Dark Sea's End (Beyond Ash and Sand Book 1)

by Richard Nell

  "There are windows in the harem rooms. The walls are high, but still, skilled men might scale them."

  Ruka's deep voice answered instantly.

  "I barred the windows with hard metal. They would not get in."

  Yacat felt his mouth work as he considered asking where the man had gotten the bars and how he'd placed them, but shook his head. You did not ask a spirit how it worked its magic.

  "Thank you, Ruka."

  He nodded to the other guards and walked past. He knew their pride was stung at the giant's presence, and that they despised standing next to him all day, but he did not care. The women and their children gestured in respect as he passed them, and when he'd spotted Maretzi and all their children he felt the same small moment of relief that always came. Seeing them, he knew this time why he had truly come, and walked on.

  "How is she feeling, physician?"

  "Well enough, Lord General." The old priest of the god of the dead stuffed bloodstained bandage into his satchel along with an ointment used to prevent corruption. "She will recover fully, but should stay in bed for at least two more days to align her health with the stars that portend recovery."

  Yacat was aware of the many feminine eyes on his back, but ignored them. "Thank you. You may go."

  Without waiting for a reaction, Yacat opened his concubine's door and walked inside. He found Zaya relaxed on her bed, hands fiddling with an instrument. Yacat's people loved music as much as sport, and even princes were expected to learn, but Yacat had only ever had a single talent.

  Zaya had not been done up as was customary for a prince's visit. Her hair was greasy, her dress pulled up around her strong, pale legs, her face without paints or jewelry. Her plain beauty struck him, and he found he much preferred her this way.

  "Your large friend now guards the harem," he explained as he closed the door. "The gods may move him, but I fear for any man who tries."

  Zaya smiled with her teeth, and Yacat found this appealing, too.

  "I'm pleased. Though, not afraid," she answered, her voice strong.

  "Are you ever?"

  Here she squirmed and adjusted her leg, and the injury brought Yacat back to the beach. They had not spoken since that afternoon of blood, and he wasn't sure what to say.

  "Not if…faithful." She frowned. "But, I was afraid on sea. I cannot swim. I thought I'd die in endless water, and my gods felt…far away."

  "I should like to hear of your adventures." Yacat walked to the bed and sat in the nearby chair. "And of the world you come from."

  One of her eyebrows raised, and she gestured at her leg. "Well, I am your slave, Tekit. I must do as you ask."

  Yacat smiled, though he felt a strange kind of embarrassment. He had treated the girl as little more than a pawn in his games, yet she had risked her life, and saved his children. With rebellion and the awful fate that awaited him, he had not given these strangers the attention they deserved. He met her eyes.

  "For your actions near my estate, I owe you a debt. I cannot offer you and your companion freedom today, if that is your wish. But one day I can, and will. That is my oath."

  The girl watched him, her foreign green eyes moving back and forth across his before she seemed to make a decision. "Then, I glad I used knife on your enemies, instead of your throat."

  Yacat had decided to let the matter of the hidden blade pass, but whether it was the surprise of the brazen threat, or the pleasing sound of her accent, he couldn't help but laugh.

  "Well," she settled back on her cushions and closed her eyes. "You ask of my world. What would you like to know?"

  Yacat still wasn't sure he believed she was from across the sea. But he had to admit he couldn't explain either of the extraordinary captives, or the ship that fled the royal fleet at a speed that sounded impossible. If it were true, Yacat knew he should care a great deal more about these foreigners and their people. Yet he found he couldn't. The foundation of his own house was rotting, and unless he could fix that, it made little difference what happened in the outside world. Every threat, great or small, could destroy the weak.

  "If we were in your homeland now, what would we be doing?"

  Zaya laughed but kept her eyes closed. "Nothing, Tekit. Your warm, noble blood would freeze in veins."

  Now it was Yacat's turn to smile. It faded though, as his pleasure at the girl's presence dissolved beneath the weight of his future. His isolation, his otherness, felt like iron chains around his chest.

  "You've learned so many of our words, and so quickly," he almost whispered. "Do you know too of the Devourer, Zaya? The god my people call Centnaz?"

  He knew he shouldn't speak of it—that he should hide away his fears and weakness or else risk allowing it to destroy him. But he had to let it out.

  "Yes," Zaya said after a delay. Her eyes opened, alert now as they watched him. "My serving girl speaks of him. He sounds…unpleasant."

  Yacat snorted, and took a long breath before he spoke.

  "My son is to be…given to him. There is nothing I can do." When she said nothing he again met her eyes. "Do your people do such things?"

  The girl swallowed but did not look away. "I'm sorry. No. My people do not do this thing. But our gods can be cruel also. Those like Ruka, born…wrong? Often abandoned. There are laws, but, often broken."

  Yacat stood, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He smiled for the brave, mysterious woman who he owed for the children that would survive, and therefore what remained of his happiness. He knelt and took her hands in his.

  "Thank you, Zaya, for the lives of my children." He kissed her knuckles, and though she tugged slightly to pull away, at least did not look horrified. "Though I cannot free you yet, to me you are a free woman, not a concubine. You will not need that knife strapped to your chest." He smiled. "Perhaps you should wear it anyway." She stopped resisting, and so he let go. "I have enjoyed our conversation. If it pleases you, we will have another soon."

  She smiled. "It would. It does."

  Yacat rose and left her to rest, his mind drifting far away as he ignored the women and servants of the harem. Twenty days to go. Twenty days before the festival of stars, and a new life without honor. He knew he had to make use of the time he had, he only wished he knew how.

  Chapter 24

  The giant's chest blocked Yacat's path halfway through the harem.

  "Oh." Yacat stopped a finger's width from hitting breastbone and stepped back. He looked down to see neat, dark rows of freshly planted seeds, dug into a square of the flower gardens. Ruka's huge hands were stained with dirt, his forehead ruddy with sun.

  "I thought you stood at the gate all day." Yacat said to cover his moment of surprise. "You've been busy."

  The giant stared as if smalltalk were beneath his efforts.

  "Well." Yacat cleared his throat, lacking the attention or strength to engage with the strange spirit-man and his discomforting presence. "You needn't worry. Your companion will be alright."

  "Yes," Ruka's deep voice answered. "Despite the arrogant incompetence of your physicians."

  Yacat cleared his throat, preparing to walk past the man when he spoke again.

  "I am told Zaya nearly died to protect your children."

  Yacat stopped. "She did."

  "I wondered why she should do that." The giant's tone implied he knew, but Yacat could only think good question.

  "To earn my favor, perhaps," he said without belief.

  "Perhaps." The spirit sneered. "Or she is a brave warrior, incapable of idleness in the face of evil."

  At this Yacat's mind emerged briefly from the fog, his eyes narrowing as he met the giant's gaze. He was growing tired of the spirit-man's barbs and contempt, of feeling judged by those bright, animal eyes.

  "What do you know of anything, slave?" he snapped, expecting at least caution but instead seeing only amusement in the thing's eyes.

  "I know you walk this place like a phantom in a man's skin. I know you destroyed that tribe without pleasure or de
sire. "

  "You aren't wise to speak of spirits living in flesh, slave. My father's priests would have your blood on an altar were it not for me."

  "My eternal gratitude," said the giant, displaying none. "And I have told you, your priests are ignorant fools. I am as much a spirit as you are, Mahala."

  Yacat grit his teeth and a clenched a fist, angry to be lectured by anyone, never mind a foreign slave. What did he know of Yacat's troubles save as an outsider looking in? Who was he to speak so casually of impossible things? No matter what Yacat did, he knew his family would pay the price. There was no resistance he could offer that would make any difference. He was one man. He couldn't stop an entire religion from spreading.

  "There's nothing I can do," he snarled, mostly angry that the thing had provoked him so easily.

  When he at last looked up to spirit's face he found both the contempt and judgment gone, but also not a trace of pity.

  "I am but a slave, as you say, great prince, and not a spirit filled with wisdom. But, before a man accepts a life of joylessness and resentment, telling himself at all times there is nothing he could do—perhaps first, he should try."

  With that the giant stooped to his garden as if the conversation was over. Yacat stood with balled fists and no words, then growled as he strode down the brick pathway, uncertain where to direct his anger.

  He found his wife playing with their children at the fountain. She was laughing and smiling and for a moment she looked exactly as she had those years ago, and his breath caught. He knew he could not play with Zolya, that he could never hide his pain and was therefore useless now to the child for months. Yet here he was, laughing and splashing with Maretzi, being loved. Yacat watched them and felt his anger cool. He knew the god-cursed, evil spirit was not entirely wrong. Yacat might at least try to influence his family, to speak what was in his heart, before he accepted the doom.

  When Maretzi noticed him, he smiled and gestured to her bedroom. She sent a servant to play with the children, then went in, red-faced and wet from the spray, as beautiful as ever. He hadn't been with her for a long time. She noticed his eyes as he closed the door, and started taking off her dress. "No," he stopped her, coming to his senses. "I just wanted to speak with you."

  "We can speak after, husband. The pregnancy will not be harmed. When I was carrying the other children we still…"

  "It isn't that. I didn't come here to." He closed his eyes, fighting for calm and to remind himself what the hell he was even trying to do. What could he say? 'Do you and your whole family buy into this nonsense? Truly? Can you not see how foolish it makes us? How it creates hate and despair and makes us think so little of life?'

  His wife's expression changed as he delayed, her pleasure draining and twisting into something he'd never imagined on her face.

  "Is it this concubine? Zaya?" He blinked and saw the rage behind his wife's eyes. "First you leave me here while you take her to see your land, land that will belong to our sons. Is her pale skin and hair so beautiful? Do you forget me so quickly?"

  "No." Yacat stepped closer, feeling his temper flare at his own ineptitude at anything but war.

  "Now, you won't even lie with me," she looked away.

  Yacat took her arms until she met his eyes. "You are as beautiful to me now as the day we met. I haven't lain with Zaya, nor did I choose her—it's another 'reward' from father as so many things. I'm sorry I've been so distant. I am still angry but not at you." He saw the hope grow in her eyes, and felt almost shame for it. There was still a distance between them he feared he couldn't gulf—the broken bridge between one who had chosen life and lies, and another who'd chosen truth and death.

  "Why are you angry, husband? Every day I realize more and more how blessed you are. You have been chosen, as our son has been chosen. Oh if only you could see your future as clearly as I do, Yacat."

  Yacat felt his hands tightening on her arms and forced them open. How was it possible to both love and hate the same person? What could he say to her? "Perhaps you should try," the shaman's words echoed in his ears, his mocking arrogance, his righteous eyes.

  "You're hurting me, husband."

  Yacat blinked and loosened his grip. "I'm sorry, Maretzi. I cannot stop thinking of our son…he is so young, he doesn't understand…"

  "I have told him, husband." Wetness formed in Maretzi's eyes. "He understands. He wants only to make you proud. He's so strong and brave, husband, just like his father."

  The words sounded far away as Yacat backed to the door. He could have killed her, then, he knew, just as he knew it would have been a monstrous injustice and after he would have plunged a knife through his own heart.

  "Please, husband." Maretzi was coming forward to embrace him, panic now in her eyes. "I wish only to serve you. I love you. I have loved you from the day we met."

  "I know," he mumbled, holding up a hand to warn her away. He turned and left her room, closing the door as he cut her away from his heart, feeling more trapped and alone than before. He left the harem without looking at his children or the guards, foot following foot into corridors swarming with life that felt so far away.

  Later, Yacat found Uncle Anatzi where he always was when not serving the king—watching the city guard train. Today they played courtball in a hundred teams in the palace grounds, laughing and shouting as they raced across the grass in a thousand displays of skill. Yacat had never much cared for such games. He played with his brothers and enjoyed sharing the bond of competition, but that was all. Who was best had never mattered to him, and when he was young he had at first disappointed his father and uncles when they thought him lazy, and unambitious—until they'd put a sword in his hand.

  "Old Goat," Yacat called as he crossed the grass with a bottle of balque—an expensive drink of special bark soaked in honey and fermented.

  "Ah, the lord of war graces us with his presence." Anatzi gestured to his closest aid, and the young man's eyes widened when he saw Yacat. Others waiting nearby noticed him and clustered around Anatzi, standing like fools as warriors awaiting command on the battlefield. "See how they kiss your feet, Mahala?" Anatzi snorted. "Once it was I who commanded such respect. Once it was the mighty Anatzi who loosened young bowels with a word."

  "They would respect you more, uncle, if they didn't see you sit on your arse eating sweet meats every day."

  "Ha!" Anatzi stood and waved away the men. "He's not here to see untrained boys. Off with you, sycophants! That means arse-licker, fool boys, go! He clearly needs a great man's wisdom."

  Yacat smiled, despite everything. "It amazes me to say, uncle—but you are right. I thought we'd drink in the old barracks." He lifted the bottle, and the old warrior grinned as he glanced around—as if the king's favored brother might be caught and punished for getting drunk.

  "You young soldiers," he rolled his eyes. "In my day a man could drink and walk at the same time. Why wait for the barracks?"

  They took turns doing just that, strolling along the well-kept fields of trampled grass as the older man made conversation. Anatzi was the sort who could speak all afternoon without saying anything of consequence, so Yacat mostly listened to stories of plain things made interesting. They reached the old barracks, which were used now for palace storage, and had been a place for secret talks or young lovers for years.

  Still, Yacat struggled to speak his mind. They drank and spoke of old battles and wounds. Anatzi had been the general of the interior for two decades, and put down as many rebellions for more years than Yacat had been alive. In a rare moment of silence, Yacat at last held the bottle in his hands and looked at the floor.

  "What do you think of my father's plans, Uncle? With the priests, and my brother. On the…matter of main concern."

  Anatzi snorted. "Your father always was so damned superstitious. Emperor." He seized the bottle and swigged. "Emperor, emperor, emperor. There I said it! And whose to hear or care, and what could they do in any case." He sighed. "There's little to say. Etzil never understo
od why the three cities should be ruled separately. Your grandfather would tell him because every family had its own gods and ways, with seventeen gods we didn't share and family religions even here amongst the noble families. Etzil didn't care. He said it was foolish and unstable and sooner or later there would be war, and he was right. But then Centnaz's priests spread from town to town, family to family, and soon became the path to unity. It was they who made it possible with a shared belief, nephew. You must give them that."

  "Even if that belief is monstrous, Uncle?"

  Yacat managed to meet the man's eyes, but didn't find the judgment, concern or even false jest he might have thought. Anatzi just shrugged. "I'm not a pious man, and too simple for theology. But life is sacrifice, is it not? Every choice destroys the rest you might have made. A man gives his life one way or another."

  "But we force men and women to give their lives, Uncle. And not in a lifetime, but on an altar, in a moment's work."

  Anatzi's eyebrows raised. "And we don't in war, general? In childbirth? In construction and in the fields? For the valley to thrive, some must die. It is no different whether they are sacrificed to protect us from our enemies, or to protect us from the gods."

  Yacat felt his hope slipping away. He wanted to shout but it isn't true, they are liars and thieves and destroyers! But who was he to say otherwise? Who was he to refute the priests and the gods? "And children, Uncle? Children like my Zolya?"

  The old warrior pursed his lips and drank. "I lost two children before they were five, Yacat. If I could have given one to protect the other, I would have." After a long silence between them, he slapped Yacat's thigh and grinned. "If a belief in dick-eating piranhas made your father emperor, he would feed all our cocks to his pond, and sleep soundly."