Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “Get out of my way!” Fashima screamed, pushing wet hair away from her eyes.

  The other girls laughed, and this only enraged Fashima more. She grabbed Kallia by the hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes. “You want to swim like a fish? Then you’d better learn how to hold your breath.” She spoke directly to Kallia for the first time.

  “No, Fashima. I—”

  The girl shoved her head under the water. Kallia fought and clawed at Fashima’s hands and arms. At last, the girl pulled her out of the water, and Kallia gasped for air. She tried to pull away, but the bigger girl held her fast.

  “Not bad. Pretty good, in fact,” Fashima said. “But that’s not nearly enough time.”

  “Let me go,” Kallia begged. Her heart pounded in terror. “Please.”

  “Fashima,” one of the other girls said, sounding nervous.

  Kallia’s head went under the water again. This time, she yanked herself free, heedless of the tearing pain at the roots of her hair. But when she scrambled from the pool, two girls pushed her back into the water, and Fashima forced her head under the water again. Kallia struggled harder, but couldn’t pull herself free. Her lungs burned. Spots flickered in the back of her eye sockets.

  A single, cold thought penetrated the haze. She was going to die. Not by assassins, but by jealous girls from the palace. It was absurd, really. The black spots spread.

  And then her head was yanked from the pond. She sobbed for air. The grand vizier pulled her from the pool. Saldibar shoved the girls out of the way as he dragged Kallia out of the water and set her on the warm flagstones surrounding the pool before leaning over her with a concerned look on his face.

  “She started it,” one of the girls said in a shrill voice. “She pulled Fashima into the pool.”

  Saldibar turned to her. “I wonder if you would tell the same story to the torturers guild.”

  The other girls looked terrified, but not Fashima. She stepped from the pond and wiped water from her face. Water ran from her robe into the pool. A smirk played at her lips.

  “You play a dangerous game, my child,” Saldibar said, his voice cold. “One word of this to the khalif and your life is forfeit.”

  “No, you play a dangerous game,” Fashima said. “The khalif is practically a dead man. And his son Omar Saffa will be the next khalif. Perhaps you don’t know yet, but Omar and I are betrothed. By the time the khalif’s body sits atop his tower of silence in the desert, my husband will wield the scepter of Balsalom.”

  Kallia looked to Saldibar in horror. She would leave Balsalom rather than be ruled by this girl.

  Saldibar said, “Ah, so Omar has told you that, has he? He’s told such tales before, I believe, to bed a pretty young girl.” The grand vizier shook his head. “It’s quite sad that the khalif’s son cannot satisfy himself with his harem.”

  Fashima smile faltered slightly, but only for a moment. “The choice is yours, old man. You may tell the khalif and risk your life.”

  Saldibar gave a slight smile. When the girl turned to go, Saldibar snapped his fingers in the air. A man appeared suddenly from the path behind, a two handed, straight barbarian sword in hand. He knocked Fashima to the ground, put his boot on her chest and raised his sword overhead. She screamed.

  “Shall I kill her?” the man asked.

  He was a tall man, but young, a barbarian named Whelan who had served as the grand vizier’s bodyguard for the past year. Saldibar had told Kallia that the man fled some kind of trouble in the Free Kingdoms.

  Saldibar turned to Kallia. “Do you wish to kill her, my mistress?”

  “No,” Kallia said, rising quickly to her feet. “Please, don’t hurt her.” She laid a hand on the barbarian’s arm. “Please, Whelan.”

  The man put his sword down, but rage still burned in his eyes. “As you wish.” Fashima climbed to her feet, face pale.

  “Very well,” Saldibar said to Fashima. “Kallia’s mercy has saved your life. Now go, before she changes her mind.”

  Fashima fled, and the other girls followed. Whelan helped her to the stone bench beneath the fig tree.

  “Now, my young mistress,” Saldibar said, turning back to Kallia with stern eyes. He picked up her poetry book and turned it over in his hands before handing it back to her. “Tell me what happened.”

  Kallia told him everything. Saldibar kept his thoughts hidden, but she could see Whelan burning with the indignity. At last he sputtered, “But you are the princess. How could they do this to you?”

  “Because I am afraid of them,” Kallia admitted. “They have tormented me for years. Since my mother was killed and father poisoned.”

  She had considered begging help from her father, or from Saldibar. She had dismissed the idea, thinking it would only make the situation worse. But how much worse could it have got? Not worse than drowning, she mused.

  “Much the same thing happened to your father when he was a child,” Saldibar said, twisting the oiled tip of his beard between thumb and forefinger. “Alas, when he took up the scepter, he meted a swift and savage punishment for his tormenters. I trust you will behave more prudently, my mistress. You are no longer a child and the time shortly comes when you will take your proper place in the palace. You will not fear them again, I promise.”

  He sighed. “What worries me more,” Saldibar continued, “is how this could have happened without my knowledge. I watch you night and day to keep you safe.”

  “I know,” Kallia said, frowning. “Why do you think I spend so much time hiding in the gardens? To be alone for a few minutes, is all. But I thank the brothers that you followed me today.”

  “I didn’t,” Saldibar said. “I only came to find you because your father wishes to speak with you. Come, we must change your clothing. I don’t want you to look like a child today.”

  * * *

  “My child,” Father said in a quiet voice when she entered his chambers. He no longer slept in the tower rooms, but in the garden rooms that had been her mother’s favorites. He reclined on a rug and pillows at the center of the room. The light spilled in. “Can you spare a few minutes for an old man?”

  “Of course.” She drew closer and had to fight the urge to draw back in shock and horror. The poison continued its slow march, turning his once strong features into a mockery of sagging flesh. His hands trembled and he spilled his wine at meals; Kallia’s sister Marialla giggled that he soiled himself at night. Marialla thought Father funny enough until he helped her to her seat at supper, and then her face showed her disgust. No, Marialla preferred to cover her eyelids with kohl and her body with heavy perfume and fine clothes so she could spend her days in the garden flirting with the sons of the viziers.

  But today was different. Today, Kallia could see death across his face, a darkening in his eyes that muted the familiar spark. He had given up. At long last, he had stopped fighting the poison. He would die soon.

  Saldibar and Whelan followed her into the room, but stayed near the door, the latter with his hand on his sword, which hung over one shoulder, barbarian-style.

  The khalif tried to rise to his feet, but she restrained him gently and kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him. Even sitting down, he wobbled in her arms and she could feel his bones standing sharply beneath his robes. She wanted to weep to see her father reduced to this hollow shell, with the Harvester shadowing his movements, but she couldn’t show such weakness. He needed her strength more than ever. Every day she spoke to his physics and wizards, begging them to do more. By the brothers, she had to give him hope again.

  Kallia joined him across from the rug, pulling a pillow to lean against. A servant brought her wine and a bowl of olives, then retired from the room, leaving the four of them alone.

  He smiled again. “That sour expression doesn’t become your face, my dear.”

  “Don’t you remember? You gave all of your beauty to Marialla.” Her words sounded more careless than she’d intended, and she regretted them immediately.

  Tru
th was, she was worried, and had been ever since Saldibar told her to dress like a woman after the incident at the fountain. She guessed what was coming, and it brought a nasty taste to her mouth. He meant her to marry, to send her away from Balsalom for political reasons that would help her brother Omar when he gained the scepter.

  If her impudent words bothered him, he did not show it. “Marialla is a vain, foolish—no, all of my children are vain, foolish peacocks. All of them but you, my child. You are the best of them, the best by far.”

  His words shamed her further. How poorly the others treated Father that her own, weak devotion meant so much.

  Father said, “I only have a few more months to live. “Kallia opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand to stop her. “Shh, child. I don’t have time to argue. Yes, I’m dying, but there’s one detail that I must settle before I go.”

  Kallia bowed her head. “Of course.”

  “Then you know. Yes, I thought you would. Do you accept this burden?”

  “If necessary, Father, I will do anything for you.”

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. It trembled again. “Thank you, sweet child. I know how you feel, that you would rather not take this life upon yourself. But you will wield the scepter with honor and—”

  The scepter? Kallia’s eyes flew open in shock. “What? No, Father, no. Not this. Please, Father.”

  It was the khalif’s turn to look surprised. Doubt played across his forehead. “But I thought you knew.”

  “No, I thought you meant—” She stopped and breathed deeply to pass the trembling fear that overtook her. It was a trick she would master in the years to come. “Father, Omar is the next khalif. Not me.”

  “Omar? Fa!”

  “But I don’t want it. He does.”

  Father was angry, but not at her. “That’s precisely the problem. They all want it. They want the scepter and the banners waving at the head of their procession. They want the power to command a thousand men, to build towers to themselves that will last a thousand years. And if I give it to them, they will destroy Balsalom.” He sighed, then repeated the ancient saying in the old tongue, “They are fat of body but starved of soul.”

  He continued, “Just as I was for so many years. No, don’t argue. I was a fool and another generation of fools will simply complete what I started. That’s why I’m making you the khalifa.”

  “But the laws, the customs say that Omar must be khalif.”

  “The laws and traditions be damned. I will do what is best for Balsalom.” He lifted his hand to stem further argument. “No, child, I have decided.”

  Father rose to his feet and stepped into his slippers, then left the rooms, walking swiftly and looking invigorated. Kallia sat on the pillows, stunned.

  Saldibar followed the khalif, but Whelan lingered. He took her father’s place on the pillows and ate an olive from her father’s bowl. She was surprised to see him take the khalif’s place so boldly. His tongue was as thick as any other Eriscoban’s, but he was usually very quiet and polite.

  “Kallia, your wisdom surpasses the ancients. May you live forever and may your reign bring peace and prosperity upon Balsalom.”

  “There is no need for niceties between us, Whelan. Speak freely.”

  She expected him to complain of the khalif’s decision. Or maybe even to warn her not to hasten Father’s death, as if that could ever be her intention.

  He smiled. “I thought it best to begin with formalities. Having said that, I’m pleased that Saldibar and your father made this decision. Indeed, you are the only choice they could have made.”

  He looked into her eyes with startling boldness. He was younger than she’d thought, barely more than a boy. It had been his eyes that deceived her. Those eyes had seen much pain, she was sure.

  And there was something else on his face. She’d seen it so many times in Marialla’s admirers that she was sure. This man loved her.

  “Whelan,” she said, coming to a decision. “Will you stay by my side and serve me when I am khalifa?”

  He opened his mouth, but hesitated before speaking. “I would dearly love to, my queen. But the naked thorn waits my visit at the Citadel.”

  She shook her head, confused. “What do you mean, the naked thorn?”

  He paused, as if considering whether to confide in her further. “I have a daughter in the Free Kingdoms and I must return to help care for her.”

  “A daughter? Ah, so you are married.” So she had misread the look in his eyes. Not love then, but what?

  “Alas, her mother was never my wife, but the wife of another, of a, a close friend. I fled from Eriscoba in shame.” He sighed. “Alas, I fear I can never truly atone for my sins, but I hope to find honor among the Knights Temperate.”

  She knew of the Knights Temperate. They pledged obedience to no man, not even King Daniel at the Citadel in Arvada, but followed only their own consciences. Indeed, even the captain of the Knights Temperate led only through persuasion and example.

  “And you wish to join these Knights Temperate?”

  “I do,” Whelan said. His eyes and mouth expressed his longing and pain.

  “I will be sorry to lose you. Would that I could find others I trust as much as I trust you.”

  Whelan said, “The grand vizier will guide you. He loves you as a daughter.”

  “As a daughter? Saldibar? Surely not. His spies torment me night and day. I trust him, yes, but I fear he thinks very little of me.”

  Whelan smiled, and the pain left his eyes. “He is a stern man, and not an easy man to please. But let me tell you how I first met him. I was riding from Eriscoba with two companions when I was eighteen. Just after the assassins attacked your father. We were young and foolish, running from various problems.” He paused. “On the advice of my friends met only a few days earlier as I traveled, we took the Old Road instead of the Tothian Way through the mountains. My two friends were actually bandits, who’d lured me into the mountains to rob me. I was beaten and left for dead.”

  He continued, “Saldibar found me and carried me back to Balsalom where his physics attended my wounds. He fed me and clothed me. I had nothing, but Saldibar brought me into the palace.” After a pause, he said, “Now, I have word of my daughter, and I have to return. But I will always consider Saldibar my second father.”

  Kallia nodded, wondering what Saldibar had been doing on the Old Road. It passed through the mountains some thirty miles to the north, beyond the Desolation of Toth. The road was much slower than the Tothian Way. Indeed, her tutor told her that it had been completely abandoned until fifty years ago because of bandits. She supposed Saldibar had been about his spying.

  Whelan said, “He is a good man, and will give you sound advice. As for myself, I leave when the khalif—may he live forever—dies.” He sighed. “And I fear that day will come soon.”

  * * *

  But Whelan was wrong. The khalif lingered two more years, while Saldibar groomed Kallia to be khalifa. Her brother Omar left the city with bitterness in his heart to take the khalifate of Ter, a few miles east along the Tothian Way. He had indeed spoken lies to Fashima, leaving her behind when he married a princess of Ter to put himself on the throne.

  When Kallia’s father died at last, his final days were hard ones, with stretches where he coughed for hours, filling his basin with blood and other refuse from his dying lungs. He refused to chew poppy seeds as his physics recommended, saying that he would keep his head clear. Kallia stayed by his side, together with Whelan and Saldibar. A few of the khalif’s other sons and daughters visited too, but they hurried their visits, looking relieved to be free of the khalif’s bed chamber and its smell of death. Even father’s slaves avoided the room, and nobody compelled them to stay.

  Kallia longed to hide and wait for news of Father’s death. But she saw the pain in his eyes and knew she had to stay and give him comfort. When he coughed, she rubbed knots from his shoulders, and when he stopped, she helped Whelan and Saldibar clean t
he room and light scented candles to clear the odor of death.

  Father’s final collapse dragged on for weeks. At last, the khalif died, quietly in his sleep. Kallia and Saldibar cleaned his body and wrapped it in white linen, preparations for hoisting it atop a tower of silence in the desert.

  Father left her the khalifate as his last act. Reluctantly, and to the dismay of other, more deserving claimants, she took up the scepter. Whelan had left for the Free Kingdoms, but Saldibar stayed by her side. He proved as faithful as Whelan had claimed.

  She thought herself a poor leader from the start. It took months to earn the loyalty of the viziers, many of whom still wanted to see Omar hold the scepter, and only then with Saldibar’s arm-twisting. She was convinced that the people loved her only because they remembered her father. She tried to rule wisely, failing often, but the trade from over the mountains poured enough dinarii into the coffers to rescue her from most blunders.

  Only two things troubled her. The first was the power of the guilds, especially the repugnant and hateful corrections guild and their torturers. The second was the growing taxes demanded by the high khalifate in Veyre.

  Eight years passed.

  When word came of the high khalif’s death in Veyre, some mourned, but more welcomed the news. Over the last few years, tributes exacted by Ahmaad and his viziers had grown beyond any benefits provided. Balsalom didn’t need Veyre. She could cleanse her own highways of bandits, make her own trade treaties and levy her own taxes.

  So when Kallia learned that Ahmaad’s own wizard had seized power, she welcomed the news. She’d met Cragyn: foul-tempered, liked by few and hated by many. Cast from an order of barbarian wizards, he’d made his way east from Eriscoba to the khalifates, eventually taking up residence in Veyre. Once in the high khalif’s court, he’d busied himself building strange mechanical contraptions and speaking to dead spirits.