Dragonshade

by Aderyn Wood

  It occurred to Sargan that Grand Blessed Lipit wasn’t present. Or Heduanna. Perhaps Father had forgotten to invite them, but that couldn’t be true. Father forgot nothing. Perhaps the high priest had other duties with the festival. The same could be true of his sister. They both had rituals to prepare for the evening’s proceedings.

  Qisht saw to a knock at the office entrance and quickly returned. “The king has arrived at the palace.”

  Sargan’s father lowered his chin. “Very well. Qisht, do you have the maps ready?”

  “Yes, Exalted.”

  “Good.” The king looked at them each once more. “All I ask is for your ears. If there’s a question you have, by all means, ask, but remember Amar-Eshu is as irrational and unpredictable as a serpent.” The king shot his gaze at Hadanash. “It would be best to leave the talking to me.”

  King Amar-Eshu entered with a small retinue – his general-brother Prince Udul, his sister Princess Adula, his high priest, Grand Blessed Zuran who appeared a century younger than Lipit and wore his feathers perfectly straight. The king’s brother-prince Puzu, and Prince Rabi were the last to enter. Rabi gave Sargan a smirk as he sat. Sargan added their names to his tablet, and resisted the temptation to add ‘rat’ to Rabi’s name.

  The mood was icy to say the least as the enemy king refused to reply, when Sargan’s father inquired if he’d slept well. Sargan glanced at Eshu. Up close his handsome features were plain to see. His mane of thick hair was black as the night sky and remained unblemished with any strand of grey. His makeup was very much in the Urulan style with a dramatic line of kohl at the outer corner of the eyes, slanting up to each temple, and the eyebrows were also touched with kohl to make precise lines, and a severe appearance. He wore a number of gold rings on his ears and a broad golden collar upon his shoulders. But it was the enemy king’s eyes that drew Sargan’s attention. Their golden colour matched that of his raiment, and were flecked with black.

  Lion’s eyes.

  Qisht entered with a platter of refreshments and poured all a cup of wine, which provided a much welcomed distraction to the tension. Sargan was glad he had a tablet on his lap to stare at.

  Sargan’s father instructed Qisht to bring the maps, and the platter of food was pushed to one side as the servant began laying out a series of tablets that joined together and revealed a map of Zraemia.

  Zraemia meant ‘the great desert’ in the old tongue, the desert speech, still used by Zamug’s tribe. The desert’s shape resembled a pear’s leaf. Fat at one end, then it tapered off in the west, and through the middle wound a vein – the Uryphat River. The entire realm was bordered by the Black Mountains to the north and east, and the Sea of Death to the west.

  Sargan’s father spoke as he eyed the map. “Let us speak frankly, my friend.” His gaze moved to the enemy king. “It is my understanding the cities you request to take under your wing include the Five Sisters.” He reached out to tap their marks on the map.

  The Sisters included the five large islands that sat in a wide expanse of the river and supported the rich cities of Kilbit, Ashurria, Tibira, Sakaad and Urgash. There was a sixth city on a smaller isle ‒ Bablim ‒ that existed a hundred leagues west in the fattest part of the river, but it was never counted amongst the ‘Five’ due to its small scale. The Sisters were located in the very middle between the two great cities, Urul and Azzuri, and over the centuries there’d been more battles fought over those islands than any other dispute in Zraemia.

  The Sister’s laid claim to a vast wealth of resources that could arm thousands of soldiers. In the desert valleys to the north lay the bogs of tar, valleys of copper, and dunes where thousands upon thousands of iron-rock lay scattered over the sand like black stars on a brown sky. To the river’s south sat a belt of tin. The Sisters themselves were islands of forests filled with fast-growing cypress, and their wood was highly prized. The steep rocky landscape on the river’s banks was harsh and unforgiving, but the oasis of the islands themselves had inspired many poets, and it was believed the islands were created in the image of the gardens of the Overworld where the gods resided.

  The enemy king nodded. “That is correct. But you have forgotten one.” The king reached over and pointed to Bablim.

  Sargan’s father-king gripped his string of knot beads making them clack together, and the tension rose once more. Sargan returned his attention to his tablet and added a note about the enemy king’s demands.

  He asked too much in Sargan's opinion. The Five Sisters would bring much wealth to Urul. Resources that were flowing into Azzuri now. Bablim, while relatively powerless, had a cultural worth. It was considered the birth place of Zraemia, where the first people settled and where the goddess Gayat resided – the Mother of the world. The city controlled few resources, aside from wood, but it housed the largest library in the realm, and the Green Mountain range to the north provided an interesting mix of exotic plants and game for hunters. Bablim was also famous for its comparatively high rainfall.

  A small passage in the Azzurian version of the Aurannan came to Sargan, one frequently ignored. It suggested Bablim was the true centre of Zraemia, the spirit centre. Perhaps the enemy king was more intent on becoming the ‘One King’ than they had anticipated.

  “Bablim has been a leal city of Azzuri since the days of King Amar-Tutan.” Sargan’s father spoke with a steady voice.

  The enemy king gestured to his scribe, who carefully unwrapped a yellowed stretch of linen and laid a crumbling tablet on the map. “Yet it was recorded over one hundred sommers past that it was promised to Urul to settle the dispute over Higlash in the time of King Amar-Arman of Urul and Amar-Sargan of Azzuri. It is nigh time the promise was met.”

  Sargan's father studied the crumbling tablet. “It seems quite a chunk of Zraemia you ask for, based on ancient promises that I must admit, I’ve not heard of.”

  “The cities were promised,” the king’s sister, Princess Adula, spoke in a high-pitched and louder than necessary voice. “We only speak of what is rightfully ours.”

  Sargan glanced at the princess. She was smarter than the king and all his brothers combined, Qisht had told him. Rabi often bragged how his sister knew more poems than Sargan. But her squeaky voice was not fit for recital, that was a certainty. She reminded Sargan of a little desert sparrow the way she perched so alertly on the chair, her large eyes snapping to each king as they spoke. Sargan recalled Qisht once telling him that while the princess was intelligent, and very knowledgeable, she was a ‘know-everything’ type of scholar, stubbornly certain of herself and lacking any thread of diplomacy, and thus, no more useful than an educated parrot.

  Sargan's father raised an eyebrow, and turned his head away from the princess and back to her brother-king. “I would like to obtain a copy of the transcription, so I may study it. Perhaps we could delay our discussions until I have read the tablet in full, to verify the veracity of such alleged promises from an ancient aeon.”

  Sargan winced. Was his father being provocative on purpose?

  “Not so ancient,” Princess Adula tweeted from her perch, but her brother-king put a hand on her thin arm, and she clamped her small beak shut.

  The enemy king didn’t seem offended. “I will have my scribe provide a copy for you and you can inspect the royal seals on the original tablet at your leisure. Though, I do not intend to leave this tablet in the care of anyone other than myself. Even for the most trusted of friends.”

  Sargan's father nodded. “A reasonable request. And likewise, I should like that my son, Sargan, is present to ensure the duplication is an accurate one.”

  Sargan's eyes widened. More responsibility? He glanced at his uncle-general whose heavy brows slanted down in a frown. No one’s calling me Prince Hog now, Uncle.

  “Now, to other more pressing discussions,” the enemy king said. “What is your final decision on the matter of your daughter’s hand?”

  “I’ve had much deliberation on the subject, particularly after a lengthy discu
ssion with my daughter this morning.”

  Sargan's ears twinged with curiosity. He’d not seen his sister at breakfast. Or anyone else for that matter, a result from oversleeping, again.

  “And she has convinced you?” Eshu asked.

  Sargan's father took a slow breath. “She has convinced me to consider it most seriously. It seems, she at least, is in favour of the alliance.”

  The enemy king brought a hand up to stroke his square chin. Every finger was adorned with a ring of gold and various precious gems gleamed. “And you are not?”

  “It is not something I agree or disagree with. I simply request to have time to consider – to ask the goddess, and to ensure we come to a decision that is worthy of you, your great city, and my daughter.”

  Sargan glanced at his brother. Hadanash sat on the very edge of his seat, a heavy frown dominating his face. His brother should learn to school his features just as their father did if he were to play this game – now Sargan understood why Qisht had tried to teach him to contain his excitement, to be more princely.

  “I will require a full year to properly consider the proposal.”

  King Amar-Eshu frowned.

  Sargan’s father quickly added, “Gaining your hand in marriage is the greatest honour my daughter and my family could ever acquire.”

  Blood ran to the enemy king’s face. “This is nothing more than an insult. You are playing games.”

  “On the contrary.” Father’s voice softened, while the enemy king had raised his. “My son Sargan will tell you such a delay sets no precedent. It is not uncommon.”

  Sargan’s heart raced and he straightened his shoulders, trying again to look regal.

  “Such a period of contemplation has been considered to be a note of respect amongst some of the greatest kings throughout history. Give him an example, Sargan.” His father flicked him a look filled with expectation.

  Sargan’s mind raced through the histories, the epics, trying to find an example to support his father's theory. Panic began to rise until at last he remembered one, nearly an age ago, and he opened his mouth to speak hoping his voice would remain level. “Truly, the great king Amar-Fahmid in the aeon of Atolla the Mad insisted on visiting the seven major deities in all twelve Amar cities to ascertain whether marrying the Princess Duvakanna of Lavak was the right choice. It is recorded in Herodot’s Histories Princess Lavak was forced to wait seven years for his hand.” Sargan took a breath. He’d failed to mention that Fahmid was a fanatic and the princess had only been seven sommers old when her beloved had begun his holy quest.

  “I’ve not heard of that.” Princess Adula narrowed her large eyes at him, giving her the appearance of being cross-eyed.

  “Well, I’d be happy to lend you my copy of Herodot’s Histories,” Sargan said, perhaps too enthusiastically, but he noted Zamug’s slight nod.

  The princess’s eyes widened. “You’ve a copy?” She almost pouted then. “How did you get your hands on such a tablet?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Perhaps you and the princess can talk History another time, Sargan.” His father seemed pleased. His eyebrows rose just a touch. “Seven years. Indeed, it makes one year seem meagre. Though, I have considered making a pilgrimage to the temple in your city, friend, to meditate on what Zroaras would make of the prospect. Though that would delay things at least another sommer.”

  The enemy king took rapid breaths, his frown deepening. “And my slave? When will you return Qisht? My father gave him to your father for a definitive term. That duration has now passed. He is to travel with us when I return to Urul.”

  Sargan’s father hardened his gaze. “Qisht must remain here to instruct Heduanna in the ways of your city. So that we may best ready her for marriage.”

  The enemy king shot a glare at Hadanash. “If that is the case, the slave Xethra shall not remain here as I promised your son.”

  Hadanash looked to the floor, his shoulders slouched. Sargan's father had managed to unsettle both the Urul king and his own son in equal measure. But his voice remained as cool as a river breeze. “That is fair, and to be expected. We will not take more than we deserve.”

  King Amar-Eshu stood. “I’ve heard quite enough for one day.” He turned and left, his retinue scrambling behind him.

  As soon as the enemy king had exited, Sargan's brother turned on their father.

  “What in Phadite’s name do you think you’re doing? This marriage is the best way for us to gain Urul’s trust. To avoid all our cities ending up under their control. You think he will stop at the Sisters?” Sargan's brother was on his feet. “It has taken me moons of groveling to win his ear. To persuade him to agree to Heduanna’s hand, to even consider it. And you throw it in his face. And in mine!”

  “Indeed,” Uncle Mutat spoke. “I have to agree with my nephew. This marriage promises nothing but prosperity for Azzuri and her leal cities.”

  Sargan's father moved not a muscle as he listened.

  Hadanash faced him breathing hard. “And Xethra, she was a little gesture just a small thing for me. Do you have so much disdain for your eldest son. For your heir?”

  “I have nothing but respect for your efforts. However, to speak of gaining the trust of our most critical enemy is akin to outwitting a viper. What’s more, it is uncomely you hold so much affection for a slave girl. It is my belief that such a trade would be a dangerous one.”

  “Dangerous?” Sargan’s brother threw his hands in the air once again.

  “You say it is our burden to gain the trust of Urul. In fact it is the other way round. Urul must gain our trust.”

  The prince snarled. “And your son? Do you trust him?” Hadanash turned and stalked out of the room, while his question hung in the air, unanswered.

  Heduanna

  In the high temple square, the priests rung the bell that swung atop the obelisk eight times to mark the midnight hour. Heduanna followed Grand Blessed Lipit up the few steps of the temporary dais constructed for such public rituals. The high temple’s grounds had been transformed for the celebrations. The lapis lazuli sundial, embedded in the square and whose centre obelisk told the hour, now lay hidden beneath the feet of hundreds and hundreds of spectators.

  To the east of the square, another dais had been erected for the royal family, guests and other nobles to watch the celebrations in comfort on cushioned benches. They enjoyed a prominent vantage to watch the ceremony that marked the beginning of Phadite’s Long Night.

  High Priest Lipit, his three feathers newly plucked and polished, came to a stop at the centre of the stage and Heduanna stood beside him. It seemed the entire city had congregated. People easily filled the grounds and all four temple gates were open revealing the outer crowds lining the paved streets of the city beyond. Heduanna’s heart already beat a rapid rhythm. The goddess was with her, and She would be gratified tonight.

  The old priest raised his arms and looked to the sky. The moon was even fuller, and Gayat’s star blazed bright. The blue comet was now clearly in view as it shot upwards from the eastern horizon.

  An excited murmur flowed through the crowd. The atmosphere sparked like desert lightning.

  The high priest spoke. His voice augmented by the temple’s stone wall, and no doubt by Phadite herself. “Good people of Zraemia, let us give thanks to Azzuri’s patron goddess, Phadite, goddess of peace, harmony and love. May she bless us with safety and children for the future.”

  Grand Blessed Lipit closed his eyes and silence ensued as every member of the crowd did the same to give their own private thanks to the goddess.

  Heduanna steadied her breathing as she thought of the offering of love she intended to give Phadite later that night.

  “Phadite’s own servant, Princess Heduanna of Azzuri, will now perform a special verse to mark the occasion.”

  The crowd cheered and Heduanna smiled broadly as she stepped forward to recite the poem she’d spent moons constructing, labouring over every word so the goddess’s prophecy
would be accurately foretold.

  Heduanna raised a hand and the crowd fell quiet. She filled her lungs and began.

  “Children of the blue city

  Awake from your slumber

  Your goddess calls you to her bosom

  In Her heart

  Bountiful with compassion

  Shall ye receive sanctum

  For trouble looms

  A demon wind

  Threatens to tear us asunder

  Do not be afeared

  Together we must step

  Unto the void of darkness

  Gaze upon erstwhile ages

  Our unvanquished path

  We’ve walked so far together

  The fires of destruction

  The great floods of death

  So long have we prevailed

  Survive we shall

  With our valorous king

  And our hallowed temple

  Together we shall rise

  Valiant and brave

  To smite our darkest threat

  Offer your libation

  And delectable viands

  Give freely of your love for Phadite”

  Heduanna finished, and silence stretched through the temple grounds. The faces in the crowd filled with fear. They’d understood Phadite’s message only too well. But Heduanna’s irritation was instant. Fools. Did they truly think Phadite would abandon them? Did they have no trust in Heduanna’s father-king? They’d adjusted too well to the comfort her father’s peaceful order had brought them. They’d too readily forgotten the threat of war, and the lecherous city her grandfather-king had left them.

  She exhaled a sharp breath and forced a wide smile on her face. “Your goddess will protect you in the challenges to come. But she needs your faith and love to make her stronger. Tonight, she demands your passions. Love one another, as you love your goddess.”

  They cheered once more, their fear, for the moment, forgotten and Heduanna lowered her arms. She stepped off the dais and walked the short distance to the platform to take her seat next to her father and brothers.