress is most unusual. May I ask the reason for it?”

  “I simply wish to be presentable to my new suitor.”

  “With all that cloth he’ll have no notion of your beauty.”

  She smiled. “Precisely, Father.”

  Sargan

  Sargan hitched his skirt and ran as fast as his fat legs would carry him. He spotted Qisht speaking to a group of servants by the palms on the terrace. Sargan paused to catch his breath, then rushed over.

  Qisht gave Sargan a reproachful glance. “Look at your tunic. It’s filthy.”

  Sargan glimpsed down. Yet again he’d managed to get desert dust all over the white linen. Brown lines revealed the creases his fat rolls made when he sat, and various food stains made an interesting pattern on his chest. “I didn’t mean to get into this state.”

  Qisht frowned. “Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Watching the fire dancers in the bazaar. I didn’t hear the mid-noon bell.”

  “Tsk, and I suppose you didn’t have a guard. You wonder why your father is harsh with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Qisht. Do I have time to change?”

  Qisht shook his head. “They are settling themselves as we speak like two flocks of enemy parrots. You’d best join your father-king immediately.”

  Sargan nodded and turned to go, but Qisht tapped his shoulder.

  “Just a moment.”

  “Yes, Qisht?” Sargan said, stepping back into the sunshine.

  Qisht put his hands on Sargan’s shoulders. “Once you’re standing in front of them, be sure to take a moment to steady your breath, and remember to place your gaze on the potted palms at the back, not your audience.” Qisht gave him a level stare. “You can do this, Sargan. You’re a prince of Azzuri and the finest living poet in all Zraemia.”

  Sargan licked his lips. “Thank you, Qisht. I’ll do my best.”

  “That you will, now off you go.”

  Sargan stepped into the coolness of the palace. Still catching his breath he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. In the silver room, an antechamber, the sconces had been lit, but compared to the bright summer afternoon it was rather dull. He stepped through the large archway to the Hall of Gold, the vast reception chamber that could accommodate hundreds of people. The high walls were lined with a mix of gold and alabaster panels. Every sconce and lamp had been lit, and the whole space gave off a golden glow.

  People were everywhere, thankfully still taking their seats. The last of the enemy king’s retinue milled about. Sargan searched for his brother, but couldn’t see him yet.

  His father-king sat on the ornate stone chair upon the dais at the front of the room. A gilded image depicting all the gods of the Zraemian pantheon hung high on the wall behind him. Phadite, her feminine form towering and powerful, stood in the very middle of the other deities, and appeared larger than any other god, including the mighty Zroaras. The high relief carving dwarfed the crowd, reminding all of their mortal and insubstantial status as mere humans.

  Heduanna was seated beside their father. Sargan had to look twice. What in Phadite’s name was she wearing? She looked liked a Cassite woman, about to travel days and moons over the desert in winter. A decorated Cassite mask was stuck to her head and a robe covered her from neck to toe. Who knew what his sister was thinking when she dressed this morning. Still, at least she bore no food stains like Sargan.

  He attempted to cover the mess on his chest by folding his arms as he stepped toward the dais. On his father’s left sat Sargan’s uncle-general, then the high priest whose head feathers were set straight for once, followed by Sargan’s other five uncles who perched on their seats like a row of puffed up partridges. Three of them were commanders in his father’s army, one led the royal fleet and the other, Sargan’s favourite uncle, Thedor, was the city’s chief administrator. Uncle Thedor gave him a bemused smile.

  Sargan bobbed his head and scanned the rows beyond. There were so many people, the full Azzurian royal court. Behind, sat more rows of priests and all Sargan’s royal cousins, as well as other high-ranking military and city officials. Sargan’s stomach suddenly roiled with queasiness. He had to pull off a striking recital. Had he practiced enough?

  Sargan gave his father a tight smile as he walked past, but the king maintained his impartial stare, and Sargan’s stomach dropped further. His father would be disappointed he was late and looking so unkempt. The whole purpose of this charade was to impress the enemy king with Azzuri’s nobility and greatness. To show Urul that Azzuri was their equal. Rabi was always calling their city a little pebble in comparison to the gem of Urul, and here was Sargan proving him right.

  Sargan lifted his chin at his sister, who nodded back, the feathers of her mask flowing gracefully. Next to her was Sargan’s seat and next to that sat Rabi with an idiotic grin on his face. Yet, Rabi’s dress was immaculate. He wore a broad gold collar upon his shoulders and a matching skirt of golden panels. His makeup had been perfectly applied, and his rat’s tail braid rested over one shoulder, not a strand of hair out of place. He looked, in short, exactly how he was supposed to – princely.

  Sargan ran a hand through his long hair and detected at least half a dozen knots. He ignored Rabi’s smirk and sat with a heavy sigh.

  Rabi leaned close and whispered, “My brother-king’s retinue is so lar
ge your pampered slave Qisht has had to find more seats.”

  Sargan shifted in his chair, as far from Rabi as he could manage, which wasn’t much due to Sargan’s wide girth. The sooner the exchange was done with and they were rid of the rat-prince the better. But Rabi was right. Sargan scanned the enemy king’s retinue. They must have numbered in the hundreds.

  Rabi’s brother, King Amar-Eshu sat in the centre, facing Sargan’s father-king. On his right, a strange-looking man sat as still as rock. His face was wizened with deep wrinkles, but his features were fine and delicate. He had eyes the shape of almonds and a petite nose and mouth. His grey-black hair fanned out in numerous dreadlocks and covered his shoulders. He wore a dark red robe. He was not of Zraemian origin, but he didn’t look Tarzyshtan either, his skin was too light for that. Whoever he was, he held a position of influence, for he sat closer to the king than even the Urul high priest.

  On the king’s left sat all Eshu’s many brothers, of whom Rabi was the youngest. Sargan’s breath caught in his throat when his eyes fell to the end of the row. There sat his brother, Prince Hadanash, heir to the royal seat of Azzuri, laughing and sharing some quip with the lone female in the row, Princess Adula, Rabi’s sister and only princess of Urul.

  Sargan tensed. Hadanash would be nineteen summers old now, a full grown man. He looked the spitting image of their father, though his hair was now styled in the Urul fashion, with a shaved head at the sides and the single braid at the back, just like Rabi and his brothers. Hadanash had also grown a full beard, expertly trimmed – another Urul fashion it seemed, for the king and each of the princes also sported such beards.

  Hadanash laughed again, and Sargan raised an eyebrow. Their father-king would not approve of Hadanash’s frivolity on such a solemn occasion.

  Finally, everyone in the enemy king’s vast retinue had been seated and silence descended.