Vermilion Dreams_A Vampire Fantasy Epic

by M. U. Riyadad

  What happened in the forest felt more like a dream from the night before than something that Elsa and I had seen with our own eyes. The soldiers with their dead expressions. The blood turning into a red mist. The creature and its half-crazed eye.

  “Dina, the worst part is that you know better,” Mother chided, breaking me out of my stupor. “I would understand if you were someone else’s child. Not Anasahara. Not taught to be better than this day in and day out. I would understand if you were younger. If you were Yephi’s age, even. But thirteen? In some parts of the world, girls of nobility are married off to other families in important alliances at that age. In other parts, they are old enough to be sent out to battle and risk their lives in war. But you? At this age, you cannot be trusted to avoid the forest in a blue moon. It is a sacred rite, to raise a child who will one day rule a kingdom in Mirradalia, and I have failed in doing a good enough job.”

  I focused on her words, trying not to think of the creature—its claws like mandibles, its teeth like a steel trap. One of the soldiers it had faced was even an alchemist, but he had fared no better against it than the others. More importantly, the creature followed Avisynth somehow… and the boy was in the palace now.

  Mother shook her head while glaring straight ahead. “And thank the gods your grandmother was there when those soldiers were attacked. What if the creature went after you and Elsa? If ahjur didn’t hide the bodies, imagine the panic right now. We’ll have to explain it to all the soldiers after the Royal Court is finished meeting.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. This was phase four. Once Mother started to show disappointment rather than anger, it meant she was winding down. I just had to fight back a little bit now, and then finally acquiesce and admit I was wrong. If I admitted it too quickly, she would know it was all a ruse. I had to be careful to throw her off my scent.

  “Mother, I—” I tried to explain.

  “What foolishness. You act so clever in other things Dina, but for something as simple as staying out of harm’s way, you cannot think past two moves.”

  She was making a chutrang reference. It meant she really wanted me to feel bad. It wouldn’t work, of course. I hadn’t lost a game to anyone since I was eleven. Not even Taa. I could play against Mother, Father, and both my sisters at the same time.

  “It wasn’t—”

  She held a finger up to silence me. “You have a dangerous habit of seeking out harm for the thrill of it. That is the truth. You get it from your grandmother. A fascination with dark and terrible things, and a disregard for your own safety.”

  I tried my best to hide a grin, but Mother noticed. Shit, she’s on to me, I thought.

  “No matter how clever you are, it is a serious and fatal habit that clouds your judgment,” Mother continued. “You are smaller than you think.”

  “Mother, a dwarf might be a very small person, but it doesn’t make him any less of a man.”

  Don’t think me unwise. I know I shouldn’t have made the quip, but sometimes, life gives you a chance to say something so amusing that it would be a sin to keep quiet.

  Yephi and Iris both sputtered a laugh. Mother looked at me, eyes brimming with rage.

  At first glance, you would think that rage wouldn’t be a good look on Mother. Sheika Anasahara’s temperament, her smile, her manners, were all as sweet as cider on any day she wasn’t furious at her oldest daughter. Father said he fell in love with her because of her smile. It wasn’t the wide, grinning kind of smile that lights up a room, nor the shy kind that’s hard to notice. It was the quiet genuine kind, the kind that you’d notice at a party if you were looking for someone who was truly happy, not someone who was smiling just to play the part. Only Father could spot a thing like that. He hadn’t used Taa’s teachings for political maneuvering or tactical warfare. No, Father had used it to find love. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and Taa said Father wasn’t particularly talented in the way anyhow, but you might expect a king to use such a powerful tool in a slightly more practical way.

  Mother had a bright face with grey eyes as rich as storm clouds. All of her daughters inherited her eyes, and thank Yuweh’s grace we did. You could put eyes like that on a cow and it would be beautiful enough to earn a respectable dowry. If my mother was any indication, I knew my sisters and I would never have to worry about appearances, but we would never be as beautiful as Mother. Mother was pure Rayanvir, a race of people so perfectly made we named them after Raya, empress of the skies, most beautiful of all the gods. The Rayanvir were from the Silsipia Desert, all the way on the north side of Adhib. They had dark skin the color of wheat after it burns in the sun. High cheekbones, and deep red hair the color of cherries. All the people of the Silsipia Desert were descended from smaller tribes that existed thousands of years ago. They had bloodlines that stretched all the way back to the Immortal King. It was difficult, if not impossible, to find a pureblood Rayanvir like my mother in Mirradalia.

  But Mother had not come here on purpose. She was kidnapped at a very young age for her heritage. It happened to many Rayanvir girls, and was one of the darker aspects of the old continent. There were people who sailed from Khadun all the way around to the north side of Adhib to look for them in the deserts, then brought them back to sell for a handful of sunstone crowns—more than most of the lords in Chaya could afford. Mother was taken from her family when she was eleven, and ran away before she was sold. She had magic, and learned alchemy from one of the other girls held captive with her. After Mother ran away, she lived on the streets of Jidarth for almost an entire year, at only twelve. Taa was the one who found her. Taa brought her to the Sisterhood of Dusk, where Mother was trained in the way. Father was already betrothed to someone by the time he saw Mother, many years later. It caused a bit of an uproar, when he broke off his engagement to Solane Restangi, but when my father made up his mind about something, he was the ocean deciding that a ship shouldn’t make it on time to its destination.

  It wasn’t all a coincidence, of course. I always had a feeling Taa’s hand had played as important a role as Mother’s smile.

  My point in saying all this is to show that Mother was not just a beautiful face at the side of a king. That was what most people might’ve assumed, but they were wrong. Mother was a shrewd woman, a fiercely talented alchemist, and a masterful courtier of the royal houses. I came from people of the sea, and people of the desert, not places where the compliant could survive so easily. An Anasahara could persevere anywhere, and when we wanted something in life we ran through walls of ice and stone to get it. If I had only gotten my cunning from my father, I would’ve only been half as smart as I was, which would’ve been terrifying enough, but nothing compared to what I was thanks to my mother.

  I just didn’t get their alchemical talents, but that was another story.

  We were standing outside of the great hall now. It was me, Mother, Yephi, and Iris. Taa said she had important business and would come later to speak. My father was already inside, entertaining nobles, courtiers from all five kingdoms, and my late aunt’s husband, Ojin Speight, general of Chaya’s army, commander of our fleets.

  On more than one occasion, my uncle had tried to slip language into Chaya’s code of rule that would make succession laws more favorable for the House of Speight. Taa was always there to stop it, but it was a brazen and rather indecent request from a lord of Chaya. What you would call un-cunning. I’d only visited their manor once. My uncle had tried to get my father to agree to marry me to his son. It wasn’t odd, cousins of a royal family marrying, but luckily my father had declined, declaring that I was too young to be betrothed. My father didn’t favor courtiers or nobles. He liked warriors. Soldiers. Men who lived by the sword and were bound by honor. Courtiers advised kings and queens, but Father believed most were foolish scholars who sought to solve matters of the blade with proverbs. Nor did Father have any leaning toward nobility. If I’d told him I wanted to marry a commoner, even a non-alchemist who was in the army, he would’ve rejoice
d.

  My uncle’s intentions had always been clear, but it was not so simple a task as my father calling him out for it. Most think that sitting on a throne is like sitting at the center of an oak tree. Solid, and well rooted, with the history of a dynasty supporting you. But in reality, it is more similar to balancing yourself on the edge of a knife. Chaya was a unified kingdom, but splinters existed, and the House of Speight was both wealthy and powerful, and had many allies who were not so fond of the Anasahara. It was a dangerous game to have my uncle so close, and not one I trusted my father with. He was lucky to have Mother and Taa around. It wasn’t that Father was incapable, but he was a man of great honor, who did things in the most noble and dignified of ways. My father would not have stained the memory of his only sister by removing my uncle from his station. My father’s ways were respectable, but they did not always lead to the best course of action. Like I said, ruling a kingdom is like balancing yourself on the edge of a knife, not gallantly holding it by the hilt.

  There was a shuffle from beyond the door. They were getting ready to call us in. Their talks were already done—my sisters and I were just making a customary introduction.

  Musicians played a fragment of Chaya’s anthem, with more than a dozen flutes and different string instruments, though that was not the correct way to play it. Chaya’s anthem, Dh’hpur’s Last, was the tune they’d played on the prophet’s ships when they first sailed to the new continent. They hadn’t had an orchestra on board in those days. The tune had been made for the ocarina, the only instrument sailors tended to carry. The first part was a simple and slow melody that needed no more than six notes and a few deep breaths. The second part was trickier. It was playful and quick, and if you didn’t time your notes right, you’d end up out of breath trying to catch up before it was halfway done. They were playing the second part now. It sounded motley and uncomposed with so many instruments trying to turn the tune into something extravagant. More was not always better—just as it is in poetry and song-writing, so it is in music—but the Royal Court usually thought in terms of money and armies, so this concept must’ve been entirely alien to them.

  “Get ready,” Mother said. “They’re going to bring us in soon. Iris, tuck your braid in. Yephi, walk straight. And Dina… try not to be funny.”

  Yephi straightened her back so much she was almost bending backward.

  “Really, what is it with you three today?” Mother sighed. “After all you’ve put your father and I through tonight.”

  I nudged Yephi, feeling guilty. She straightened, then grabbed on to one of my fingers.

  “Do you all understand what is happening today?” Mother asked.

  The tune beyond the door died down with an early applause.

  If the crowd wanted to hear the song the way it should’ve been heard, they shouldn’t have looked in theatres or great halls. They should’ve gone outside in the center or lower kingdom in the summer just before evening light hit. If you walked around, in less than an hour you’d hear a group of children taking turns playing it on a shared instrument. A flute, a harmonica, or, if you were lucky, an ocarina. When you heard it like that, you were hearing it the way Dh’hpur had heard it four thousand years ago. When you heard it like that, the first part was as mellow and calming as afternoon rain, and the second part was as quick and sprightly as one of Chaya’s own children.

  If it is not clear yet—I’ve always kept a certain affection for musicians.

  “Father is declaring war on the vampire kingdom,” Iris said.

  “Yes, but do you understand how important that is?” Mother asked. “Do you know what it means for us? What it means for the people of Chaya and the other four kingdoms of man?”

  She untied and redid the lace at the back of her gown. Mother was wearing traditional Chayan clothes today. A dark grey gown that stopped just above her feet. Her shoulders were bare. She had dark red braids that were tied together in a neat plait that tumbled down her left side. Long sinuous lines were woven along the length of her dress to resemble waves, highlighted with blue and silver beads. Our family crest was stitched to the upper back. The witchwater octopus. It took up less than a square foot of space. Despite its size, all the details were there. Specks of gold made up the octopus’s suction cups, assium sapphires were used to embolden its single eye with a midnight blue, and silver threads were used for the hem in each of its legs. Underneath the creature, our house words were written in Old Emelim, or in this case, sewn there with blue-green threads. Viden yulna ut. The Evil Eye sees all.

  My sisters and I were wearing dresses of a similar style, but in forest green, and to our dismay, none of us had the family crest stitched on our backs.

  The three of us glanced up. We knew, of course, what today meant, but in a way we didn’t. We were young after all, and no matter how clever we were, there were certain things that we could not understand without more years. It was good enough that we knew we couldn’t understand. It was what she was looking for. When you know what you don’t understand, you know when to listen—when to really listen. That is the way.

  Mother continued, “The five human kingdoms have only united against Narkissa’s rule twice before, each almost a hundred years apart. Both times we were defeated.”

  “Is it so wise to do it a third time, then?” I asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Mother said, “but what choice do we have? Is it wise to fight a vampire that comes to your door and demands you hand over your children? We have hard times ahead of us.”

  “I have no children,” Yephi remarked. “I wouldn’t really know.”

  Mother frowned, looking more appalled than annoyed.

  Yephi looked down and shook her head. “I know,” she said. “I’m ashamed.”

  I cleared my throat to avoid laughing.

  “Your father is brave for doing this,” Mother said. Her eyes moved to the door. “You won’t understand, the three of you. How brave he is. I am lucky to be married to a man with so much courage. And you are lucky, to have him as your father. I hope one day you’ll find princes like him.”

  “Yuck,” Iris groaned, sticking her tongue out.

  “Come now Mother, it goes both ways, does it not?” I asked. “The two of you are lucky to have us as children.”

  Iris smiled. Yephi gave an eager nod.

  Mother’s eyes brightened.

  “Our favorite cousin is there.” I grimaced, unintentionally ruining the moment. “And the rest of the Speights.”

  “He is your family,” Mother snapped. “At the very least, just ignore him. Don’t get into a tussle like last time. There are people from the other kingdoms here. Don’t embarrass us, Dina. You’ll leave a lasting impression. They know you’ll be queen soon, when your father retires. It is possible you’ll be queen before this war is over.”

  “He doesn’t carry the name Anasahara,” I replied. “He is Speight. That is no family of mine, and no real cousin.”

  Mother turned to me with stern eyes. She kneeled to speak to us.

  “Dina, it is good that you have so much pride about being Anasahara. It is good that you would never give up the name and that your children will have it—but you should know that pride can hurt as much as it can empower you.” She spoke while fixing my braid, then fixed Iris’s. She helped Yephi tuck her ears behind her straight hair, then tightened Yephi’s collar as she pretended to choke. “Your father insisted I take Anasahara as a name, but I am not Anasahara. My mother’s name was Iowr, and her mother before that, and her mother before that.” She folded her arms in front of her. “Your father even said he would not marry me unless I took Anasahara as a name. It is what you would do, isn’t it? It was one of the hardest things I had to do, to give up my name. It was like I was forgetting who I really was.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I know, Dina.” She waved dismissively. “Just remember. One person’s empowerment can just as easily be another’s suffering. Pride is as sharp a thing as a blade. When you are q
ueen, I hope you will show it off less than your father or your Taa.”

  The doors opened ahead of us. Yephi grabbed onto my finger again as we entered the great hall.

  ***

  The great hall was made of wood. It was built to resemble a ship’s deck, and had all the details you might find in one. It was not made of worn, grainy wood, but finely polished Kathal wood, strongest of the underwater maples. The surfaces of the room were smooth and silky enough to remind you of brown marble. They had narrow and intricate patterns where the wood was cut deepest. The faint and naturally spun impressions sunk into the maple, fading into decals as indistinct as vapor. The place could’ve fit a thousand people comfortably. Right now, it was entertaining about a quarter of that. Nobles were dressed in golden suits and silver dresses, Royal Courtiers in the colors of their banners. In proper homage to the sea, the furnishings of the room all looked decadent and simple, but if you had touched or sat or leaned or lay down on anything, you would’ve known that every piece of furniture in the room was made by a master craftsman. You would’ve felt it—in the stability of the pieces, in the way they were polished, in the care put into their details.

  They were subtle, the details, and you only noticed them if you had a keen eye. The sides of the chairs had etchings in Old Emelim. They had quotes from captains that braved the seas back when the old gods ruled. They had lines from epic poems that were famous even beyond the Shoreless Seas. They had common sayings that were meant to give wisdom to fisherman and foresight to sailors. The underside of tables, the part you could not see at all, had drawings of ocean creatures in battle, of Yuweh riding the tides, of the moon speaking to the sea. Not just the rough kind of sketches you might find in rundown caves. These were drawn with the care surgeons give to patients. Every detail, from the scales of a sea creature to the way water might bend around a shore, was cared for by an artist for hours on end. Any time you saw the horizon in a picture, you could be confident it had taken more than ten days to draw that single line. For people of the sea, the horizon represented more than just the unknown. It was hope and revelation. It was excitement and fear. It was the thrill of adventure and conquest. It asked for you to forget who you were, and meet another version of yourself in a place you’d never been.