by Aderyn Wood
“Our son,” the khanassa said before focusing her attention on Da. “Petar, you raise an interesting point, one that I promise we shall discuss more fully. Right now, though, I’d like to meet this Sargan for myself. Yana.”
A flourish of nerves bounced within Yana’s stomach. “Yes, Khanassa?”
“Your Drakian sounds much improved. Have you been practicing, lass?”
Yana smiled. “Aye.”
Ashrael tilted her chin down to give Yana a serious look. “Will you act as translator? To the best of your ability?”
Yana glanced around the hall, her stomach melted into a pit of jelly. All eyes turned her way and she suddenly felt lightheaded. They would hear her stumble and stutter. She saw Kiljad and Jandha, staring at her blankly, and remembered their jeers from childhood. But this was important. She needed to help for her grandmother, for her mother, for her clan. She straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Khanassa.”
Ashrael smiled. “Very well. Ana, will you fetch him back here? We all need to see and meet Sargan for ourselves.”
At supper they ate in silence. Only the crackle of the cook fire and their spoons hitting the wooden bowls filled the rondhus.
Yana had a thousand questions to ask her father about the battle. After she’d interviewed Sargan, Ashrael had made her detailed report to the entire clan, and the news was grim indeed. The Halkans remained in their fortress atop Uthalia’s tallest mountain, their red flag flying high, indomitable. But Yana sensed there was more to it, and she longed to ask her father.
Da kept glancing at Sargan, whose hand shook whenever he raised the spoon to his lips. He dropped a splotch of it on the table and hurriedly wiped it away with his sleeve, muttering something in his own language as he did so.
A look of annoyance settled on Da’s face. “Does he not speak any Drakian?”
“Some,” Ma replied. “Though he is more fluent in Yana’s tongue.”
Da gave Yana a look, making her feel like a stranger to him.
“So, your speech is not an odd little quirk of your own, but an ancient language.” He turned to Yana’s mother. “Did Rayna have an explanation for it? Anything useful aside from this trinket?” Da handled the amber-coloured amulet Grama had left for him.
Ma cast a glance Yana’s way. “Later, Petar.”
“So, we’ve another mouth to feed.” Da clenched his jaw and pushed his bowl to one side.
“You might show some empathy, husband. It’s not Sargan's fault.”
“You’re keen to defend him.”
Ma shook her head. “You know I don’t care for politics. Sargan is just a boy.”
Da gave Sargan another look. “A big boy. They feed ‘em well in Shraemia.”
“Zraemia,” Yana corrected.
Da looked diagonally at Yana before returning his gaze at Ma. “It isn’t right. By the rules and customs of our people we now have a hus-thrall.”
“No.” Ma shook her head. “He is a diplomatic hostage. Not a slave.”
“I’ve never heard of such a notion.”
“It is a custom of their—”
“Their custom. Not ours.”
“Petar—”
“You know how I feel about slavery, Ana!” Da was on his feet.
“I know.” Ma’s voice softened. “And Sargan is not our thrall.”
“No Drakian would believe us if we told them such.”
“They might, after they learned of what happened.”
Da shook his head, anger burning in his gaze. Then he turned and stalked to the door to throw his cloak around his shoulders.
“Where are you going?” Ma asked.
Da didn’t turn around. “To the bay, I want to check the boats with Fegarj.”
“Petar, you’ve only just returned to us, please—”
“I need to think, woman!” The door slammed and Yana jolted.
Ma’s face was a picture of worry, but she calmed it quickly and blinked back the tears in her eyes.
“Sor—sorry,” Sargan said in Drakian.
Ma took a slow breath. “You’ve no need to be sorry, Sargan. He just needs time.”
Part X
Azzuri
Sommer’s End
Eighth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign
5,847 years ago…
Heduanna
Heduanna stood in the royal courtyard, gazing over the parapet to the river below. The Uryphat was a deep blue this time of year. Its flow had steadied and many citizens swam along its banks. A westerly breeze blew her hair back and brought a cooling touch. Winter grew closer, and this winter would bring the Reaping – a stretch of eight days and nights in which the sun disappeared from the sky, casting the world in utter darkness. The demons of the underworld would reap with their terror. No Zraemian city could escape their visitation. Many would die.
Frost would cover the city. Ice as thick as houses would creep over the mountains to the north, so she’d been told, and in the days that followed the darkness, storms and desert winds would melt the ice and bring silt through the river to every city. Rebirth would ensue and the desert would bloom with flowers.
The Reaping was yet two cycles of the moon away. There was much to be done. Heduanna hoped her father would appoint a new High Priest. Grand Blessed Lipit had died right around the time of Heduanna’s last fit. She had a vague memory of the temple bell tolling its endless mournful song, though any grief for the old man was brief if there at all. Those who’d attended his funerary ceremony in the temple all bore eyes as dry as the desert sands. And her father had uttered no words of regret about the old man’s passing. He’d still not made a new appointment. Perhaps he awaited Sargan’s return, though her brother wouldn’t be returning to them any time soon. And her father now believed Sargan wouldn’t enter the temple after all.
Heduanna shook her head, forcing her thoughts away from her younger brother and back to the city below. Right now, it was harvest time. To the far west, and across the river, slaves and farmers worked in the grain fields. From here on the terrace they looked like mice frolicking, and Heduanna eyed them the way Smite eyed his prey. The grain would go to the granaries and there it would remain, to be used by her father to pay the workers, or to bribe other cities as he saw fit. Grain was the most important currency in the world.
Heduanna's eyes swept further west looking for any sign of Hadanash’s galleys returning. The goddess continued to visit Heduanna's dreams. She’d suffered weakness and fatigue as a result of restless sleep, and some days she was relegated to her bed with only priestesses and Smite for company, but Phadite had shown her – Hadanash was close.
She’d learned more about Sargan too. A heavy cloud of concern wrapped around her whenever she thought about her little brother. All was not well with him. She’d tried to focus and ask the goddess what it could be, but she knew the truth – Heduanna's heart was reluctant to delve too much. She couldn’t face losing Sargan. Her throat tightened as her vision blurred. She couldn’t even think of him without tears.
A loud meow startled her, and she turned to see Smite pad toward her, tail straight up.
Heduanna smiled as she crouched to pat him. He nudged her hand with his chin. “And will you be joining the other cats this harvest? The rats will rule the city soon.”
Smite purred in response. She kissed his head and Smite purred louder. “I’m glad I have you. The slave-boys won’t come near me. Father’s sent Kisha away to attend Hadanash, and my little brother has been taken from me.” She’d tried to interact more with her royal cousins and aunts, but their clique made her uncomfortable. They clearly enjoyed demonstrating how Heduanna didn’t belong with them on the third terrace. She let go a long breath. “I’ve only the haughty priestesses for company.”
Smite nudged her hand again.
She thought about the servant boys, and the guards. All the prime young men she had access to. They’d enjoyed her bed before. But now they refused her every proposition, no matter how alluring she made herself
. And it seemed Addu had been dismissed as a guard. “But why?” she whispered.
Smite meowed in response.
“I must learn the reason.”
“Princess?”
Heduanna stood and glared behind her.
Qisht approached wearing his winter robes, a heavy blue silk far too regal for a slave. His slender frame carried it perfectly. His face was painted as usual, and today he’d even painted his nails.
“Princess, are you ready for your lessons?”
Smite stepped toward Qisht to wind through the slave’s legs.
Traitor. Heduanna gave the cat a glower before turning her back on Qisht to resume her watch of the river. She would have derived much satisfaction in telling Qisht to jump into it, though his teachings regarding the Urul court and its history had proved useful. But would Father ever accept King Amar-Eshu’s proposition of marriage?
“Yes,” she said, finally. “Please arrange refreshments. A jug of the new wine from Praeta.” I’ll need it to stomach you. “I will be with you directly.”
“At once, Princess.”
She heard the soft swish of Qisht’s sandals over the tiles, and when she glanced behind her, both he and Smite had gone.
Heduanna cast her gaze over the river one more time. “Hurry home, brother.” Then she turned to climb the steps to her suite.
Heduanna awoke from a visioning and sat bolt upright in bed to vomit the entire contents of her stomach in great shuddering heaves.
“Oh, dear.” A priestess swept over and placed a hand on Heduanna’s head. “You have fever. I take it the goddess has met you in dream again?”
Heduanna nodded. She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. The stench of vomit filled her room.
“Aduata,” the priestess called. “Bring a damp cloth and fresh water.”
The priestesses set to work cleaning Heduanna’s face and shaking hands and mopping up the mess on the floor.
The dizziness and nausea slowly began to settle with the deep-breathing exercise the priestesses insisted Heduanna perform.
“Here, please drink. No arguments,” a pair of wrinkly, pursed lips told her.
Heduanna squinted at the cup of steaming brown liquid and nearly retched again. It was fermented frey root, and looked like liquid nightsoil straight from the streets. It smelled even worse. Heduanna held her breath and downed the vile substance in two gulps.
“Water,” she rasped.
The priestess handed her a fresh cup of water but it did little to mask the grotesque taste of the medicine.
“We’ll organise a bath for you,” the priestess said. “Some oil of almond too, perhaps. I was just reading in Goranna’s list of remedies that—”
Heduanna clasped a hand on the priestess’s wrist and tightened her grip. “Find Father,” she hissed. “The heir-prince has crossed the Sea of Death.”
Danael
Danael put the oily cloth back into the wooden bucket half-filled with fat and stood to stretch his back. His eyes wandered over the choppy seas. The colours had changed in the last handful of days, and the waters had grown yet more foreign.
Danael knew the greens and blues of the Drakian Sea the way he knew his own hands. The colours here were altogether different. The blue was so deep it even turned black at times, and the sea was vast. They’d been traveling so long the moon had returned to the shape it had been when they’d left Estr Varg. The weather had changed too. The days were hot as summer, and so were the nights. He began to wish for one of the cool, white skirts these Zraemians wore.
Danael had never sailed so long without seeing land, or on such violent seas. It still seemed impossible, but their giant longboat was different to Drakian vessels. It met each fist of sea wind with ease. Rowing was forsaken altogether, as the sails were large enough to catch the smallest whispers of a breeze. The boat-builder in Danael longed to rip up the boards beneath, to investigate the skeleton and find their maritime secrets.
“Skrut,” said a familiar gruff voice close by.
Danael tensed and turned to see the man they called ‘general’, and he let a sigh escape his lips. The man had long, greying hair tied tight behind and an air of importance that Danael dreamt of destroying. His eyebrows were thickly painted and slanted above stern brown eyes. He wore a perpetual scowl that reminded Danael, rather unkindly, of his father. Like the others, Danael towered over the general. He felt like a giant in the sagas. Sometimes Danael wondered if he could battle them all, alone. Just give me a sword.
The general was squinting at Danael with those hate-filled eyes. “Skrut,” he repeated, and pointed to the bucket of pig’s fat.
Danael got down on hands and knees, wincing once at the shooting pain in his calf, and resumed his work, sopping the cloth with the rancid fat and oiling the deck.
He swallowed his pride with the rising bile. He’d submitted to them fully now. They’d tamed him.
He’d attempted escape not long after they’d left Estr Varg when the waters were still familiar. He’d jumped over the gunwale and put every bit of his lungs into a deep long dive. But he’d been unaware of the capacity of these people, and their weapons. They shot him with a spear. They launched it from the gunwale with the speed and precision of a spearwife. He’d found out since it was a common practice and they caught a number of large sea fish and sharks used to feed themselves on the long journey. Attached to the spear was a length of rope. It had struck his calf, and caused so much shock and pain he’d inhaled lungfuls of water and found himself back on the boat, vomiting and shaking with agony.
He’d barely healed before he was given tasks like this. He’d refused at first so they whipped him. Whipped him till he bled, and starved him till he begged them for food.
Yes, they’d broken him. But just give me a sword. He glanced up. The general was still watching him. He laughed along with a couple of warriors standing behind him who shook their heads and uttered a scattering of foreign words.
“General Mutat,” someone said.
Danael had heard his name plenty. Mutat had importance, authority, like a khanax or boatbuilder. But one as crude as he couldn’t be the boatbuilder of such a beauty as this giant.
Danael didn’t really mind doing the menial tasks they set him. It was a pleasure to maintain such a vessel. And some day, when he learned their secrets, Danael would take their knowledge and combine it with his own, then he’d build a fleet to sail to their lands and slaughter General Mutat and all his kind.
Danael’s dream faded as a twinge of pain gripped his calf once more. He couldn’t afford to hope. The future was filled with bleak uncertainty.
“General Mutat.” Danael whispered the foreign name. Trying it out on his tongue. The sensation reminded him of his childhood, when he and the others had mimicked Yana and her odd speech.
“Danael, gomsa?” It was Alangar. Alangar was different to the others. For one, he was the only Zraemian with short hair, the tips of which had lightened and were almost blond. His eyes were brown like the others, but kind. Alangar and his friends helped Danael after he was speared, and whipped. They’d attended to his wounds and brought him food. They’d formed a companionship. Alangar had taught him some of their words. Var, meant yes. Un, meant no. Alangar looked out for him as much as he could. He was tall for a Zraemian, though still not as tall as Danael.
Danael nodded. “Var, Alangar.”
Alangar gave him a grin and a friendly slap before moving on.
Danael looked over his shoulder. General Mutat was walking the deck, doing his morning assessments. He spoke to most with the hard gruff voice Danael had grown all too familiar with. The general laughed at some of the others, mocking them, his small band of followers laughed with him. General Mutat had authority, yes, but he was not liked for it. Some of the men gritted their teeth and threw a scowl at his back when he walked past. He has many enemies for all his authority. Danael thought of his father again, before tossing his musings aside and focusing on the deck.
&nb
sp; Purposeful footsteps rang out behind, and Danael turned to see the young prince. He strode past with a small band of his own men to General Mutat.
‘Prince’ was one of the few words Danael had learnt from Sargan before they left. It meant khanal. Danael clenched his jaw tight as a wave of burning shame hit his cheeks. Danael was a prince according to Zraemian custom, yet here he was, scrubbing the decks for another.
Hadanash was of a similar age, perhaps a summer or two older than Danael. Which only made the shame burn deeper. The blood of Danael’s maiden battle was still fresh on his hands, yet Prince Hadanash led a group of more than two hundred warriors over dangerous waters, to steal him away.
Danael liked to imagine how things would have been different if only his father had allowed him to stand, and to fight. This prince with his glossy hair, golden eyes and bejeweled ears, he would fall within a heartbeat of Danael brandishing his sword. If only I got that chance.
He cast the thought away. His mother had tried to teach him time and again the futility in wishing for what might have been. It didn’t stop him at night though. He’d lay on the hard floor of the deck, staring up to the stars and plan an impossible escape. All boyhood fantasies. But all that he had.
Excited shouts raised an alarm from the prow. General Mutat and the prince moved forward and some of the men were pointing, wide-eyed and open mouthed. Danael stood too and stepped forward. His gaze fell on something in the distance and he took a sharp intake of breath as he gripped the gunwale with an oily hand.
Land shimmered ahead. A land the colour of gold. A great expanse of dust rose from it to a sky impossibly vast and void of cloud. Danael searched the scene for any sign of green. For the comfort of a forest. But only this golden wasteland dominated, its infinite existence stretching further the closer they sailed.
Perhaps he’d come to Hador after all.
That afternoon the two boats docked on a stone jetty that reached an impossible distance into the sea. Mutat shouted orders, and two of the warriors grabbed Danael’s arms and tied his hands together.