Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  Jilana forced herself to turn her head and look down at the elderly man standing before the dais. Prime Minister Shakra was an intelligent and astute man. If he said something was urgent, it must be so. But she had no patience for regular matters of court right now.

  “Unless it has bearing on the campaign in Reygar—” she began.

  “Forgive me, Mother,” Vrath said quietly. “But we need to consider this matter at once. It cannot be delayed or postponed.”

  She was taken aback. Rarely had Vrath interrupted her, or anyone else. His manners were perfect to the point of pedantry. For a second, she was too startled to understand the what or why of the words he spoke. Was he doing this deliberately so that her attempts to convince him would be curtailed?

  No, she knew Vrath too well. He did not snub or insult people, least of all her. He was the very epitome of good grace and perfect poise. She saw something new in his face: even though his granite features had not shifted, there was a sense that he was trying to say something beyond the words. He genuinely felt this matter was important enough that they must hear it here and now, without delay. Yet how could he know? The prime minister had already explained that it had just been brought to the attention of the court. She realized that once again she was trying to scrutinize the inscrutable, to understand things that could not, would not be explained. Whatever Vrath’s reasons, he meant exactly what he said and said exactly what he meant.

  “Very well,” she heard herself say, the strain in her voice audible to her own ears. “Present the matter.”

  The prime minister beckoned to the court sentries. A surprisingly large number of them came forward, moving in a block as they usually did when guarding a particularly dangerous criminal. With Vrath present in court, the precaution was unnecessary: Vrath was a more effective deterrent than an entire regiment of soldiers—an entire army, actually. But it was protocol, and she assumed it was some band of murderers or sellswords who had been foolhardy enough to commit their acts of mayhem within the precincts of Hastinaga. Whoever they might be, they had committed their last crimes. She was in no mood for clemency today. They would receive the harshest sentence possible under law.

  Accompanying the quadruple quadrant of sentries—sixteen armed and armored soldiers moving noisily in unison, their captive boxed into the center of their square formation—was another quad of soldiers accompanying a man she vaguely recognized by appearance, but could not name. One of many high families of the city, a rich merchant or trader, among the oldest settlers of Hastinaga, loyal in their support to the Krushan dynasty for generations, ever since the great Krushan himself had settled this northern wilderness. He was extremely obese, his corpulent bulk weighted down even further by the kilos of jewelry he wore on his neck, ears, arms, and wrists. She assumed that the nobleman had been the victim of a burglary or dacoity and braced herself to listen to a tirade about rising crime rates in the city and the need for stricter policing, perhaps even a rant about the importance of segregation and the need to “remind” the lower classes of their “place.” While she didn’t recall his name, she recalled similar encounters in the past, and knew more or less what to expect once he began speaking.

  The group came to a halt at the prescribed distance from the throne dais. Her own private bodyguards, all female, had already moved in to form a tight but casual semicircle, ensuring Jilana’s safety. But that was not a concern at all to Jilana. No fool would dare to attempt an assassination with Vrath present; none would survive such an attempt.

  “Your Highness, this is Lord Mashkon the Eighth of House of Mashkon. He appeals to the court on behalf of his son Young Master Mashkon the Ninth of House of Mashkon.”

  So this time it was to complain about some slight his spoiled brat of a son had received. Jilana fumed. Why had she agreed to hear this case? From Vrath’s appeal, she had assumed it was something of national importance. Surely this was not the reason why he had brushed aside her appeals to go to Shvate’s aid? She glanced at her stepson sharply, but he was in prince regent mode, attention directed fully at the prime minister. She scowled in his direction anyway, knowing that he would sense her extreme disapproval.

  “Where is Young Master Mashkon the Ninth?” she asked. “If he is the complainant, he ought to be the one bringing the complaint to the court’s attention.”

  Prime Minister Shakra looked at Lord Mashkon, who spoke in a tone of outrage, his voice rising shrilly. “Your Majesty, my son is on the verge of death. My wife prays at the shrine of our deity for his survival today. And it is all the doing of that villain!” He pointed a quivering finger at the quads of sentries surrounding the accused. “He all but killed my son! I demand that he be sentenced to immediate execution. I demand justice!”

  Vrath replied. “Prime Minister, remind the complainant that only the court decides the sentence and delivers justice, not he.”

  The prime minister spoke quietly but sharply to the nobleman. Lord Mashkon glared at him and muttered something under his breath.

  “Prime Minister, give us the facts of the matter quickly,” Jilana said. “And ask the complainant to be quiet until you are done.”

  “Your Highness, the complainant says that earlier this morning, his son and several of his companions were enjoying a leisurely stroll when they were brutally attacked by this assassin, who injured several of their number and left Young Master Mashkon at death’s door. They summoned the city watch, who dispatched guards to arrest the culprit. When the guards sought to arrest him, he resisted violently, injuring almost a dozen guards as well. It was only through the intervention of his mother, who arrived on the spot, that further violence was avoided. She appealed to him to cease the violence and allow himself to be apprehended.”

  Jilana frowned. “And he agreed?”

  “He did. It would seem that the accused has deep affection and regard for his mother and obeys her without question.”

  “And is the mother present here as well?”

  Prime Minister Shakra beckoned, and Jilana saw a woman coming forward, clearly agitated. “She is, Your Highness. This is she.”

  Jilana, still irritated, said, “This appears to be an instance of unruly behavior, or street violence at most. The city magistrates could have handled it. Or even the city guard themselves. Why do you trouble the court with this matter?”

  Prime Minister Shakra looked startled at her tone. “Your Highness, forgive our presumption. The only reason it was brought to your attention was because of the young man’s father.”

  Jilana looked sharply at the bejeweled Lord Mashkon, who was sweating profusely. “Just because Lord Mashkon is of a High House does not mean that any infringement of his rights is a matter of national concern.”

  Prime Minister Shakra cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I was not referring to Lord Mashkon. When I referred to the young man’s father, I meant the father of the accused.”

  “How wonderful,” Jilana said, “Who is he, then? Another lord of one of our many fine High Houses?”

  “No, he is merely a charioteer, but, my queen—it is Charioteer Adran.”

  2

  Jilana blinked at the name. “Our family charioteer? Our Charioteer Adran?”

  “The same.”

  Jilana looked for the man in the crowd. “I don’t see him here.”

  “He is away, my queen. He drove Princess Karni to Pramankota for the day. Prince Adri and Princess Geldry were also on the same trip. They are scheduled to return this evening. If you so command it, I will send for him at once.”

  “No . . . there is little point; it would take hours for him to return. Let us hear the matter first.”

  Prime Minister Shakra regarded Jilana. “That is the entirety of the matter, Your Highness.”

  Jilana frowned. “I don’t understand. A charioteer’s son . . . my personal charioteer’s son . . . attacked and injured a dozen young men, and a dozen or so city guards, all by himself? Is that what you are saying?”

  “It is, m
y queen.”

  Jilana looked around, nonplussed. She found Vrath’s eye and saw his face was as expressionless as ever, but in the tilt of his head she thought she read his meaning. There must be some reason why he had insisted they hear this matter together. Usually, as regent, Vrath handled all petitions and court matters. This must be important. She felt that he was urging her to consider it fully, yet she wasn’t sure why—even if a charioteer’s son had, for unknown reasons, gotten hold of a weapon and lashed out at a nobleman’s son. No, there was something very strange here. Apart from the fact that a royal charioteer was not some common vagabond going around picking street fights, there was the fact that Adran was a relatively young man. She hadn’t even known he had a son. How old could the boy possibly be?

  She realized then that she had not as yet laid eyes on the accused himself.

  “Let me see the accused.”

  Prime Minister Shakra spoke to one of the guards surrounding the accused. The guard said something in response. The prime minister looked at the distraught charioteer’s wife standing nearby and spoke to her softly. She nodded. The guard gave a terse order to the four quads in the formation, and with impeccable Krushan discipline, they each took a step sideways, then diagonally, then again sideways, in different directions. In just three steps, the box formation opened to reveal the criminal at the center of the sixteen guards. The charioteer’s wife said something to the boy, and he stepped forward, guards on either side of him as well as behind him holding spears to his throat, sides, and back. They had to bend the spears very low, pointing them almost straight downward because the boy was so short.

  No, not short: small.

  The boy was remarkably small. Barely a boy, even. Practically an infant.

  Jilana was shocked. “How old is this boy?” she asked.

  The mother shuffled forward, hands joined in a pleading gesture that Jilana knew all too well. The mothers, wives, sisters, daughters always clasped their hands together to plead for mercy. “He will be six years old next month, my queen.”

  Jilana thought she must have heard wrong. But the boy was right there, and he looked exactly the age his mother said he was; yet it was impossible. This whole situation was impossible.

  “Prime Minister,” she said sharply, “are you trying to tell us that a six-year-old boy, the son of a charioteer, attacked over two dozen young men, including a dozen armed and armored city guards?”

  The prime minister nodded unhappily. “I am, Your Majesty. I did not believe the report myself, so I asked to see the victims. They are all being treated by the healers, and while none of their injuries are fatal or particularly severe, they do appear to have been caused by a person of very short stature. And there were witnesses.”

  “Witnesses,” she repeated, wondering if she was going mad or if everyone else was.

  “Apart from the thirteen guards who were injured, there were another five or six quads who arrived on the scene and viewed the last part of the skirmish with their own eyes. All their accounts concur in detail and broad description.”

  “And what were those accounts? No, don’t start reciting parva and mantra to me, Prime Minister, simply summarize concisely and tell me the overall gist. What is it that they saw happen here? How could a six-year-old infant possibly assault two dozen people?”

  “With great skill and mastery, Your Highness. It appears that despite his age, the boy is already a master of martial craft. He was able to fight and overcome all these opponents using only one weapon, a practice sword.” The prime minister gestured to an aide, who stepped forward and bowed, presenting a wooden practice sword. To Jilana’s eye, it looked like any similar practice weapon. Not quite a child’s toy, yet not a real weapon either. This made no sense at all.

  “Was Young Master Mashkon armed?”

  Lord Mashkon started to say something but was cut short by a sharp order from the prime minister. He glowered and continued sweating but remained silent while Shakra went on. “He was, Your Highness, and so were his bodyguards and his companions. As were the city guards, of course.”

  “Of course,” she repeated. This was growing more and more curious. She looked at the little boy. He looked quite ordinary except for the strange armor and jewelry he sported. The earrings appeared to be pure gold, as did the necklace, the chest and shoulder armor. Perfectly fitted too. Curious possessions for a charioteer’s son. “How did the boy come by his armor and accoutrements?”

  Prime Minister Shakra looked to the mother.

  She raised her clasped hands to Jilana. “They came with him, my queen. They have always been part of him. They grow larger as he grows.”

  What an odd choice of words: “they came with him.” Not the usual “he was born with them” that a mother would have said. She supposed it meant the same thing, but still, the odd usage bothered her. But she was distracted from the vocabulary by the sheer novelty of the fact: the earrings, necklace, chest armor, shoulder guards, back protector . . . It was all a part of his body? Flesh and bone? How was that possible? It looked so real, like actual armor, sculpted and shaped and burnished a deep, reflective golden hue. This case was growing curiouser and curiouser.

  The boy himself was handsome if unformed. Except for the parts which were covered by those odd growths that looked like golden armor, the rest of his skin was dark, a deep dark brown that verged on ebony. Even his hair was curled. Overall, he resembled the travelers and ambassadors who visited Hastinaga from the distant kingdoms of that fabled continent across the ocean, land of the great river that rivaled their own Mother Jeel. She realized that even his jewelry and armor resembled the accoutrements those tribal emissaries wore.

  The boy’s mother—still bent over with her hands clasped—was dark too, but nowhere near as dark as her little son. As for the charioteer Adran, it was true he was dark, almost as dark as Jilana herself, and she supposed it was not that unusual for children to turn out lighter or darker skinned than their parents. After all, she herself was jet-black in appearance, but her mother was of a much lighter hue, and her father was at least a shade lighter than Jilana. She saw nothing unusual in the difference in coloring, or features. But those odd growths? That was unique.

  And there was something else about the boy, too.

  He stood with legs slightly apart, hands by his side, gazing up at her with utter calm. His eyes were clear, his face and body unmarked. He did not appear to be injured or even bruised at all. He looked barely old enough to pick up that wooden sword, let alone wield it with mastery enough to defeat a dozen armed city guards, as well as a dozen other armed young ruffians.

  Yet there was something about him that made it clear he was no mere charioteer’s boy. A sense of quiet confidence. An attitude of perfect patience. He looked as if he could stand there all day, waiting. Jilana noticed a beam of sunlight falling on his side and feet. The late afternoon sunlight had reached its long arms farther into the sabha hall. The boy turned his head very slightly, just enough to allow the top of the beam of sunlight to catch his chin, and as the sunbeam touched his face, Jilana glimpsed something strange: the sunlight seemed to diminish where it touched his body. She looked around the sabha hall. Sunlight was streaming in everywhere, falling on courtiers, nobles, guards, ministers, even the palace cat in the corner, now dozing. But where it touched the charioteer’s son, it seemed to vanish, like water into a sponge.

  There was more. As the sunbeams stretched across the sabha hall, they appeared to bend slightly, to veer toward the charioteer’s boy, as if they were literally attracted to him.

  Or he is attracting them to himself.

  Jilana frowned and shook her head. It must be a trick of the light. But she knew better. She had seen enough such oddities before to know when she was looking at something not quite natural.

  The boy had power.

  She turned toward Vrath and found him gazing back at her, as if watching her arrive at this conclusion. He nodded once, and she knew he had known all along; this w
as the reason why he had wanted them to hear this matter. He had known the boy was special. Was he a demigod too, like Vrath? She had no way of knowing that for sure, but based on what she’d seen and heard so far, she believed it was a possibility. Either a demigod or something equally powerful—that was the only explanation for what she had just seen and the circumstances of this case. She could not imagine how exactly a little boy with a wooden sword could have fought, injured, and disabled so many opponents—a dozen of them heavily armed and armored fighting men of the highest caliber—but he had done it, and here he was, untouched, unblemished, beautiful, perfect, and calm as any average little boy. There was no fear in him, no nervousness, not even the normal deference of a child visiting the royal court for the first time. He stood as if he owned the sabha, the palace, the city . . . indeed, the world itself. As if everything belonged to him, and everyone ought to defer to him. It was not the arrogance of the noblemen’s young sons and daughters she saw every day; this was simple self-assurance. The boy knew his place in the world was secure and had no fear of any creature, man or beast. His confidence was that of someone who was neither mortal nor subject to mortal laws.

  Jilana looked to Vrath. “Do you have anything you wish to ask?”

  Vrath considered the question. “I have a question for the pradhan mantri.”

  Shakra nodded.

  “Did the boy attack first, or was he defending himself?”

  Prime Minister Shakra looked immediately at Lord Mashkon, who glowered but said nothing. He looked at the guards, who looked back at him and nodded once. “Prince Vrath, the Young Master’s claim was that the charioteer’s son attacked unprovoked, but on further investigation and after questioning all parties, including the Young Master’s companions and the city guards, it is my conclusion that the attack was provoked by the Young Master Mashkon and his bodyguards. The charioteer’s son was only defending himself against their assaults, and thereafter, from all the others who attacked him.”