by Tia Reed
“His appearance is as brutish as I recall. It is easy to credit the rumours that Nertese blood runs in the veins of the Verdaani lords, and not much harder to imagine the stuff of ogres has mixed with their human essence,” the Crown Prince commented. The morning sun was already teasing beads of sweat from his brow.
Indeed, Ahkdul’s bushy eyebrows, oversized nose and prominent forehead overpowered his narrow eyes in a manner reminiscent of the people from the western land. Worse, his stance, feet wide and elbows out, suggested the man was in a state of aggression.
“You do not reply,” Mariano said.
“It is not my place, Highness,” Arun replied, watching a small boy in a ridiculous frilled costume creep up behind Ahkdul.
“You are likely to be Majoria when I am Shah, Arun. I hope we can always be honest with each other.”
“Then I will say that a man might be forgiven his appearance, but his nature is his and his parents to shape.”
“So you believe the rumours.” Mariano was staring straight ahead, at Ahkdul. If their visitor noted the conversation, he would have no inkling of the topic.
“I think the evidence is before you.” Arun took a dutiful step back as Ahkdul, reaching them, bowed to Mariano. That was unprecedented, and most telling for a man who craved recognition as an equal. Mariano’s fleeting smirk was not lost on him either.
A sudden foreboding compelled Arun to scan the crowd. The warm welcome aside, this man inspired loathing. Terlaani citizens aplenty would view his visit as an opportunity for revenge. Too many had lost loved ones to porrin’s bliss, and the galley’s brash pennant declared the drug’s origin for all to see. Shah Wilshem had been wise to forbid Princess Kordahla to ride out in greeting. Her look of relief when her father ordered her confinement had been a surprise, but then every rumour about Lord Hudassan’s son tended to repulse.
“Welcome to Terlaan, Lord Ahkdul,” Mariano said, inviting Ahkdul to clasp his hand in the manner of equals.
“Your graciousness is noted, Crown Prince Mariano,” Ahkdul replied. His eyes flicked down the road as he gripped Mariano’s arm. The sandalwood lotion he wore could not disguise the salt of sea and sweat. “I am looking forward to my discussions with Shah Wilshem.” Stepping past the prince, he scanned the royal retinue.
“I believe he may be amenable to receiving you this morning,” Mariano said, pretending Ahkdul had offered no slight. He took the reins of his stallion, black with a white blaze, and mounted, taking the upper hand in this verbal bout. It was a credit to the Shah that, at ten years younger than Ahkdul, his son possessed the greater poise. “Have your men leave their weapons with the customs officers so we may settle you into the palace.”
“My men will wish to keep their swords.” Ahkdul’s jaw was tight now he must look up.
Mariano turned his horse away from the galley, returning Ahkdul’s slight. “Only mahktashaan are permitted a blade inside the palace walls. I could, of course, arrange suitable accommodation nearby.”
To suggest a guest lodge elsewhere was an insult to their rank, in however obliging a manner the words were couched. Arun felt a stirring of hope at the crook in Ahkdul’s fingers. The Crown Prince was a perfect champion of Princess Kordahla’s cause.
“If this is your custom, we will oblige.” Ahkdul gave the signal and his men relinquished their weapons, the visible ones, at least. A groom led a horse forward, a solid bay mare of adequate pedigree, and the Verdaani Lord mounted. They had made no provision for his men. Judging by the darkness of the Verdaani lord’s expression, this last snub did not go unnoticed.
“Lead my horse,” Arun said, passing the reins of his black gelding to a groom.
Their disordered procession elicited rousing cheers and riotous jeers. Forgotten in their midst, the poor boy scuffled with stilted steps, as though he nursed some hurt. His head was down, but when he chanced a look up, Arun beckoned. The child froze. Arun dropped to one knee and raised his head so the edge of his hood slid back. The child regarded his shadowed face with solemn brown eyes which had lost the light of innocence. As the retinue marched, a scarred guard pushed the boy on. Arun took his arm as he limped past, ignoring his flinch and drawing him aside. Placing a hand on his brown hair, Arun held him fast. There was injury festering inside the boy. And something more. Had Ahkdul not twisted to observe his ministrations, he might have searched for latent magic. Such probing would have drawn unwanted attention, so he allowed warm healing to spread from his hand into the misery of a child. The glow in his cerulean crystal mesmerised, and the boy relaxed in his hold. Unable to do more, Arun mounted and fell in with the guard.
* * *
Vinsant stifled a yawn. Up since dawn, he had wet down stray spikes of hair and dressed with pride in the plain royal blue churidar kurta of the mahktashaan apprentices before following Apprentice Master Branak to the bailey outside the armoury. His excitement at commencing training had overcome his reluctance to leave his bed before the sun had graced the sky. Just like it had every day of the minor moon since he had been initiated. Now, two hours past a blushing, cloudless daybreak, he was, as usual, wondering why he had bothered.
Rotund Gram was huffing and puffing as he slashed wild with the practice sword, tripping over his feet and overbalancing. It didn’t help his brown hair, cut short and all the one length, fell into his eyes every time he bounced. Tall, lean Naikil, fitter and surer despite his big feet, couldn’t even keep hold of his wooden blade. His long ears reddened every time it left his hand. So far, their tutor had required Vinsant to do no more than demonstrate a few basic thrusts and parries, manoeuvres he had perfected years ago under Mariano’s remorseless instruction. His query as to whether he might train with the more experienced young men, who were executing some rather impressive attack moves across the dirt courtyard, met with an admonishment to hush and learn. So he began to dream of wielding a Myklaani sword. Everyone knew they were the best in the Three Realms. A weapon fit for a mahktashaan prince.
“Are we boring you, Apprentice Vinsant?” Branak asked, noticing his eyes had glided off Gram, whom he was supposed to be critiquing, to admire a mahktashaan disarm an older apprentice.
Vinsant grappled with the wisdom of admitting the truth. “Uh,” was all he managed.
“I see,” Branak said. “Then perhaps you had best show us your technique.”
Vinsant needed no second invitation. He lifted his practice sword, and prepared to face Branak with glee. Swordmaster Mazronan had honed his skills over the years, after all, and while the mahktashaan swordfighting skill was rumoured to exceed that of the regular guards, nobody had yet bested Mazronan.
A lightning quick thrust from Mahktashaan Branak forced him to lean back. He lashed out, blinked at his empty hand, and heard his sword thump to the ground. Off balance, he toppled onto his behind. Across the yard, the older apprentice was laughing at him. Dumbfounded, he blinked. He was about to ask for another chance when Branak asked, “What did Vinsant do wrong?”
“He let his weight drop too far back,” Naikil said.
“You see,” Branak said to Vinsant extending a hand to help him rise. “These lads have learnt a great a deal today. It is more than I can say for you.”
“Uh, maybe if I worked with someone of my own competence,” Vinsant said, eyeing the older apprentice. The lad’s good-natured grin seemed to suggest he had borne the brunt of such instruction in the past.
“Your impudent pupil questions the value of your lesson?” a distinctive voice rasped.
Trust Levi to choose this of all moments to materialise. Vinsant executed a dutiful bow and chimed “All praise to you, Majoria,” with the others.
“He lacks the patience to learn,” Branak said.
Frowning in indignation, Vinsant opened his mouth.
“As I understand it his balance was incorrect?” Levi said, holding up a hand to forestall any comment. At Branak’s nod, he instructed Naikil to fetch a rope. “Now tie his left leg up,” he said. Of Branak, he ask
ed, “Who is the better of these two?”
“Naikil has the edge, Majoria.”
“Then Vinsant shall fight Gram.”
Too incredulous to protest, Vinsant gaped at Branak. He was still coming to terms with the instructions when Naikil handed him his sword, and Gram hit him in the chest, bowling him over and laughing despite their sobering company.
“Help him up,” Branak said to Naikil, who had a stupid grin on his face.
Hauled to his feet, Vinsant faced Gram a second time. The plump boy sized him up before darting around and thrusting his sword at Vinsant’s side.
“Ow! Not fair!” Vinsant cried.
“Again,” Branak demanded.
For the next humiliating half hour, Vinsant added layer after layer of dust to the seat of his churidar. When the round teenager lunged under his trusts, he made wobbly hops away from the strike. When Gram attacked from behind, he fell onto hands and knees. He doubted Levi could demonstrate a suitable riposte on one leg but djinn curse him if he was going to grumble that thought aloud.
“Stop and think!” Levi roared, dark eyes blazing beneath his hood.
Taking a deep breath, Vinsant stood dead still. He blinked a bead of sweat out of one eye, licked his dry lips, and watched Gram thrust. Three unretaliated hits later, he realised that not only was his opponent’s grip weakening with fatigue, but he was executing the same manoeuvres over again.
“Come at me again and I’ll disarm you.”
Gram smiled and quickly stepped to Vinsant’s left side. Vinsant was ready for him. Hopping nimbly around, he chopped down onto Gram’s shoulder before Gram had extended his arm.
“Again,” Branak ordered.
This time, Vinsant dropped, swiped Gram’s legs from under him, and put the tip of his sword to Gram’s chest before the boy realised he was flat on his back and squinting at the sun. When he bested Gram twice more, he knew he had become a true master at one-legged swordplay.
“What did Gram do wrong, Vinsant?” Branak asked as the red-faced boy rubbed his wrist and grimaced at his sword, which now lay on the ground.
Vinsant gave a concise and humble explanation since it was probably the only way to regain use of his cramped leg. He let out a sigh of relief when Branak, nodding, instructed Naikil to untie him.
“You may come with me, Apprentice Vinsant,” Levi said, the only recognition he received for his hard labour.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I showed exceptional balance?” he asked, limping as blood gushed back into his tingling muscles. He slowed to observe the retinue passing through the gatehouse into the outer bailey. Levi neither answered him nor permitted him time to dally, so he caught a mere glimpse of the infamous Ahkdul before the man dismounted. The Verdaani lord looked like he had ogre blood in his veins, the more so for standing next to Mariano. The thought of Kordahla wed to the man made him snort. Father would never agree to it.
He hurried into the cool palace. Levi took him straight to the gloomy mahktashaan lair to stand before the massive statue of Mahktos. Uh-oh, thought Vinsant, not keen to face the god after his theft of the crystal.
“I expect my apprentices to follow their teachers’ lessons. Without question,” said Levi.
“Yes, Majoria,” Vinsant answered with a sideways peep at the statue. The mahktashaan in charge of its care had sprinkled dried thyme around its base.
“Good. Then tell me what lesson Branak was teaching you before I arrived.”
With a roll of his eyes Vinsant just couldn’t help, he said, “Simple thrusts and parries.”
“That was the lesson Gram and Naikil were learning. What was he teaching you, Vinsant?”
There was a deeper lesson in the basic swordsmanship? At a loss, Vinsant stared at the Majoria’s pointed finger. “To recognise another’s weakness?” he temporised. Under the black hood, Levi’s moustache twitched. Vinsant started sweating as the seconds passed. He squirmed onto one foot, then shifted again. Levi remained steadfast in his demand for an answer, and Vinsant wished Arun was meting out this particular lesson. Still, he had to admit the Majoria was being uncharacteristic in his patience.
The answer burst into his mind. “Patience. He was teaching me patience,” he said with a great deal more humility than he had shown thus far.
“A mahktashaan can neither serve Mahktos nor control the crystals without it. The god awaits your apology.”
Vinsant shuffled around. He was smarter than to dare gaze through the crystal to the gold core. Dropping to his knees, he closed his eyes and composed a heartfelt prayer. I’m sorry for having no patience and not attending my lesson. With a wince, he added, and for stealing the crystal. Since the mahktashaan believed the gods knew all, he had no choice but to add, and for what I’m going to take today? Wondering if Mahktos was about to strike him down for the insincere admission, he cracked one eye open. When nothing happened, he opened the other and looked up. His breath caught in his throat, and he almost keeled over. The statue’s crimson eyes were real, and they were boring right into him. Mahktos, or his statue, made a lazy blink, which couldn’t have meant dire warning, right? Then the eyes turned to rubies again, which had to mean he was absolved, didn’t it? Vinsant forced himself to suck in air. He did not dare look at the Majoria. In fact, he did not even dare to stand.
The silence was slaying. He should have known the Majoria would give him no instruction. He would have shown infinite patience in waiting for the man to leave before he got up, but the flagstones were imprinting their imperfections on his achy knees, so he had to stand or risk them wearing right through his bruised skin. He swallowed. The Majoria’s hood had slid to his hairline. The man’s moustache appeared thickened above his pursed lips, and his black eyes seared.
“Why does the god watch you?” Levi asked.
Vinsant bit his lip and looked down. He had as much as promised Arun he would not lie to the Majoria, which discounted I don’t know as an answer. “He didn’t tell me,” had to suffice.
Levi continued to regard him. “Perhaps,” he said, walking around Vinsant, “Perhaps…” But he did not voice his thought. After a few more moments of consideration he said, “I had thought to teach you to navigate these rooms. The Minoria and I require a trustworthy errand runner. Mahktos cautions…” He broke off and bowed his head. The hairs on the back of Vinsant’s neck prickled. “Yes, Divine One,” the Majoria said. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Vinsant. “Come.”
In the next room, Levi pointed to the glyphs above the door. Once explained, the system was straightforward to understand, if not to follow. The top symbol gave the number of the room they were in, not quite a simple progression from left to right given the hexagonal layout. The middle sign indicated the number of the adjacent room, and the bottom glyphs, the numbers of the rooms someone could access from that one. The glyphs themselves took longer than Vinsant anticipated to master, but soon Levi was supplying a room number and asking him to navigate. Within a couple of hours, he had become quite adept, the only annoyance his need to backtrack when he reached dead ends. He would, Levi assured him, learn his way in time.
“Which room did I recover in yesterday?” Vinsant asked.
Levi told him and he found his way there in record time, making a mental note to remember room fifty-two. A glance inside revealed the robes were still hanging on the wall.
“This lesson is finished. You will report to Branak in the library, room twenty-three. You will impart none of this knowledge to the other apprentices.”
“Yes, Majoria,” Vinsant said, curbing his questions.
“Apprentice Vinsant,” Levi said as Vinsant turned to leave the room. The edge to his gravelly voice sent a chill crawling across Vinsant’s skin. “It is a privilege for an apprentice to have the run of the lair. You will remember both Mahktos and I watch you. Do not disappoint.”
“No, Majoria. All praise to you,” Vinsant said, readying himself for a dull hour or two with books.
The walls of the apprentice’s
library were lined with shelves that extended from floor to ceiling, each filled with heavy books, leather covers faded and cracked, and pages worn and dog-eared from countless thumbs. At least Branak allowed him to study alone, Gram and Naikil having only rudimentary knowledge of lettering or the subjects Vinsant’s tutors had spent years drilling. When, at long last, Branak dismissed them for luncheon, Vinsant dashed through the rooms and out of view before the others could follow.
In room fifty-two, he lifted three black robes off their hooks, folded them into neat squares, and made his way through three rooms before two mahktashaan glided into view. Vinsant held his breath and kept walking. He thought he was done for when they gave him a double glance. But they continued their conversation and exited.
The next few rooms were easy to navigate. He had to stop in a hexagon with six exits to check his bearings.
“Where are you going, apprentice?” a voice asked.
Vinsant jumped. “The laundry,” he said, facing a mahktashaan with a yellowish crystal.
He received a quizzical look and a nod to send him on his way. Prince or apprentice, one robe was suspicious, but three could only mean a chore.
Exiting the lair was not the complicated affair entering was. When he pressed the hexagonal stone trigger at the top of the stairs, the door clicked open. Brushing the tapestry aside, he stepped into the corridor. No one was around to gawk at his new privilege, so he hurried towards the servant passages. Dutiful, he handed two of the robes to the first maid he saw, and then went to hide the last beneath his mattress.
Chapter Twenty
Sian stepped over a comatose, unwashed body on the common room floor, and padded her way outside.
The longhouses stirred with activity during the day, though never as much as night. Able men were on the hunt, or scouring the wooded hills for timber to fashion new weapons, but those women not out gathering tended house, drying fruit or sweeping. The old and infirm basked in the web of sunshine spun through cracks in the canopy, and those young enough to need nursing toddled after wagtails through musty, rotting leaves. The fits had forced Sian to remain close to her grandmam’s side for much of her life so she was used to all that. She was used to chattering monkeys swinging down from supple boughs to steal plums, blue-throated green bee eaters swooping for plump grubs, and one or two glazed-eyed hunters slouched on stumps. She was not used to seven or eight young tribesmen passed out beside the water trough and in front of longhouse stairs. In the last few turns of seasons, too many had turned vacant stares inward, allowing their bodies to wither in drug-induced bliss. It scared her cold. If they kept tipping the drug into her when she fitted, she too might shrivel to a husk. She might become an intolerable burden on her disappointed family, just like those young men.