by Aderyn Wood
Sargan glanced at his father. The king wore simple apparel, a plain linen skirt and a gold sash over his top. His dark hair hung in shining waves over his back. He spoke the formal greetings, his fine voice easily filling the hall. “Our great city, Azzuri, home of the Goddess Phadite who serves love and peace, myself, King Amar-Sin, my daughter, Princess Heduanna, my son Prince Sargan, and—” There was a pause as the king took a breath. “Prince Rabi of Urul. My royal brothers General Mutat, Commander Annu, Commander Rigut, Commander Ru, Admiral Dannu and Chief Administrator Thedor, His Most Grand Blessed, High Priest Lipit, and all my sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews and priests of Azzuri welcome you King Abi-Eshu of Urul and your family and friends. It is a happy day for me to see my son again and to witness the peace our two great cities continue to uphold.”
His father finished and a stretch of silence ensued. King Abi-Eshu, a handsome man, slouched back in his chair, his legs stretched before him in a most casual pose. His eyes were lined with heavy kohl, unlike his brothers he wore a full head of hair in the traditional Zraemian style, its black silkiness clearly a point of pride. As were the two large gold loops he wore in his ears.
One of the enemy king’s guards, who stood to the side of the room, shifted his weight. The gentle clinking of his sword against its gold belt serving as a reminder that war between these two cities was only ever a royal command away. Exchanging the two princes – Hadanash and Rabi – as diplomatic hostages had been the result of a long and exhausting series of talks between Sargan’s father and the former king of Urul, King Amar-Khamunah, Rabi’s father, three sommer’s past. But last sommer, they’d received word Khamunah had died, and Rabi’s eldest brother, inherited the throne. One of Eshu’s first edicts as king was to announce the recall of his youngest brother. And so here they were. The exchange had bought them peace for a time, but would it last?
“You know my retinue, King Amar-Sin.” Finally the enemy king spoke with a lazy tone that came to them like warm honey. “My brothers and sister,” he gestured his head to his left. “And the rest of the sycophants who make up my court.” He flung an arm to his right and behind him.
Sargan blinked. The enemy king was not returning the formal greeting. What other formalities would he fail to undertake? Sargan suddenly worried about Hadanash. His brother sat just a few steps away, but what if it were all a trick and he wasn’t returned to them as the kings had agreed? Perhaps the king of Urul didn’t value his younger brother, and Sargan couldn’t blame him for that. Rabi was as irritating as he was stupid. As much as Sargan didn’t like his brother, it was imperative for Azzuri’s future, and for peace, that Hadanash be returned to the fold.
“We have enjoyed peace,” King Amar-Eshu continued, “you are quite right, King Amar-Sin. Though whether such peace remains will be an interesting point for observation.” He spoke with ice in his voice, his eyes not moving from Sargan’s father. It was a thinly disguised threat. The enemy king, it seemed to Sargan, was intent on war. Was it his desire to rule the Five Sisters – five cities huddled close on a wide stretch the Uyrprhat River – that drove him to act so antagonistically? Or did he truly believe he was destined to become the ‘One King’ that was prophesised to rule after Gedjon-Brak, as foretold in the Aurannan?
Probably the former, Sargan decided. The Five Sisters boasted a number of precious resources, gold certainly, but more important was the vast valleys of bronze and tin that could provide a seemingly endless supply of weapons. The Sisters were closer in geography to Azzuri than Urul, and currently enjoyed the protection extended to them by Sargan’s father.
“I am sure you are as eager as I,” Sargan's father began, “To be reunited with our kin. Shall we now exchange our wards?”
Sargan took a breath, his father had cut right to the point – the exchange of the two princes. This was the moment in which Sargan would be reunited with his brother. A strange emotion pushed and pulled through him.
The enemy king nodded. “It is what we are here for.”
“Prince Rabi,” Sargan’s father said, his voice elevated now. “You have been a welcomed guest of the Azzurian Palace and we have enjoyed your company. You are now free to return to your brother, and we ask the most gracious Phadite to bless you. May you remain our friend and ally, always.”
With that Rabi stood and began walking, in his sauntering style, across and down the steps of the dais toward his brother-king. Likewise, Hadanash rose and walked toward them. It was clear he had grown a full head’s length. Both kings stood and so too did the entire retinue of their royal houses.
Sargan’s knees would not stop shaking, and he clenched his thighs together. The servants stood, the guards stood, the nobles stood. All watched the two young men who now nodded to each other as they walked past.
Hadanash first greeted their father. They embraced. It wasn't a warm embrace, more a formal clutch, but then Sargan had never known his father to do anything informally. Though, was that relief on his father-king’s face?
Hadanash then went to their sister and Heduanna kissed his heir ring, before Hadanash whispered something to her.
Now Hadanash approached Sargan. He extended his hand and Sargan bent to kiss the silver and lapis heir ring. “Welcome back, brother-prince,” Sargan said.
“You’re even fatter than when I left, Prince Hog,” his brother replied.
Sargan's mouth slackened. He’d been a fool to think his brother would have changed.
Hadanash chuckled softly before he moved on to greet Uncle-General Mutat. The two had always been close, and it was plain to see they still were as they smiled and back-slapped each other.
Sargan blinked and told himself to pull himself together, lest his father see his childish tears.
As the two young princes made their reunions, the kings returned to their seats and everyone followed suit.
“My son, Sargan wishes to recite a poem for your enjoyment to commemorate this important moment and our cities’ friendship,” the king said.
Sargan thought he might throw up the contents of his stomach. His father turned to him and nodded with eyes that told him to get up.
Sargan swallowed hard and stood, his knees threatening to buckle at any moment. Clearing his throat, he stepped forward and made the mistake of glancing at his brother who wore an expression of boredom on his face. Sargan then faced the enemy king who appeared just as unimpressed. Sargan stood on the edge of the dais, that now seemed too high from the floor, and a momentary dizziness gripped him. He took a slow breath, but when he opened his mouth to begin, to his great horror, he’d no memory of the verse. The poem he’d spent so many hours rehearsing, Herodot’s famous epic that paid tribute to the greatness of both cities – Urul the gold city, and Azzuri the blue – somehow it had disappeared from his mind like dawn mist in the Zraemian sun.
Panic filled his head and filtered to his limbs making them shake. He’d really botched things now. Not only did he look like a peasant in his stained tunic, but the one way he could impress the royal court of Urul, and help his father prove the worthiness of Azzuri as an equal, was lost to him. His mouth went dry and he froze, with no knowledge of how he could get himself out of this predicament.
Whispered giggles echoed from somewhere, and the panic elevated. He had to do something or the entire hall would collapse in laughter and his father would look just as much the fool as Sargan already did.
“City of Gold you captivate.” A clear voice filled the silence. “With gilded streets, and Otherworldly opulence, fit for the garden of gods.”
Sargan could hardly believe it. His sister stood beside him, reciting the poem. Her beautiful, strong voice articulating it perfectly, emphasising the cadence exactly as it should be.
Her warm hand clutched his own. Her strength seemed to flow from her and the words of the poem came back to him. He opened his mouth and joined his sister’s recital, their voices intertwining perfectly to create a euphonic harmony, almost like a song.
Sargan t
hen remembered the advice from Qisht and kept his gaze firmly on the potted palms beyond the mass of Urulans.
With the last line, Sargan gave his sister a quick smile of thanks, wishing he could embrace her for saving him. Her face remained a mystery beneath the mask, but he turned with a feeling of calm to walk back to his seat. He risked a glance at his father but the king's expression remained as still as stone.
“I expect you are impatient to begin negotiations,” his father said to the enemy.
“Naturally,” Eshu replied. “Though, I am most eager to cast my eye on the beauty of your daughter, which has been hidden from me it seems, today of all days. I hope it is not a symbol of your regard for me.”
The tension in the air notched up once more and Sargan gripped the arms of his chair. Indeed, it did seem like a slight of some kind that his sister had denied a potential suitor a glimpse of her beauty. A beauty that was famed throughout Zraemia. The king would be wondering why he of all people had been denied such.
“Not at all,” his father replied. “My daughter wishes to convey her utmost respect for your Exaltance. Today was meant for our sons. My daughter intends to wait for a more appropriate time in which you may lay eyes upon her beauty. I would invite you and your family to dine with us, the royal family, this evening. We will have a pleasant dinner together, make light conversation and enjoy the entertainments of our people.”
“Presumably, I will have to suffer more of Prince Sargan's recitals?”
Sargan winced.
“My son is considered by many to be one of the greatest poets of our age. It is a boon for any to hear an original piece from him, I assure you.”
A rock fell in Sargan’s stomach, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He wished his father would let the matter go rather than making such a fuss. There were more important things at play.
“He has a poem for our entertainment tonight.” His father-king ploughed on. “Most beautiful and symbolic, and I for one eagerly anticipate hearing it again.”
The enemy king seem to groan inwardly. “As do I. I too am glad to have my young brother-prince returned to me. However, it seems I am missing one of my contingent.”
Sargan frowned. This was unexpected. He couldn’t mean Heduanna, surely. The king wasn’t even recognised as a formal suitor as yet.
A pause stretched out between them and the guard’s sword jingled once more.
Sargan’s father spoke. “Tomorrow we shall begin our negotiations, King Amar-Eshu. For now please avail yourselves to our guest quarters. There you will find refreshments and everything you require.”
“I thank you, King Amar-Sin, however the royal family of Urul and myself will remain accommodated on our galleys. We do not wish to inundate your little palace with our large host.”
Sargan glanced at his father who clenched his jaw. The king stood. “As you wish.” He bowed. “Until tonight, King Amar-Eshu.” Sargan’s father left swiftly, turning back to a concealed exit, to his private quarters. The enemy king also stood and turned to leave the palace.
And then chaos ensued as guards, slaves and the royal retinues jostled for the exits.
Sargan sat with his hands in his lap considering all that had taken place. He heard a laugh close by and glanced up to see his brother sneering down at him. “I, too, look forward to your recital tonight, brother-hog. I’d quite forgotten what a lumbering fool you are.” Hadanash chuckled once more before following the others out.
Heduanna
“Your brother has grown very handsome,” Kisha said as she poured a cool jug of water over Heduanna's hair, and massaged it with an amber tincture. “I saw him speaking with your uncle-general this afternoon. I like his hair.”
Heduanna frowned. Kisha was her friend, but it was not becoming for a slave to speak of things so far above her station. “I don’t wish to talk of my brother.”
“Tell me of the king,” Kisha replied.
Heduanna pursed her lips as she reclined in the bath – a tiled pool of water that was fed from the desert spring, located deep within the basement of the palace. The walls were decorated with the finest artwork – painted scenes of farming and fishing along the great Uryphat River. Large columns with elaborate carvings stood throughout the room, all dimly lit by sconces braced along the walls.
“He is breathtakingly handsome,” Heduanna said, as she floated away from Kisha. Her mind replayed the gathering earlier when Rabi and her brother-prince had been formally reunited with their families.
Heduanna was captivated by the enemy-king’s beauty. Not enemy. I will not call him that now. King Amar-Eshu, a powerful name meaning ‘conquerer’. His hair ran to his waist in thick, lush waves. He wore it unbraided, and it had shone in the lamplight in the Hall of Gold. His eyes were shaped perfectly like a lion’s. His nose sloped down to a fine curve, his lips full and shapely, and his jaw strong.
It must be the goddess’s will. I am meant to be with him. Phadite had revealed to Heduanna she would attain a seat of great power. Now it made sense. What could bring more power than the seat of the Queen of Urul? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. As much as she had been loathe to admit it, Rabi had been right all along. Urul was the largest and most powerful city in all Zraemia and the known world. She took a deep breath and splashed her face with the water.
“I’ve heard he is very handsome,” Kisha said tentatively. “A shame he is our enemy.”
“Yes,” Heduanna replied, slightly irritated. They’d called him the enemy king since his ascension to the throne, and the threats he’d made about the Five Sisters. But that would soon change. “He will no longer be an enemy once we are married, for I’ll see to it Urul becomes Azzuri’s most trusted ally.”
“And how will you do that, Princess?” Kisha asked playfully.
Heduanna shot Kisha a grin. “With my talents of course.” She stepped from the pool, and walked to the bench where she stretched her arms out to the side, awaiting Kisha to attend her.
Kisha followed and, grabbing a stretch of linen, began toweling Heduanna down. “Tell me more about him,” Kisha said. “For I’ve only ever heard that he is a monster king with horns and warts. That he treats his slaves worse than his pigs, and is more greedy than a desert dragon, taking more than his share from Urul’s leal cities. I’m glad to hear he’s good-looking at least.” She giggled.
Heduanna narrowed her eyes at Kisha. By the next bell the servant-girl would be in the kitchens, enjoying her evening meal with the other slaves and adding her own ripe gossip to the day’s tales. Normally, Heduanna didn’t mind their gossiping; she quite enjoyed being the centre of the slaves’ attention. But now things had changed. Soon Heduanna could be the queen of the largest and most powerful city in all Zraemia. Kisha had to take her seriously. All servants must respect her. Heduanna put a cool edge in her voice. “And what else have you heard?”
Kisha was crouched on the floor drying the princess’s ankles. She glanced up with a look of confusion. “Only what you yourself would have heard tell of, Prin—”
“You forget yourself.” Heduanna raised her chin. “I gave you an order. Now tell me. What else have you heard about the King of Urul?”
Kisha’s lips trembled slightly, but Heduanna would not allow sympathy to breach her authority. Kisha was her friend, yes, but first she was a royal servant – no, a slave – and it had been a long time since she’d been disciplined. Rabi always told them the slaves in Azzuri were lazy and undisciplined, and far too familiar with their superiors. How long before he passed on such observations to his brother-king? Perhaps it was time she and her father did something about it.
She glanced at the whip, meant for this very purpose. It hung in the west corner of the chamber. Every room in the palace housed such a hook with a whip attached, in case a slave needed reminding of their station. The whip’s leather weave was covered in dust and even cobwebs.
Perhaps Rabi was right after all.
Kisha slowly stood and dropped the now wet linen
towel on the bench. “Princess, have I upset you? I—”
“Answer the question. What else have you heard?”
Kisha frowned. “That he has been trading in slaves.”
“What?”
Kisha cleared her throat, her eyes glancing to the painted walls as though she hoped for some respite from the bath chamber. “That he is seizing people from Urul’s leal cities, and even the southern territories, children especially, from the poor, and trading them to nobles in Urul for use as slaves in their own houses.”
Heduanna scoffed. “Common people, living in the city, with slaves?” It was as ridiculous as it sounded. Only the royal family in the city’s palace had need of slaves. Nobles in the city paid peasants grain tokens to undertake domestic tasks. “What are they supposedly traded for?”
Kisha swallowed, the lump at her throat visible. “All sons must undertake military service.”
Heduanna frowned. “Noble sons? I will not believe such a thing. What else?”
Kisha’s lips quivered. “Princess, I’m sure it’s nothing but kitchen gossip.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s talk. Talk of something dark and sinister. That the slaves are given over to an old seer from a far away place who sacrifices slaves at an altar and drinks of their blood.”
“Who told you this?”
Kisha shook her head as she fumbled for the phial of almond oil. “I-I do not remember. It was mere kitchen talk. I shouldn’t have taken any notice.” Kisha dropped her head and bowed low before the princess. “I am sorry, Princess. I will not listen to such lies again.”
Heduanna took a deep breath as she studied the back of Kisha’s head, her plait hung straight down her bare back. A back without scars. Had she ever truly disciplined Kisha? No, I’ve always been too soft with the slaves. And that won’t do if I’m to be a queen.
“Rise,” Heduanna said, hardening her voice.
Kisha got to her feet, the phial of oil still in her hands.