by Tara Omar
“Thank you, Hongi, I shall see to this presently,” said Gill, taking the pen. He clicked its top, and an invisible door opened in the wall, revealing a closet-like room with two marble sinks, each with its own tap. Hongi hopped onto a stool in the aquaroom so her eyes were even with the marble. She stood on her toes and looked over her nose as inky water flowed onto an etched tablet in the first sink as Gill turned the first tap, filling the crevices on the tablet in the shape of a message. Gill read the ink lines.
“Dom, you’re needed at the Palace,” said Gill, his face serious. “Something’s happened.”
C h a p t e r 2
Gabriel Silbi stared at the portrait of King Saladin in the Palace study, twisting a newspaper in his hands. A young man with similar eyes and a more mischievous chin entered alongside it, looking tired but considerably better than yesterday. He plopped himself in a chair near the desk.
“What is it?” asked Dominic.
“Lady Imaan has declared a state of emergency,” said Gabe. “She plans to name herself absolute ruler in the interim, until she can appoint a king.”
“What? She can’t do that.”
“Actually, she can, and she’s going to, given this.”
He dropped the newspaper on the desk. It was the latest edition of the Rosy Herald, with a bold headline so large it seemed to jump off the front page.
Drunken Prince Attacks Aeroth’s Most Celebrated Journalist
“Not exactly appropriate behaviour from a future king in dire times,” said Gabe.
“Damn,” grumbled Dominic.
“Imaan’s managed to get the judges to agree to a vote to abolish an hereditary succession, which she argues was never established in the first place.”
“And the six judges agree?” asked Dominic.
“She has the backing of the Elite and Theodite judges. The Aaronites and the Octavites are against. And the Rosy Herald is obviously behind her…now.”
“What about the Renaultan judge?”
“Unsure at present, but he will likely side with Imaan. The Renaultans do not look kindly on bestial behaviour. The Humphrites are abstaining from the vote as per usual.”
“So Elites, Theodites, Renaultans are for Imaan; Aaronites and Octavites are against, with the Humphrites abstaining? That would give Imaan the vote.”
“She’s already gaining political favour among the populace as well,” said Gabe.
“Yeah, I guess people would be more willing to agree with her views now that Saladin’s dead,” said Dominic.
“She needed only a thin excuse to take it all, and now she has it,” said Gabe.
Dominic frowned. Lady Imaan was the High Priest of Aeroth and had been the ruler of the humans for many years until an unexpected war had destroyed her credibility with the people. Forced to appoint a king to save her position, Imaan had enlisted Dominic’s charismatic Uncle Saladin to rule with her, but the idea of sharing power had never sat well with the old woman.
Believing herself to be the divinely-appointed ruler of Aeroth, she insisted her demise had been planned by mers, sea people who lived on the other side of the Abyss and the mortal enemies of humans. Imaan believed that as Saladin grew in favour, the people were becoming more vulnerable to attack, a plan she believed was being orchestrated by Saladin’s best friend and confident, Gabriel Silbi, a powerful businessman who Imaan believed was really a mer in disguise.
Of course, none of this had been proven, and until this morning Dominic had considered her a crazy, old goat standing in the way of progress—kept in power merely through his uncle’s decency and respect for culture. Dominic looked at the paper and sighed. It appeared the old goat still had a bit of kick in her.
“I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I?” asked Dominic.
“Look, you must know I’m on your side. Despite everything that may have happened, I think you have a good head on your shoulders,” said Gabe.
“Even with all evidence to the contrary?” asked Dominic.
Gabe paused. A long case was sitting on the desk in the study; he nodded toward it.
“Open it,” said Gabe.
Dominic unsnapped the clasps on the side of the box. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a metal walking stick and a glove. Dominic stared. It was his uncle’s blade.
“Sargon,” he said.
“Your Uncle built Aeroth with this blade; he would have wanted you to have it,” said Gabe.
Dominic put on the glove and tapped the length of the stick with his gloved knuckle. The stick glowed molten orange. Dominic ran his hand over the glowing length, flattening it into a cutting edge. Sargon hardened into a gleaming sword.
“You could restore normalcy and continue your uncle’s legacy,” said Gabe.
“I could protect you also. Imaan isn’t exactly a fan of yours,” said Dominic, waving the sword around.
Gabe gave him a hurt look.
“Sorry, that was insulting,” said Dominic, setting the sword back in the case. “I could never assume someone like you would need protection from me.”
“You can rule, Dominic. I can put Ibex behind you and sway the judges, but I won’t do that unless it is something you want for yourself. Despite what your uncle may have wanted, I will not force it on you,” said Gabe.
“You really think my uncle would have wanted me to rule?”
“Yes, I really do believe that,” said Gabe.
Dominic chuckled. “I am to be the cracked bowl in the middle of a tea ceremony.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” said Dominic, shaking his head. “Can you persuade the judges?”
“Are you serious about wanting to rule?”
Dominic shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll take a shot at it.”
“I’m going to need more than a shot. You know that, right?”
“Yes. How do we persuade them?”
Gabe looked to the guard at the door. “Call the witness.”
“Witness?”
Dominic heard a scuffle happening just beyond the door, followed by the protests of a loud, jittery voice.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, bringing a humble Humphrite here like this,” said the man from beyond the door. “Everybody knows we keep to ourselves and don’t get up to trouble like the rest of you tribes. Judge Ilford is going to be very disappointed at your behaviour, he is, very disappointed.”
The door opened. A round-bellied man squirmed between two guards at the entrance of the study, looking as though he was being attacked by mosquitoes.
Dominic frowned. “Him?”
Gabe nodded.
“What’s your name?” asked Dominic.
“Marcus Schweme,” said the agitated Humphrite, “of Schweme’s Tuck Shop and Company.”
Beyond the walls of the City, the sands of the Marah Desert trembled under an anxious wind as the evening rose and darkness set in. Lady Imaan sat on a fuzzy carpet amid the glowing lanterns in her desert shelter, sipping rooibos as she scanned the books and manuscripts encircling her. With Saladin dead, the High Priest was again to be the only ruler in Aeroth. By the morning, the judges would have voted, and she would again have the control she once had. She glanced toward the photo of a drunken Dominic in the Rosy Herald and smiled. It would be a challenge to endear herself to the dissenting judges, but nothing she hadn’t done before. Imaan turned her attention to the more pressing matters found in the book at her feet. She stared at the words, parsed together from tattered manuscripts, reciting along in her memory.
Then Avinoam cursed Adam, and with a mighty roar and a fiery sword Avinoam split the land into two and banished humans from the land.
Imaan paused, thinking.
Banished from the land…
So many questions raced through her head. Surrounded on all sides by impenetrable cliffs and treacherous waves
since the time of the separation, no one had ever managed to descend into the legendary valley at the centre of Paradise Island. Access by sea was impossible, access by air even more so. The dangerous winds and mountain faces made any attempts suicidal. She wondered.
Would the shield offer enough protection?
It was a risky shot, but it was the best she had. Paradise had to be scaled if she was ever to discover the secret to undoing her ultimate enemy, the Leviathan, and she was running out of time. Imaan pushed the urgency from her mind and read through the passage again.
Then Avinoam—
The door to the shelter flung open and slammed shut, knocking over a lantern in its wake. Tristan, the chief commanding officer of Ibex, stood in front of her, dishevelled and shaken. He grabbed a bag from the corner and paced the room, throwing books and clothes into it like a wild man.
“They’ve changed the vote,” he said.
“What?” asked Imaan.
“The judges. They’re going to vote unanimously in favour of Dominic and arrest you on charges of treason, embezzlement and conspiracy to murder. We must get you into hiding before it’s too late.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“You’ve been implicated in an illegal arms deal that resulted in the death of King Saladin. Forty million from the Temple treasury in exchange for a dagger laced with batrotoxin. Ibex is on their way to make an arrest.”
“The police think I killed Saladin?”
“No, they think you were dealing in weapons that after falling into the wrong hands were used to kill Saladin,” said Tristan, “though your detractors will claim you intended to kill either Saladin or Gabe.”
“This whole thing is preposterous—a cheap and desperate lie to try to swing votes,” said Imaan, standing to make tea. “The judges won’t believe it.”
Tristan watched as Imaan calmly opened the container of sugar and spooned it into her cup. He frowned.
“They have Marcus,” said Tristan.
Imaan set down her spoon and paused. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play the fool with me, Imaan. Even Ilford is breaking precedent and voting,” said Tristan. “He’s incensed that you involved a Humphrite.”
“The Humphrite’s testimony will never stand in court,” said Imaan.
“With all due respect, Lady, that’s not a risk you should be willing to take,” said Tristan. “You can return when we have a better plan of action. For now, we must get you out.” Tristan grabbed her hand and swung open the door, stopping dead as he came face to face with Wilhelm Schmidt, the most controversial and ruthless guard of the Ibex force. His cold smile sent a chill down Imaan’s spine.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
Tristan eyed the line of hostile-looking guards behind him. He sighed and released Imaan’s hand. “No, she wasn’t,” said Tristan.
“Well, I am glad to hear we didn’t ruin any plans,” said Wilhelm, looking Tristan up and down, “because I am afraid, Lady Imaan, you are under arrest.”
C h a p t e r 3
In the darkened Temple next to the Palace, Liza Hart sat in the last bench toward the back, staring at the bowl of glowing coals on the front altar. Plumes of burning incense rose up from the bowl; it danced above the altar for a brief moment before disappearing into the universe, leaving behind a sweet, earthy smell reminiscent of times and places she would rather forget. She looked away as a tear welled in her eye.
Saladin liked this incense, she thought.
A girl in a bath robe and hair curlers confidently strolled past, pausing as she noticed Liza in the back bench. It was Catherine, a maiden of the Temple and one of Imaan’s students. Liza wiped her eye and waved.
“Hello,” whispered Catherine. “How are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Liza, “but otherwise I’m fine, all things considering,” said Liza.
“I haven’t had a chance to greet you since you’ve been back.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly wanted to see many people,” said Liza.
“Oh. I can leave if you want,” said Catherine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your night prayers.”
“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t actually… I mean I can’t shut everyone out forever. I could use the company.”
Catherine smiled and sat down.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” said Liza, watching the coals.
“Me neither,” said Catherine. “It must be so difficult to lose your fiancé.”
“I can’t help but wonder if he hadn’t… if I had resisted and not given into my feelings…maybe Saladin would not have died,” said Liza.
“What?” asked Catherine.
“Do you think it was punishment for not following Avinoam’s will?” asked Liza. “Do you think he was taken because of me? …Because I left the priesthood for him?”
“Oh no, how could you even think that?” asked Catherine, leaning nearer. “That’s like saying the hands of that wretched murderer and Avinoam are the same. That can’t possibly be right.”
“Then why did he die?” asked Liza. “Why did he have to die?”
Catherine paused. “I don’t know, but there are many things we can’t understand. Maybe it was just his time.”
“I’ve been training my whole life to follow the Lady. Why couldn’t I resist, Catherine? How can I fast and pray and be in the Temple so much and still be so ‘poisoned by desire’ as the Lady would say? Does all that work count for nothing?” Liza blinked her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. Catherine put her arm around her.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Liza. You’re back now, and we’re happy to have you, the Lady especially. She really missed having you as her assistant,” said Catherine.
“I think it hurt her a lot when I accepted Saladin’s proposal. She was like a friend and mother to me, and I didn’t even have the nerve to tell her what happened. Then after Saladin… after I asked to come back, she was so kind and loving. She treated me as if I’d never left. I feel so guilty.”
“Don’t be. The Lady loves you. We all do.”
Liza frowned. Catherine could sense a deep sadness but also a fiery anger bubbling under the quiet priestess’s veil. She nodded sympathetically and stood to leave.
“Speaking of the Lady, I haven’t seen her today,” said Catherine, thoughtful.
“I think she’s busy with the vote,” said Liza.
Catherine nodded and shuffled toward the front altar, taking a seat nearer the glowing coals as Liza rose to leave. Liza grabbed a ring of keys from her pocket and headed toward the public entrance, readying to lock the doors for the night. Opposite the Temple steps stood two shadowy figures engaged in intimate conversation. Liza watched as a thin man with feathered hair looked around, pulling a sack from his bag. The other man dug a wad of bills from his pocket. Liza pushed through the door.
“Hey! What are you doing?” she shouted from the steps. The feather-haired man dropped the sack, and the pair darted in opposite directions, disappearing into the maze of alleys that crossed the City. Liza hurried over and picked up the sack. A heavy amount of shimmering powder shifted as she opened it. It was fine quartz sand highly-prized in glassmaking, and also illegal if sold without accompanying documentation. An Ibex patrol guard who had heard her shouting turned down the lane. She waved to him.
“Can you take care of this for me? Two men were trading it outside the Temple. They dropped it and ran when I shouted.”
The guard looked at the sack in her hands. “Your teacher taught you well, didn’t she? It’s convenient that you would report this now.”
“Pardon?”
“Liza Hart, you are under arrest for possession of contraband,” said the guard, taking out his handcuffs.
“What?”
“You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Aerothian High Court. King Dominic has ordered we be very strict on any infringements.”
“Dominic? But Lady—”
“Imaan has been declared an enemy of the state in a unanimous vote by the judges and is currently in custody on charges of treason, embezzlement and conspiracy to murder. To mention any allegiance to her now would be very unwise.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. The guard growled.
“Ms Hart, you have committed a crime for which you are being arrested. You are not at liberty to interrogate me. Now are you going to come quietly, or must I do this the hard way?”
Liza held out her wrists. Catherine, who had heard the commotion from inside, peeked through the Temple doors. She opened her mouth to shout, but Liza silenced her with a shake of the head.
Find Tristan, she mouthed.
Catherine nodded and slipped back into the Temple, running through the sanctuary and into the corridor leading to the maidens’ dormitory. She bumped into another girl, Beatrice, who wiped the sleep from her eyes.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“They’ve arrested Liza,” said Catherine.
“What?”
“Ibex just arrested Liza. We have to find Tristan now,” said Catherine.
More of Imaan’s students stirred and found their way to the hall.
“What’s happening? Where’s the Lady?” they asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Catherine, “but something’s very wrong.”
C h a p t e r 4
“How bad is it?” asked Imaan as she leaned through rusted bars. She was in a damp, maximum security cell in the penitentiary on Kakapo Wreck, an island scrapyard for damaged ships and disgraced people. Tristan handed her a grey wool blanket.
“We’ve managed to get all the maidens safely into hiding,” said Tristan. “It doesn’t look like they will be charged, but we thought it best they keep a low profile until we’re sure. The Temple’s been closed until further notice.”