by Richard Nell
Yacat managed to produce a smile. He loved this man, as he loved his wife, but it made things no easier. Perhaps it made it worse.
"Just think what we might do!" Anatzi's eyes sparkled a little as he looked to the pitted stone of the crumbling barracks. "My brother is a man of vision, and your brother is his father's son. They'll do great things, with our help, and the blessing of their god. We'll connect the cities with new roads, increase trade and allow travel until our nobles are all so mixed they'll have forgotten what it was to live without emperors."
All built on a lie, Yacat thought, but could not say. Yet how could such a thing ever last? Why build a house on sand, when one day it must surely fall?
Uncle Anatzi was still talking. "We'll make the House of Mar live for eternity," he said. "We'll guide them, us old soldiers, we'll keep 'em practical and remind 'em where they come from. Guide your brother, Yacat, as I've guided mine. We're the same, you and me."
Yacat smiled numbly, struck by the thought. Anatzi had been the hand of King Etzil for decades, training the army, destroying rebels, protecting the border. Though he had spent a lifetime serving his family and his city, all the while it had become more rotten, more corrupt, the lands outside its borders more bitter, repressed, and enraged. Yes, Uncle, Yacat thought sadly, we are exactly the same.
He finished his drink and let Anatzi talk, alone again despite the man's company. He had tried as the spirit suggested, as perhaps he should have done long ago. But his regrets made no difference now.
Anatzi was right—Yacat's brother, the heir, was his father's son. Whatever tool gave him power would be used without a second thought. What gave that tool its power made no difference—what the price would be he would pay without care. Telling him not to use that power would be like arguing with the sun.
And so Yacat had spoken with the most practical, loyal man in his family, who could at least bend the king's ear if he wished. But it seemed he too had been captured by the great dreams of power, blinded from the dark by a light too bright and close for the open eye. Yacat had tried, and he had failed.
Chapter 25
On the second sunrise, Zaya rose groaning from her bed. Her leg ached with a dull pain, and her vision swam worse than at sea, but she kept her feet. She dressed on her own, and when Temolata found her she fussed and panicked and fetched the physician, who inspected the wound and at last grunted his approval.
"Walking only," he explained with a tsk. "Your elements are still imbalanced, and will now take another three days to align."
Zaya nodded that she understood, no intention of obeying. Ruka had been treating the wound in secret, applying some tincture of herbs Zaya couldn't understand how he'd even managed to make, and been more confident in the recovery.
"You are healing quickly," he explained the night before. "The danger is passed, ignore the priests. Avoid knives in the future."
She'd blinked and looked to his strange eyes for a trace of humor, and perhaps found the slightest twinkle.
"Thank you, Ruka, I will try."
For the next several days she made it her habit to walk the walls of the harem, humming the songs that battered her mind half-formed and haunting, never leaving her alone since childhood. As before the women seemed content to ignore her, but now only looked with concealed eyes and wary faces, as if she were some kind of tamed predator. The guards, on the other hand, treated her like a queen.
"My lady," one had stopped her at the entrance on a walk, some kind of jewelry in his hands. "This is for you, left by Mahala…by Prince Yacat. If you wish, you can wear it here," he gestured to his own arm, which was wrapped in a similar bracelet.
"Thank you." Zaya took it, unsure exactly why she was receiving it, or how to put it on. When he noticed her hesitation the young warrior put down his spear and clasped it just above her bicep, sticking the feather out behind. He stepped back and swept his eyes over the fit.
"You killed two of the prince's enemies," he explained with a grin. "So you are a wolf warrior. I am also to tell you, you are no longer confined to the harem. As a warrior, you may roam the palace where you wish, unless told otherwise."
Zaya returned the grin and made the gesture of respect she had seen the warriors give. The young man returned it.
"We have heard you killed a man from forty paces with a spear," he said loudly enough for the other guards. "When you are recovered, we should like to see you throw."
Zaya looked for mockery in the mens' eyes but found none. These people were very athletic, she knew. Their children played endless games with weapons and toys that had them racing, wrestling and kicking rubber balls all day. No doubt things changed little when the boys grew to men. She nodded, and carried on her walk.
"Bring spears, targets, to courtyard," she called to them. "Tomorrow."
They laughed in pleasure and a few banged their spears on the ground. Zaya walked back to her room, seeing an almost open-mouthed shock from the other women when they saw her armband. She did her best to conceal her pride.
That evening she made use of her newfound freedom, wandering the palace at first with a limp, then with the help of a walking stick. The palace writhed with activity. At first she had been concerned she'd be stared at and questioned in every hall, but the busy servants and guards hardly noticed her. Artists painted every flat surface with bright colors or images of half-man, half-animal gods, and Zaya soon recognized the single eye of the Devourer, Centnaz, staring down from the heavens beyond even the sun. Others carried multi-colored cloth from room to room, packs of seamstresses and their apprentices carrying bundles and trying not to drip their sweat to stain the fabric. Zaya assumed it was all in preparation for the festival to come.
With her small window of anonymity, she searched the palace, going down and down and following the view from windows until she found at least three ways out of the fortress. Two were guarded by many warriors and perhaps even barracks outside, but one seemed to have no more than five, and she suspected there would be other entries. The next day, she decided, she would go outside, and see if she could find a path to escape.
Though she wondered now, was it necessary? Maybe the best thing for both her and the shaman was to wait until Yacat could free them as he promised to do. The truth was, she trusted him.
When the night grew dark she went back to her room to rest. There she found the shaman waiting outside, his back to the stone and his eyes through the open section of roof to the stars.
"I've explored the palace," she whispered. "There are many exits. They're all guarded, but we might escape at night if we chose the weakest."
The shaman nodded but said nothing, and Zaya shifted her weight from one sore leg to the other.
"Do you think the others…have waited for us? Will they have sailed home and trapped us here?"
The shaman blinked, his expression forming more awareness, as if he'd almost been sleeping with his eyes open.
"No," he said. "Eka will not leave me here."
Zaya had no desire to disagree with the Godtongue, but while the captain of the Prince seemed a most competent man, loyal was not the word she'd have used.
"We've been gone a long time," she tried. "The sailors are in hostile lands with no way to know we're alive."
"Even so. Eka will find me, alive or dead."
"Eka, perhaps," Zaya frowned. "But the others…" She shifted her weight. "They might…overrule him. It would be one man against ten."
Surprisingly, Ruka smiled. "Few alive can overrule a master of the Ching. None are aboard the Prince."
Zaya had never heard of a 'master of the ching', and was too tired to be much interested. She understood the captain had been a kind of priest from a small monastery in the isles before he became the king's assassin, but that was all. She left it alone.
"If we escape," she asked. "If we get home, back to the Ascom, what will we tell them of this place?"
The shaman looked away, his eyes glazing again, as if overwhelmed by memory.
"Nothing."
Zaya felt her mouth open and she shook it closed. "Then why come?" she managed to say respectfully. "Why if not to find new people and change the world again?" The shaman took a breath and met her eyes.
"Without my ships neither people can cross. Who knows how long it will take." Zaya stared, unmollified, and the shaman's eyes narrowed. "Knowledge is its own reward. All my life I have dreamt of the edges of the world." He rose slightly, looking angrier by the moment, though Zaya said nothing. "I have already taken one people across an endless sea. Once in a lifetime is enough."
Zaya shrugged, and broke the stare. She wasn't sure what else to say. She thought of Chang and the others and their talk of mutiny, and wasn't so sure of Ruka's words. She suspected Eka was dead, and the sailors on a desperate attempt to sail home.
But what point in saying so? She bid the shaman good night and returned to her room, contemplating her future. Later, lying on a thick bed filled with cushions, she decided life here would not be so terrible. It was beautiful and rich. Copanoch was powerful and mostly safe, despite its enemies and flaws, built on land her own people couldn't imagine in their wildest dreams. To be Yacat's warrior-concubine would not be so terrible a fate.
The thought of it made sleeping more difficult. She tried to occupy her mind with thoughts of home, and she knew she would miss the cold, crisp air that seemed to fill your lungs to bursting. The isles, and even this new land, sweltered with a wet heat that made breathing difficult and left a constant sheen of sweat. She would miss her parents, her brothers and sisters. She already did.
But no matter what, she saw no way home now without her benefactor, and the shaman. Though she suspected the Prince was lost with all her crew, perhaps with Yacat's help, Ruka could build a new ship. With a new crew, and his knowledge of the sea, he could still take them home. It was her last thought before sleep.
* * *
Zaya woke to men's voices and laughter. For a moment she forgot where she was and panicked, rolling out of bed with her hidden knife gripped firmly in hand.
"Mistress—you shouldn't…are you alright?"
Zaya's heart pounded and her leg ached as she blinked herself awake. Temolita was halfway in the door across the room, dressed and ready for the day. "Prince Yacat and some of his warriors are in the harem, mistress. They are preparing the garden for a…I'm sorry, I don't even know. Some kind of game, I think?"
The harem. Copanoch. Yes, Zaya had forgotten her dreams but remembered the sea and landfall and a hundred things that somehow were real and now her life. She recalled agreeing to the spear throw, though she hadn't realized the prince would come, and she sweat at the thought.
"Thank you, Temolita, I alright. I dress self and out shortly."
"Yes, Mistress." The girl disappeared, and Zaya limped back to her bed. Most of her 'official' clothes were so bulky they'd interfere, or so immodest she wouldn't wear them. She settled on a loose shirt she could tie around her waist with rope, grinning slightly as her fingers expertly wove a half knot and slipped it tight. She did the same with the matching loose skirt, tying it around her good thigh, leaving the other mostly exposed. She wore sandals that at least vaguely matched the rope, tied up her hair, and at last put on her armband, before taking a long, steadying breath.
It didn't make much difference, after all. It wasn't life or death as it had been on the beach. So why did she feel so nervous? Surely it was more than pride—surely her standing mattered, and she merely recognized that. And perhaps, yes, she knew, she wanted to impress the prince.
She stepped out smiling but only slightly hiding her limp. It was always best, in a performance, to have witnesses concerned at the outcome, and for their expectations to be low.
"Good morning, Tekit," Zaya bowed her head in respect and approached the group of men in the garden. Their conversation ended, their eyes sweeping her in a now familiar, if still uncomfortable assessment, far too bold for her own people.
"You look like a warrior queen." Yacat stepped forward with a hand on his chest. He smiled as he looked at her feathered armband, then gestured at the men. "The men here tell me you've agreed to a martial contest. Well, obviously I could not miss such a spectacle."
Zaya felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I said I would throw spear. I hope he hasn't…overpromised."
"No, he wouldn't dream of it," Yacat said with maybe sarcasm, and the other men laughed. He stepped forward and put his hands on Zaya's arms as he looked at her leg. "Are you certain you're healthy enough? Perhaps this was foolish. There's no hurry, and it's quite understandable…"
"I'm well. Is that target? Let me see spears."
Yacat smiled and it spread to the men. "No matter how the contest ends, brothers, I tell you I saw it with my own eyes. She speared a man like a fish at forty paces, and saved a prince of Mar."
The men seemed almost to swell with respect as they nodded in her direction, and she couldn't help but feel the warm spread of pride in her chest. Yacat gestured towards a stand filled with spears, then led her forward.
"Young Cuali here will throw with you. He's a fine arm, and what's a contest without some competition, yes?"
The warriors stomped their feet in approval and Zaya didn't mind. She walked to the rack and lifted a wooden spear, the shaft too short and the tip too long. But it was no worse for throwing than the weapon she'd used on the beach, and perhaps slightly better. She lifted it and was surprised at the light weight, especially at the tip, and realized it was a kind of rock rather than metal.
"Will it not break?" she frowned. The prince shrugged and drew another, tossing it to the young warrior.
"Quite likely. But you needn't worry. Be careful, though, the flint is very sharp. These are proper weapons used for war."
She nodded and rolled her shoulders, stepping to a colored marker the men had lain on the grass. As she did she saw Ruka watching from the entrance, and she nearly groaned. The Godtongue's favored weapon was a javelin, and legends of his throws were told all over the Ascom. It was one of the reasons she had learned all her life.
"I hope Cuali has eat breakfast," Zaya said as she breathed. Her nerves steadied now as the thing drew close. She heard the men's laughter faintly as if from another room, the sound of her breathing clouding the world. The weight of the spear replaced all, then the square shape of the target across the clearing. An image of the young man she'd killed by the lake flashed before her eyes, but she blinked it away. With a two step lunge, she spun her whole body into the throw, smoothly releasing just as she intended.
The spear soared fast and straight, cutting through the square to pierce the ground behind, shaft plunged firmly into the dirt.
Her ears rung with the howls of approval from the men. Women and children were coming sleepily from their rooms, blinking up at the dim light from the breaking dawn, then gaping at the men in the harem clapping in Zaya's direction.
"It's your throw, Cuali," Yacat laughed with the others. The young man put a fist to his chest and bowed his head low.
"No need, Mahala. A wise man knows when he stands before a master. I accept defeat."
The others howled and clapped him playfully on the back as they collected the spears and the target, and all the while Yacat watched her with his lopsided smile. "Indeed he does," he said quietly, loud enough only for Zaya to hear.
She released a breath and tried not to be bothered by the endless stares from the women, especially Yacat's wife, who stood by her children with tired eyes. Zaya forced herself to look only briefly towards the shaman, not daring to hope for approval. He was already turning back towards his post, but before he did she saw his face, and though it was stern as ever, she thought yes, he too, in his way, was proud of the throw. It was a strange feeling, the accomplished dream of a little girl, to impress the great hero of Noss.
"Will you walk with me, Zaya?" Yacat motioned towards the harem entrance. "There's been a fine rain, and on such days I like to walk in the gardens outside the te
mple of the dead with bare feet."
Zaya matched his smile. "I would like, Tekit." And it was true, she would.
He took her hand, and walked away from the harem.
Chapter 26
Eighteen days before the end of the world, Yacat thought, then tried to put it from his mind. Zaya's hand was warm and strong in his, and he let her use it for support to keep pressure off her wounded leg. Together they walked through mostly empty corridors of painted stone, still too early for the palace to be awake save for a small portion of guards and servants.
He wasn't sure why he'd brought her save that he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts, nor in the company of anyone else he could think of. He wasn't sure what that feeling might be called, but it was at least affection.
"You are alright to walk? Your leg isn't too painful?"
"Shall I kick you with it?"
Yacat grinned and pulled her onward, out the rear of the palace towards the old temple grounds. The differences between his new 'concubine' and every other woman he'd known were stark, and most refreshing. Royal women were not raised to match words with princes. No doubt they could be as annoyed or frustrated as any other, but they did not voice it. Like his wife they held their tongues, guarded their words, and obeyed their husbands. The gulf was uncrossable. You might watch love bloom in their eyes, or disappear, but you would never hear why, or how. He couldn't blame them, he supposed. Courtly life was dangerous and filled with rules. The sons and daughters of nobility were privileged in ways the common folk could barely dream, but so too were they imprisoned in ways they couldn't understand.
But Zaya was different. Yacat stepped from the cold stone of the palace to the perfectly trimmed grass of the temple grounds, and slipped off his sandals. He was about to tell her to do the same when she did it on her own accord, and he smiled. Even in that simple thing the difference was pronounced. She had not waited for instruction as his wife would have done. She had seen and chosen, as she had seen his son in danger and chosen. He met her eyes and she returned his smile, her pale toes spreading in the grass.