by Richard Nell
"Did you bring my…instrument?" she did her best to look at the crates from her platform, but the men carrying them paid no attention. Finally she reached from her seat and lifted the lid, shifting her weight to one side and causing the men carrying her to grunt in surprise. They gestured for her to be still and mumbled polite words in rude tones, but she ignored them. "Ah ha!" Zaya found the handle of the foreign lyre and pulled it out before she obeyed.
She strummed softly for a time, the tale of a shackled prince forming in her mind. It did nothing to diminish the stares and constant attention of the foreigners, but Zaya was accustomed to attention. By the time they reached the edge of the city, she felt some of her paints running in the heat, but with a half-formed song in her mind cared little for the world around her.
The prince led them on a well-trodden road through fields of crops Zaya didn't recognize. The children were allowed to wander freely now, and soon the boys were chasing each other with kernel husks, leaping and hacking like warriors. The prince was watching them, and she saw his emotions mix and warp across his face, both joy and sadness mixed to some bittersweet potion.
She didn't understand it, and looked away. She had seen only the dense jungle and the city, but as she looked out across the countryside here she saw far-away mountains ringing the horizon. Crops rose and fell across the hills in unified squares, a patchwork of yellows and greens like a quilt from her homeland. Well-made roads criss-crossed the land, with small towns along their edges. It was, in a word, beautiful.
"Does it now please you to be a concubine?"
Zaya blinked and saw the prince was staring, his expression impossible to read. Zaya decided not to take offense.
"My fate in hands of gods," she said, and believed. "I do only…as I can."
The prince watched her, perhaps for mockery, but finally looked away. "That seems a useless distinction. How can you know what to do, and what you cannot?"
Zaya smiled, and waited for the man to again meet her eyes.
"I try."
He snorted and walked on, putting his daughter on his shoulders for a time. The worn roads and long villages thinned and all but disappeared, ending in a fortress of stone. Here the men challenged Yacat but soon saluted and led him onwards, along a narrow road through marshy fields and at last an estate. The children ran towards it with excitement, but Yacat had stopped and stared with a guarded expression.
"I have seen enough stone buildings in my life," he announced. "Would you rather play along the beach?"
The children shrieked in approval, and Yacat ordered his guards to find an appropriate spot and bring food and toys for the water.
"My lord," said the chief bodyguard, clearing his throat. "Should we not follow the king's instruction? I was told to take you to the house."
"Do as you like, soldier." Yacat stretched his arms and turned to the water. "But my children and I are going to the beach."
The guard frowned but soon followed, and the servants walked on in silence, at last placing Zaya gently alongside a sparkling blue lake that seemed to go on forever. Along its coast, thousands of reeds sprouted in verdant patches, whistling with the breeze. Further in, Zaya could see fishing boats and merchants crossing from one side of the lake to the other. The banks were smooth sand like the island coast, and the children ran into the water without hesitation.
"Your lands are paradise," Zaya said, looking out at the sky reflected in the water.
Yacat smiled and lay beside her, eating grapes from a bowl. He took off his headdress and lay back on the sand.
"Tell me of your lands, Zaya. This mythical place across the sea."
As was often true Zaya couldn't tell if the man mocked her or not. She looked at the children playing amongst the reeds and imagined the rocky coast of the Ascom, the dark water so cold you could freeze in summer.
"Have you seen snow, prince? Tekit." she asked.
He yawned and ignored the slip. "Yes. In the mountains. And at the Northern edge of the valley, it can snow."
"Imagine it as lake. Covering world like blanket. So thick, sometimes until end of summer, too much for sun to melt."
She felt awkward trying to explain with her limited words, and hoped she'd used them correctly. She blinked and found the prince staring, a slight smile on his lips. His eyes wandered along her face and hair, down the thin garment to her legs. While Zaya was not unused to the attention of men, to be so boldly inspected was both insulting and uncomfortable. She looked away to cover her embarrassment, focusing on the children at their play.
Yacat had two boys and a girl, the oldest perhaps ten. The boys fought and splashed as the girl stood on her own picking reeds, and Zaya felt the prince's hand touch her brow, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She blinked, but ignored it, focusing on the little girl so happily at her task. The prince's finger slid down her cheek to her chin.
With her eyes focused on the water, Zaya noticed a patch of reeds near the princess moved, and not from the wind. Hair on her skin prickled and her heart suddenly pounded without clear understanding of why. Were there predators in this place, she wondered? Something like a shark that might be lurking in the lake?
As was so often true in life, she felt a moment of decision. She could sit and do nothing and risk nothing, or act on intuition alone, and perhaps be a fool. She rose and waved her arms, shouting at the girl.
"Atzi!" she yelled the girl's name. "Come back to beach!"
Little Atzicoya frowned as she saw Zaya, but perhaps out of habit from obeying adults, carried her handful of reeds towards the water's edge. As she did, the patch of reeds shook and scattered. It wasn't a creature that emerged, as Zaya had feared, it was a man.
Three naked warriors rose up from the water carrying knives and spears that had looked like reeds. The first splashed his way towards the boys in the water. The other two charged Yacat.
The prince sprung like a wild animal, on his feet growling in the blink of an eye, sword drawn and racing towards the water as he yelled at his sons and his guards. Zaya saw the panic in his eyes. He was too far away from the man in the water. There was nothing he could do.
Zaya was calm, her resolve warmer than the bright sun that prickled and likely burned her fair skin already. Destiny was never made for mortal hands. As a skald she knew there was only the choices given with the time and power you had, and as the two warriors charged Yacat, Zaya made hers.
She reached a hand under her dress, ripping the knife from her thigh. That she had hidden one at all might mean her death, but there was no time to worry on that now. The assassins were young, strong, and athletic, their legs pumping as they crossed the wet sand. They ran almost right past Zaya without a glance.
She grabbed one by the throat and plunged her knife for his shoulder. Her hand slipped on the wet flesh, and her blade raked down his back instead. He cried out in surprise and slashed at her leg, the blade biting but too shallow to matter. Zaya kept stabbing, seizing the young man's knife-arm and plunging her own blade to his chest. They went down to the sand but Zaya was on top and just as strong as her opponent. When the assassin stopped resisting she stood covered in blood, looking up to see Yacat kill his man with a slice across the throat.
Guards were pouring down the beach now from the house and caravan. When they saw Zaya armed and covered in blood they charged, but there was still time. Yacat's sons were throwing rocks at their attacker and running through the shallow water. He would catch them soon, just as the guards would reach Zaya. But there was still a little time.
She lifted the assassin's spear, blinking away a tingling light-headedness as she focused on the weight of the weapon. The wood was sturdier than it looked—not made for throwing, perhaps, but it would do. She took a final breath and held it, ignoring the shouts all around her, both from the guards and the children. There was only the target.
Yacat was at the edge of the water, charging into the lake, but he was too slow. Zaya released her breath as she summoned all he
r strength and focus, lunging into the throw with a lifetime of training.
The guards shouted to their prince in warning, though he did not turn or slow. The spear sailed past him, close enough Zaya nearly gasped, and found its mark. The assassin clubbed Yacat's eldest boy with a fumbling blow as the spear pierced his back. He cried out and slumped, then Yacat was on him, hacking him into the shallow water until blood pooled at his feet.
The guards struck Zaya and threw her roughly to the sand. She looked up to the sky and couldn't understand why it seemed so round and blurred. She blinked and looked at the cut on her leg, gasping as she saw blood pouring from her thigh. She had never seen so much of her own blood, and her head lolled at its own weight as her gut clenched.
"Don't harm her!" The prince was shoving men away, then on his knees at her side. "She saved my son," he growled with something between rage and grief. She tried to thank him but couldn't seem to do more than smile. He was shouting for physicians and wrapping a cloth so tight around her leg it hurt. Something struck her face hard, and she blinked in surprise as Yacat yanked her hair and looked into her eyes. "Stay awake, Zaya. Look at me. Help is coming."
She looked up into his dark, foreign eyes, and decided they were beautiful. She tried to do as he asked, but it was too hard.
She lay back feeling a clammy sweat on her brow, still smiling at Yacat's words. "She saved my son," he'd said, and she knew it was true. She had made her choice, and did not regret it. Though she heard no music as she might have hoped, as she looked out at the clear, blue sky reflected in the water, she thought, at least, it was a very good place to die.
Chapter 23
Yacat decided not to wash off the blood. After seeing Zaya to his physicians and being assured she would live, he returned to the fortress. There he recruited a hundred soldiers and arrested the entirety of his guard. "You men," he gestured to a host of older Panther warriors. "With me. The rest of you, keep them here." He would torture at least their officer, and let the rest of the men hear before they were questioned.
For now, his father must be told. He marched down the corridors with his bloody sword in hand, wishing only for more men to kill.
He couldn't believe assassins had reached his children, nor could he believe his foreign concubine had saved them. That he did not know if the men had been after them, or him, plagued his mind with every step.
The march back to his father's palace was silent. Yacat's soldiers followed him with spears in hand, no doubt uncertain what threats to watch for, or what they'd be ordered to do on arrival. Sweat dripped from their faces but Yacat did not care. He roared his way through the city streets, citizens sometimes shrieking at the sight of him before they scattered. He was stopped only briefly at the palace until the men realized it was him beneath the blood.
"Are you alright, Mahala?" Even the royal guardsmen at the entrance paled at the sight of him, and Yacat paused. The man's markings showed him as an Eagle warrior, a blooded soldier with heroism rewarded clearly on his armbands. Yacat released a long breath and clapped his arm.
"I'm fine. Take me to my father, soldier."
"My lord." The man saluted and obeyed, and together they crossed the courtyard and entered the keep, where Yacat was nonetheless forced to wait until his father was ready. He was offered a basin and cloths to wash himself, but refused. He thought it best to let the man see the results of his gifts.
It was Uncle Anatzi who came to retrieve him, his eyes revealing the false confidence of his practiced smile. "By the gods, Yacat, are you alright?"
"I'm well enough. Take me to him."
Anatzi frowned as his eyes roamed Yacat's weapons. "Your blood is up, Young Yack. Will you keep your temper?"
"Yes I'll keep my fucking temper," Yacat shouted in his face, then paced across the waiting room.
"I see." Anatzi poured a deep glass of agave and set it on the serving table. "Drink this. And take deep breaths."
Yacat snapped his gaze to the old warrior's eyes with a jerking sneer before he breathed and took the drink. "Alright, I am calm," he promised when finished, throwing his sword to the tiles. "I'm feeling murderous, but I am calm."
Anatzi took the empty cup and quirked his brow. "In your case, nephew, perhaps that is the best we can hope for. Come with me."
They entered the throneroom together, where Yacat was somewhat glad to find the king attended by a collection of his brothers. Yacat had indeed calmed somewhat by the time they surrounded him and sat him down at a table with more food and drink and asked for an explanation. He expected at least one spy or soldier had already told his father the broad strokes, but he gave the details anyway.
King Etzil listened in silence until his many sons looked to him for opinion. He met Yacat's eyes, raising his hands as he shrugged. "A family like ours has only enemies, and subjects, and one can become the other with the rising of a single sun. What would you like me to do?"
"Nothing," Yacat realized as he said it. "Just don't interfere. I'm going to look for traitors, and deal with the guards. In the meantime, I want the foreign slave, Ruka, back at the palace."
The king frowned. "Is that wise, my son? He's an evil spirit made flesh. All the priests agree."
"Not only is it wise, father, he may be one of the few men I can trust to guard my children. He will be armed, and placed in the harem."
Saying it out loud was strange, and yet somehow Yacat knew it was true. Whatever gifts he had in life, knowing the measure of a man was one, and somehow he knew this spirit made flesh was one to be trusted to keep his word beyond all reason.
"Outside this room," said the king with a flat voice. When Yacat frowned in confusion the king repeated himself. "One of the few men outside this room, you can trust, surely."
Yacat bowed his head then looked at his king in frustration, wondering how he could be so blind. "There were three men on that beach, Father. Only two of them came for me. I was alone, it was perfect. So why would they attack my children, who have no claim to any throne?"
The king said nothing, his expression unchanged, and Yacat decided he was not so foolish after all.
"It is your priests, Father. Only they know my son will be sacrificed. They mean to kill my children so they can't be sacrificed. They have betrayed you and told your enemies, who mean to interfere."
"Perhaps," the king agreed.
"Perhaps? Must they kill one of them before you see it?"
"We cannot know," the king raised his voice and his younger sons looked to the floor. "This, my son, is why you make an excellent general but would make a poor king. You wish to know at all times who are your friends and who are your enemies. A king understands there is little difference, that a man can be both and each and neither in an afternoon."
"And what are the priests today, father? Friends or enemies?"
"Enemies!" The king spit as he blew air. "Until they are subjects. Their attack failed. We go on as before."
Yacat clenched his jaw, looking over his family, all of whom refused to meet his eyes.
"Are you so eager to kill your grandson?"
"I am eager to bring my family greatness!" the king rose and stepped forward.
Yacat felt his own rage building, but held it back when he found Uncle Anatzi shaking his head. Still, he tasted bile on his tongue and it leaked into his words.
"I've enjoyed our talk as much as my reward, Father. May I go now and ensure the safety of my children? Until you need them, of course."
The king's jaw flexed several times before he spoke. "You're angry. I understand. Go to your family, and when you've calmed yourself we can speak again of these rebellions and what we're going to do about them."
"As you say." Yacat nodded in required respect to the king and his heir, then turned from the room.
* * *
The head guard admitted his guilt after a long night of blood.
"They took my children!" he screamed to the torturers. "I had no choice!"
Yacat memorized the
names of the men who'd approached him, but had little hope of finding them. He kept his family at the palace rather then his new estate, because at least in the palace only assassins could threaten them. This had the unfortunate consequence of placing him at his father's disposal, and so he accepted his new duties as Lord General of the armies, and tried to advise his brothers with the rebellions.
"The mist tribes are deep in the jungles, who even cares about them?" Cuali whined as he looked longingly at the alcohol stored in the war room. Yacat shifted and tried not to think of all the better men who should be generals, and would be, were it not for his brother's royal blood.
"Rebellion is like wildfire," he explained. "It must not be allowed to spread. One of you will take a thousand men and deal with them. Make a lesson of their warriors. Take their heads to their allies on your way back to Copanoch."
Neither man volunteered. Instead they whined and offered foolish suggestions until Yacat lost his patience and ordered Patla into the jungle, and Cuali to patrol the coast. On another day he'd have been red with contempt for their sniveling, but all he could think about were his children.
His habit became a visit twice daily, and he made a kind of peace with his wife. His cold distance had wounded her, and she didn't understand. She thought his new concubine had captured his heart, temporarily bewitching him, and he thought this fiction a kindness. Surely it was easier to believe your spouse loved another more, than to know they no longer loved you at all.
Yacat made good on his promise to return Ruka to the palace, and placed him at the harem doors. His presence disturbed both the guards and the family, but the king could not deny the request so soon on the back of the attack.
Ten days had passed since the attack, thirty more now before the festival of stars. Yacat dealt with his morning obligations, then walked to the harem for the first of his visits. He found the giant staring like a statue at the side of the other bodyguards. His eyes seemed relaxed, but active, his manner always as a hunter close to violence. He had only been allowed to carry a club, which he in any case left sitting on the tiles. Yacat stopped at the guarded corridor and frowned as he considered his family in the rooms beyond. He spoke more to himself than the men.