Breaking the Gloaming

by J. B. Simmons

  acts only when concentrated;

  it evaporates and is lost as it spreads,

  like the effect of gunpowder

  scattered on the ground,

  which catches fire only

  one grain at a time.

  The least populated countries

  are thus the best suited for tyranny.

  Ferocious animals reign

  only in deserts.”

  Japha had the right guard. He held his spear parallel to the horizon that he monitored across the dunes. No man would approach His Excellency’s right without Japha seeing him. Nothing would touch His Excellency without killing Japha first.

  He had survived marches in this stretch of desert. The absence of motion and the quiet of the night were reasons for more caution, not less. A full host of twelve royal guards joined this march. Eight of the guards scouted the surrounding desert. Four of them, Japha included, protected His Excellency and his four guests, Malam, Ilias, Seban, and the Valemidan concubine. Japha would not question His Excellency’s decision that she join them, or that they laughed and talked together. It was not his concern. Nothing interfered with his duty. He listened for any sound beyond their ring of protection.

  Japha was thankful that Dassa had the front guard. Dassa had survived more of these missions than anyone, and he had the scars to prove it. They needed that experience, because this was the left guard’s first mission with His Excellency. That guard would have no name until His Excellency gave it.

  A year ago, Japha had earned his name. He had succeeded in his first mission, and Dassa had been there to see it. Japha, like the new guard tonight, had long been a leader among the elite trainees. Dassa had given him the honor of escorting His Excellency as soon as his age allowed. He had been sixteen.

  Sixteen and naïve, Japha thought. Naïve to the threats of the desert, despite a life of training and study. That night he had taken the front guard, responsible for seeing threats first. He had walked proudly before His Excellency. He had walked them straight into an ambush, right over a man hidden beneath the sand. Just after he had stepped past the body, the man had risen like a buried ghost, spear plunging toward His Excellency.

  His Excellency had ducked under the ambusher’s attack, and Dassa—the right guard that night—had run his spear through the attacker’s gut, pinning him down to the sand.

  By that time, Japha’s training took over. Six other ambushers had attacked them. Japha had killed three of them, and Dassa and the other royal guards finished the others. When they had returned safely from the voyage, His Excellency had named him Japha, which meant overcomer. He had failed to detect the ambush, but he had overcome his failure with force. He would always carry his name as a reminder. He had failed His Excellency once, and he would never do so again.

  The attackers had been outcasts. Former soldiers gone rogue, likely for their disobedience. Touching a woman was the most common cause. Touching the drink was second. Once outcast, a Sunan soldier was sent into the desert and forbidden to return to the city. Few survived, but those who did lived for little else but revenge. When Japha had seen how desperate those men were to take the life of His Excellency, it confirmed the teaching that these missions were no test, no game. They were divine service.

  Tonight’s march saw no attack. They reached the sacred pyramid several hours after leaving Sunan. Good speed on a good night, a special night. It was a blood moon, and His Excellency would turn eighteen tomorrow. He would assume all the power that was rightfully his, and his council would remain only as advisers, not as rulers. After the ritual here, nothing would separate His Excellency from the divine.

  Once they reached the base of the pyramid, Seban gestured for the guards to join His Excellency and his four guests at the top of the pyramid. This was a surprise. Japha was in awe as he began following them up the enormous stairs of the pyramid. He had never before been selected to guard the holy chamber. Dassa flashed him a quick smile from above. He must have suggested this to Seban. There was no higher honor. Japha kept his eyes alert as they climbed, scanning the stairs below, the desert beyond, and the surface of the pyramid around him.

  By the time they reached the pinnacle and waited on the platform outside the chamber, even Japha was winded. Dassa returned a moment later and gave the signal that all was clear inside. Dassa showed no hint of fatigue. He let out a bellow from deep within his bare, battle-worn chest. The call meant that His Excellency had arrived, safe and ready to commune with god. The ten guards left below would secure the perimeter.

  “I am surprised the journey was so uneventful.” His Excellency’s words took Japha back—not what he said, but the fact that he said them, and said them in the Valemidan tongue. For some reason, he had thought this would be a silent ritual. He guessed the language was used to accommodate the concubine. Japha was thankful he had learned it—a rare thing for a soldier.

  “It is a good sign,” Malam responded. “The moon is red, the desert is empty, and you are ready to fill the space between.”

  “We are blessed tonight. Still, you should be humble.” Ilias studied His Excellency as he spoke. “You are a vessel of god’s light, and the more you can empty your soul, the more you’ll radiate for your people.”

  “You are god’s light,” Malam said. “You must let the great power within you reach up to the moon and meet god there. What you hear will decide whether we sail for war. Who can doubt your inspiration?” He looked at Ilias in defiance. “No one may question His Excellency.”

  “God may question His Excellency.” Ilias began to say more, but was cut short by a new voice.

  “And I may question His Excellency,” the men turned to look at the woman, shrouded in black. Her voice was seductive. “I may question him about whatever he likes.”

  “Quit wasting time, you three.” Seban entered the conversation like an angry bull. Japha tensed and stepped closer to His Excellency when Seban did. He had never trusted the man, especially not when he was drinking.

  “What you need to ask god is for details, not some fancy theory about life.” Seban put his strong arm on His Excellency’s shoulder while he spoke to him. “Ask how long it will take our hundred thousand men to bring down the Valemidas walls. Ask how many of them will die. Ask for secrets of the Valemidan weaknesses. You can’t trust priests, much less a foreign woman, with these things.” He cast a hard look at the woman. “Ask when we should leave for war. Ask for the guts to stare death in the face, to kill innocents, to do whatever it takes to make Valemidas bend its knee.”

  His Excellency stepped back, out of Seban’s grip. “Uncle, after tonight, your privileged position is subject to my whim. I am loyal to family, but I suggest you do not speak with me like that again.”

  Seban laughed in response, a drunken laugh. “My son Sebanith has been living with the Valemidans as long as you’ve been alive, boy. You will need him and his counsel when our fleet lands on their shore, and so you will need me. Besides, who else among your advisors is going to teach you to lighten up and have a drink after we win.” Seban laughed again, but stopped at His Excellency’s response.

  “Sebastian’s loyalties have been called into question.” His Excellency glanced at the woman. “As I said, I am loyal to my family, but they must be loyal to me if they wish to maintain their privilege.”

  Seban moved suddenly, his face pressed against His Excellency’s, his fist clenching the boy’s shirt. “Do not threaten the hands that feed you,” he said just as Japha leveled his spear at Seban’s throat. Dassa had done the same.

  “Pilinthi anst?” Dassa asked.

  His Excellency shook his head, not to kill him, and Seban stepped back slowly.

  “This momentous night has us on edge, friends,” Ilias said. He slid between Seban and His Excellency. Japha lowered his spear.

  “I know Sebastian,” the woman said. “He betrayed my brother in support of your people. You can trust him.”

  “Yes, we can trust him,” Malam responded, wi
thout sparing a glance in her direction. “But we cannot trust her.” Hate was thick in his voice. “This is the woman who delivered the head of Ramzi like it was a bag of turnips. She should not be here.”

  “She is my guest,” His Excellency said. “Ilias is right. Everyone must stand down now. This is my night to rise fully to the throne, to commune with my father god.” He turned to look into the chamber. “Ilias, Malam, come now.”

  The priests shared a look, then the three of them walked into the room. As he pushed the heavy stone door closed, Japha saw the moon’s pale red light beaming down onto an altar inside. Concentrated there, the light looked otherworldly and divine. Only a select few knew what ritual was to come. A soldier like Japha just obeyed.

  He stayed behind with Dassa, Seban, and the woman. She leaned against a column and gazed out into the night. She was too relaxed, too confident, especially for a woman among men, a foreigner among Sunans. Malam was right. They should not trust her.

  Seban stepped to her side. “Tell me again what my son said to you, how he looked.” Japha could not help but overhear from his lookout point, despite Seban’s low voice.

  “Sebastian is fine. He looked strong and regal, like you might have looked twenty years ago.” Seban grunted in response, and she continued. “He said the time is right for the invasion. He said he is loyal to you and His Excellency. He said you should trust me. You’ve heard all this. What are you digging for?”

  “I’m digging for more sand.” Seban laughed. “What did he say about Jezebel?”

  It was suddenly quiet. All Japha could hear was his own breathing and a faint, rhythmic chant coming from the chamber.

  “He mentioned Jezebel once.” The woman said the name slowly, with the care one uses when invoking a demon. “It was a few years ago. I had asked him about the women in Sunan, and she was the only thing he could talk about. He described his love for her. She looked a lot like me, he said, but fuller, more obedient, and with bronze skin.” There was a pause, then the woman asked in a challenge, “Satisfied?”

  “You women never satisfy me,” Seban said. Japha heard him take a drink of something and lick his lips. “Long ago I learned satisfaction is easier found with a horse between my legs, a spear in my hand, and a chilled bottle at the end of the day. But yes, my Sebanith would describe Jezebel like that. She’s only a second cousin to him, so he could have had her if he had stayed. She is from the royal family spawned of the Valemidas prince sent here generations ago. She was the niece of our former ruler—the one we killed. For me, that means I don’t care much that you’re planning to murder her.”

  “What!” The woman’s shock was the first genuine sound Japha had heard from her.

  “I mean, I’ll feel bad for Sebanith,” Seban continued in an easy tone. “He won’t like it one bit. He’ll kill you when he finds out, I figure.” Japha heard him take another drink and laugh again.

  “I admit I do not like the woman.” The Valemidan’s voice was cool again. “I suspect she hates me for taking her place beside His Excellency this night. But what could possibly make you think I would want her to die?”

  “I know you want her to die. Even the Sunan coverings reveal the eyes, and I’ve seen the way you look at her.” Seban sounded confident. “As for your plotting, I cannot reveal my sources, but I will say that poison is a poor choice.”

  The woman gasped lightly. Seban continued, “We Sunans are experts with poison. It was once so commonplace that we became trained in tracing its source. You have too few allies to get away with it.”

  “You know nothing,” the woman said. “I would not stoop so low. Even if I disliked her, why would I risk such a thing?”

  “So not poison? Well, here is what I suggest, take it for what it’s worth, which is probably your life: His Excellency is a prideful young man, as he should be. He likes that two of the boldest, most beautiful women in Sunan are competing for him. He also likes a show, anything to entertain. He’ll continue keeping you both around. You should pick a fight. It won’t be hard. You’re both crazy. Eventually one of you will snap and you’ll be grappling on the floor, in competition for your divine lover. That’s your best bet for proving your loyalty to His Excellency and for getting rid of Jezebel.”

  “You are ridiculous,” she said. “That would never work. His Excellency will choose me over Jezebel on his own.”

  “You continue to think about that, and think twice before taking any Sunan blood. We are a vengeful people.” Seban’s hollow laughter rang out into the night.

  Neither Seban nor the woman spoke more. Malam’s chanting had also stopped. There was only the sound of the deep desert. Japha knew no sweeter sound.

  ***

  Despite the perfectly full blood moon, the journey had disgusted Malam. It was a solemn rite of passage for His Excellency. It was a time to listen to the desert, observe the stars, and feel the wind. The foreign whore ruined all that.

  She and His Excellency had laughed and talked of meaningless things, in the Valemidan tongue no less. The king’s discipline unraveled under her spell. Something about her made Seban even worse. He had been brazen in his drinking while they walked. He had bragged about his battles, and was wobbling by the time they had reached the temple. The soldiers had been jittery, too, probably sensing they had to take extra care with this group. Malam would ensure the woman’s offenses would be punished, but they were behind him now. His Excellency would not be distracted again this night.

  They had passed beyond the veil and into the divine realm. This room and what lay ahead were reserved for the two high priests and His Excellency. There would be no more words aside from the ritual incantations. Malam praised god and his ancestors for these laws, protecting the dignity of their realm.

  The room sat atop the pyramid temple. It was a small space within thick walls, with a square hole at the pinnacle. A waist-high altar stood in the center. A beam of pale red light shined down on it. The moon had almost reached its zenith.

  Malam put his hand to His Excellency’s back. The young son of god knew his role. He stepped to the altar and kneeled. Ilias moved forward to his other side.

  Malam studied his rival priest. The man’s smooth dark skin was like lava in the moon’s red light. They had been here together once before, twenty years past, with His Excellency’s father. Time had made their differences only more bitter. Years ago Ilias had opposed the elimination of Valemidan blood from the throne, but at least he had accepted the restoration of pure Sunan blood. Now his faith was weak. He questioned the nature of His Excellency’s divinity. He despised Malam, and Malam hated him.

  Yet, no matter the severity of their differences, they needed each other. Custom demanded two high priests to counsel the Excellency, to guard the keys, and to perform this ritual. They were meant to be different—one of the sun and the other of the moon. Malam would not disobey this tradition. To kill Ilias would mean damnation, but Malam could still want to kill him.

  He pulled out his key. The ancient metal device bore engravings of the moon and complex grooves. Ilias pulled out his key, too. It was identical except with images of the sun rather than the moon.

  Malam inserted his key into one side of the altar, as Ilias did into the other. His Excellency pulled himself to the top of the altar and stood. The priests turned the keys.

  The sounds of mechanical movements and sliding stone were music to Malam’s ears. He had waited twenty years to hear this again.

  The floor suddenly shifted beneath him. The place where he stood swung right as a gap appeared before his feet. Ilias swung left, while the altar and His Excellency remained still.

  Where moments earlier there had been a solid floor, a stairway led down. It spiraled around a deep column of nothingness. The hole was black and empty far below.

  His Excellency began to lead them down the stairs. As they moved into complete blackness, Malam wondered how Ilias could doubt their monarch’s divinity. No ordinary young man could proceed with such sure
ness into the abyss. Only a son of god could approach the underworld as His Excellency did, as his father had done before him.

  Hundreds of steps later, they reached the bottom. It was impossible to see anything. The comforting sound of water echoed around them.

  Malam heard His Excellency moving beside him. A few moments later, sparks burst out in the darkness. His Excellency struck at his device again, more sparks flew, and a flame arose from a torch in his hand. The air was so still that the flame hardly flickered.

  The fire’s light did not reach the edges of the cavern, but it revealed what mattered. A vast lake spread out as far as Malam could see. Around its edges were huge, ornate headstones. At the base of each stone were the ashes of the past Sunan kings.

  His Excellency walked past the headstones until he found the one with his father’s name inscribed on it. He pulled a golden vase from his bag, kneeled before the stone, and prayed.

  Malam and Ilias recited the ritual words. Blessings upon blessings, sun and moon, sand and water. They repeated them twelve times and then all was silent again.

  His Excellency then set the golden vase before the headstone. His father’s ashes were delivered. The divinity could fully pass to his son.

  His Excellency then began to walk along the perimeter of the water, past dozens more headstones. The Sunan ancestors had placed these stones here long ago. Many remained unclaimed. This decision would be His Excellency’s alone. He would pick his stone, shave his head, lay down his hair as a sign of shedding his last human frailty, and rise out of the temple as god. This was a step he had to take on his own.

  Malam and Ilias made their way back up the stairs. As Malam took each step, he prayed with fervor. He recited the ritual words, he reached out to god, to the moon. Yet, as he prayed, he felt as if something pushed against him.

  He could not find the words to describe it. He had prayed for the boy’s power and wisdom, for the Sunan people’s strength and obedience, and for the voyage and war to come. Each prayer met some resistance, as if something was fighting against him in the spiritual realm—holding him back as he climbed the stairs, tripping his prayers before they could rise out of the temple and reach the divine.