Heir of Iron (The Powers of Amur Book 1)

by J. S. Bangs

  “I’ll come immediately.” She shouted through the curtain into the antechamber, “I’m finished,” then she followed the Kidri into the courtyard.

  Home. Her heart twisted as she saw it: the colonnade around the courtyard, the palms at the corners, the light glinting off the pool, the green baskets hanging between the arches. Her eyes flooded with tears, not because of what was there, but because of what was missing. Her father. Taleg.

  Kidri didn’t notice her sniffling. They climbed the stairs to the second story, and the girl pulled aside the curtain to Srithi’s chamber.

  “Mandhi!” Srithi called out from within. “Mandhi! You’re here!”

  Mandhi didn’t get a second step into the chamber before Srithi crushed her into an embrace. Mandhi squeezed her back with equal ferocity, kissing Srithi’s cheek and burying her hands in Srithi’s hair. Srithi’s bulbous breasts pressed against Mandhi’s chest, and Mandhi staggered backwards in surprise.

  “Srithi! Where’s your baby?”

  Srithi laughed. “Right here. Sleeping, for once. Come and see.”

  She pulled Mandhi over to her bed. Atop a folded mat of straw, a little brown face peeked out from white cotton swaddling. Its eyes were closed, but its pink tongue pressed against its lips as it pretended to suckle in its sleep.

  “Her name is Gapthi,” Srithi said.

  Mandhi picked up the girl and cradled her against her stomach. The baby squirmed for a moment within her swaddling but did not wake. Mandhi felt a pang of apprehension. She would have to tell Srithi soon about Taleg’s child.

  “It’s a family name,” Srithi went on. “One of Veshta’s aunts had the name. Amashi insisted on it, and Veshta wasn’t about to contradict his mother. And I don’t mind it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met an aunt of Veshta’s named Gapthi,” Mandhi said.

  “Oh, no, she died when Veshta was a boy I was told. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Gapthi is a nice name, and she is a very nice girl.” She grinned at Mandhi.

  “Was the birth difficult?”

  Srithi shrugged. “Typical, I guess. Amashi was there, and the midwife Harati. Do you remember her? They both said I did fine.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Mandhi gently rocked the child. “Does she sleep well?”

  “She does now,” Srithi said. “It was very tiring at first—but you know that. The same complaint that every new mother has. But there’s a bright side. Veshta is talking about having Kidri serve Amashi alone and bringing in someone else just for me. My own maid. Can you imagine?”

  Mandhi smiled. “So you’re well. What else has happened?”

  “So much! You heard about Ruyam?”

  Mandhi stifled a laugh and tried to respond without sounding too scornful. Srithi, after all, had barely any idea what Mandhi had been doing. “Yes, I heard about Ruyam. Did you hear about Taleg?”

  Srithi dropped her head. “Yes,” she said. “The stars upon his memory. Word arrived several weeks ago, when the first people fleeing from Majasravi reached us.” She threw her arms around Mandhi again, taking care not to crush the child between them.

  Mandhi leaned her face on Srithi’s shoulder. Her eyes grew heavy with tears, but she didn’t weep. She set the child down gently on its bed then wrapped her arms around Srithi again.

  “I haven’t had anyone,” she whispered. “I needed you. It was just me and Navran going to Ternas, and then him and Gocam when we fled to Jaitha. I would have soaked your shirt with tears then. Now, maybe I’ve run out.”

  “Oh, Mandhi.” She held Mandhi for a moment longer. Then she said, “But Gocam? Why were you traveling with Gocam?”

  “You haven’t heard the story. Too much for now. But neither of them was—oh, Srithi. It’s been so hard. And now my father—” And then the sobs bubbled up and choked out her words.

  She lost track of how long she stayed in Srithi’s embrace, shaking with weeping and feeling again the wound. The pain had dulled to an ache over the previous months, not because it had healed, but because it had been ignored. And returning to Veshta’s house, she suddenly felt the reality of her father’s absence and Taleg’s loss. Srithi bent and kissed the tears on her cheek, and her hand fell and brushed against Mandhi’s stomach.

  Mandhi straightened. “That reminds me,” she said. She wiped her face dry and took both of Srithi’s hands in hers. “I haven’t told anybody yet, because I only realized it when I returned to Jaitha and calculated the days. The journey back from Majasravi was so long, I lost track, and I convinced myself it wasn’t so long since we came to Majasravi, since Taleg and I were last together.”

  Srithi’s eyes grew wide and her face contorted with incipient comprehension. “You don’t mean….”

  “Srithi, I’m carrying Taleg’s child.”

  Srithi put her hands on her mouth. She stared at Mandhi, speechless for several minutes. “Should I laugh or should I cry?” she squeaked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Srithi threw her arms around Mandhi and pulled her into her chest for the third time that day. “I mean, it’s wonderful—but its father is already gone—but your father—”

  “It’s probably best that he never knew.” Mandhi dropped her head into her hands. “Do you know how complicated this makes things?”

  “But wonderful! Mandhi, we’ll be mothers together!”

  “Yes.” Assuming they didn’t all die because of Navran. But Srithi, poor girl, seemed to barely appreciate how much danger they were all in. Probably Veshta hadn’t told her anything. Mandhi did not have that luxury. “I need to talk to the saghada that married me and Taleg.”

  “Of course, of course. You’ll need to prove that the child is not a bastard.”

  She had almost forgotten that aspect of it, actually. But let Srithi think that was all. She was the daughter of the Heir, and she was going to be a mother. Her child might be all she needed.

  * * *

  Darkness covered her steps away from Veshta’s estate. She had bribed Kidri with a candy and slipped out before any others noticed, and once she crept beyond the light over the front door, there was no one who would recognize and stop her.

  She had walked this path once with Taleg. The pain of memory reminded her of why she went.

  The main roads were patrolled by Sadja’s militia men, keeping a nervous, quiet peace. The noises of drinking and singing which would normally disturb the night were silent. As she crossed the post into the East Quarter of the city, she saw white-clad Uluriya holding weapons at guard. Were these men who had come to guard their friends and neighbors on their own account? Or was this the Uluriya militia that Navran and Sadja had talked about this morning? She doubted they could find men that quickly, but both of them had at times surprised her by their agility and determination.

  In any case, the Uluriya patrollers saw how her hair was tied and nodded at her silently. Even without Taleg’s protection, she arrived at Ghauna’s door unmolested.

  The door was shut, but light shone through the curtain. She paused there. Taleg. Stepping onto the threshold was like stepping onto a thorn of bittersweet memory. An upwelling of tears threatened to ruin her composure, but she swallowed the urge to sob and shook the sorrow from her face. Tonight she would secure Taleg’s memory, not mourn his loss.

  She knocked on the lintel of the doorway. Ghauna’s face appeared through the curtain. “Yes?” he said.

  “Ghauna,” she said. “You should remember me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” he grumbled. “What is this about?”

  “Look more closely.”

  Ghauna widened the curtain and let the lamplight from his house fall on Mandhi’s face. “Oh. You’re the girl I married to that Kaleksha a few months back.”

  “Yes,” Mandhi said. “And you need to talk to me. Let me in.”

  He muttered under his breath but pulled the curtain over the door aside and let Mandhi enter. Once inside, she saw the man’s wife and child eating in a corner. The boy looked at her
with shameless, wide-eyed fascination, and Ghauna scolded him.

  “No, let him look,” Mandhi said. “I want your family to hear this and remember me. Soon, I want everyone to hear this.”

  Ghauna gestured for Mandhi to take a seat on a cushion at the table. “Go on.”

  She remained standing by the door. “You never knew Cauratha, the previous Heir, while he was alive, did you?”

  “I live on the far side of Virnas,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “I met him a few times, at festivals and consecrations. I never knew he was the Heir, of course, until his death.”

  “So you don’t know who I am.”

  “You’re a young woman who eloped. I did what I was asked. Whatever problems you’re having now—”

  “No, listen. You don’t know who I am. Don’t be ashamed, that’s why I chose you.”

  He looked nervously over Mandhi’s shoulder at the door behind her. “Why?”

  “My name is Mandhi. Cauratha was my father.”

  His face convulsed with an expression of horror and confusion. For a moment he was silent, his face slack with amazement, then he said, “Are you—stars in heaven, no.” He bent over at the waist and put his hands over his head. “Are you saying that I helped the Heir’s daughter elope?”

  “Exactly. And soon all of the saghada of the city will know who I am, and they will probably be upset to find out that you were so reckless.”

  “So your brother is the Heir-to-be who seized the city from Thudra?” Ghauna’s straightened and looked at Mandhi with his jaw slack, seeming as if he were about to vomit. “He could strip me of my livelihood—”

  Mandhi smiled. “He could purge you from the Uluriya altogether.”

  “Ulaur, purify me.” He collapsed into the seat he had offered Mandhi a moment ago. “What can I do?”

  “Don’t be so despondent, for one.” She glanced over at the woman and the child, both of whom now watched with open amazement. “Stand up. Your family is watching. I’m here to help both of us.”

  He straightened cautiously. “What do you mean? I can’t risk the displeasure of your brother Navran.”

  “That’s exactly the point, actually. Navran is not my brother.”

  He gaped at her in bafflement. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ghauna, I need you to be a little cleverer than that.” She leaned forward and beckoned him closer. She whispered, “Navran is not my brother, because Navran is not Cauratha’s son. We believed him to be my lost older brother, but when we were returning from Majasravi we found otherwise. He is not my brother.”

  Ghauna gaped at her. “But he’s going to be proclaimed as Heir. The summons went out to the saghada today. Why does nobody know this? We have to tell them.”

  “No.” She reached forward and grabbed Ghauna’s forearm. “We don’t tell anyone, at least not yet. For now, at least, Navran is the legitimate Heir. The Law states that in the absence of a living son, the Heir may name any Uluriya male born from an Uluriya mother as his successor. Now it may be the case that Navran is a drunk, a gambler, and a traitor.” Ghauna’s eyes grew wide at this revelation. “But I want him to be named Heir, at least until he can name as his successor a true Uluriya, one who won’t ruin the ancient traditions and bring shame upon the name of Ulaur.”

  “You mean your husband. But he—”

  “My husband is dead.” She clamped down on the surge of sorrow that the words brought up. “I mean my child.”

  Ghauna looked at her for several long minutes as he slowly worked through the implications of what she was saying. “I presume that the child was conceived with the Kaleksha while he was alive.”

  Mandhi sniffed. “I’ll forgive you for thinking it could be otherwise.”

  “And how do you intend to make your child the Heir? Once Navran is acclaimed the inheritance of Manjur can’t be taken from him.”

  “He will give it to me. And for that, I’ll need your help.”

  Ghauna clenched his jaw and shook his head. “You ask me to commit treason against the Heir.”

  “No, I demand that you show allegiance to the true Heir, who is yet to be born. Or do you want this false leader, without the blood of Manjur, a despicable coward, to continue to lead the Uluriya?”

  Ghauna’s expression grew darker as Mandhi talked, and his hands formed into fists. But he said nothing.

  Mandhi lowered her voice. “And in any case, you’ll find it convenient to have the Heir’s mother on your side.”

  “It was a mistake to marry you in the first place,” Ghauna said. He shook his head. “I can’t work against the Heir again.”

  “You also can’t afford to have your previous bad judgement made public.” Ghauna flinched. “And of course, you have to remember the good of all of the Uluriya. Navran is leading us into ruin. He has no way to break the siege or restore the Kingdom. If the Heirs survive, it’ll be through me.”

  Ghauna put his hand over his eyes and sighed. After a long moment of silence he said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “On the day of the acclamation, I’ll tell you. For now, wait.” She glanced out the door of the balcony. “When the time is right to act, I’ll tell you.”

  Navran

  A motley crew set out from the old palace of Thudra, dressed in three colors with no unity of style. The mismatched, haphazard style of the march was oddly comforting to Navran. He was a misfit, unqualified and unwilling for his role. Yet he marched to be acclaimed Heir of Manjur, and they marched with him.

  The first company was Sadja’s militia from Davrakhanda, the best-trained and most neatly dressed, in green with the sea-eagle crest on their shoulders. The second company was the Uluriya volunteers which Veshta had recruited for Navran’s guard, clad in bleached white cloth, but with no other consistency of uniform. The last were in the clothes of the militia of Virnas, the remnants of Thudra’s garrison who had surrendered and pledged fealty to Navran.

  Navran-dar. Now that was a name he had never expected to answer to.

  They began at Thudra’s palace, which had become a barracks for Sadja’s troops and the Uluriya guard. The route of the procession from the palace of Virnas to Veshta’s estate was lined with people, both Uluriya and others, and cheers sounded as they passed.

  Sadja marched next to Navran looking thoughtful. “Not as few as I feared, but not as many as I hoped,” he said.

  “No trouble in the city,” Navran said. “Good enough.”

  “Enough to hold out,” Sadja said. “Beyond that….”

  There had been skirmishes with Thudra’s and Ruyam’s troops along the walls every day, but they had ended with a handful of arrows fired. No one had assaulted the city’s gates. If the desultory siege so far was all that Thudra and Ruyam would do, then Virnas might indeed outlast the besiegers.

  Navran laughed bitterly into his beard. Ruyam would not let him escape so easily, and eventually their own supplies would run out.

  But Sadja had said repeatedly in the past days, “Kill the cobra in front of you and leave the one on the road.”

  And so he had. In the past five days, he and Mandhi had undergone a series of specialized ablutions, first to atone for the debt of purity they had accrued from so many days sleeping in impure environments, and then, for Navran, to prepare him for his acclamation as Heir. He regarded these onerous rituals with a measure of alarm, but said no word as the eldest saghada of the city bathed him, then doused him with myrrh and repeated an hour of prayers, then bathed him again. The saghada bound silver coins to his wrists, wrapped him in new white cloth, undressed him, and told him to repeat the whole process again the next day.

  That was not the first time he had wished that someone else would be Heir, but it was the first time that he felt like Mandhi sympathized with him.

  Sadja opened his mouth to say something then stopped. He pointed to the south. “Something is happening.”

  Navran followed Sadja’s finger with his gaze. Several people were running towards the route
of their march. Farther away on the same road approached a chaotic mass of people, advancing with deliberate slowness, but churning and choking the road as they approached.

  Sadja spun and snapped at the captain of his forces, who walked a few paces behind them. “Bhargasa, find out what is going on.”

  Bhargasa nodded and broke from the rank, running to meet the forefront of the march. Sadja and Navran did not break pace, and so for a few moments Bhargasa was lost to their view as he disappeared down the street towards the disturbance. But a short time later he returned, running to catch up with them. Sadja stopped to allow his captain to speak.

  “My lord and king,” Bhargasa said, “dire news. There is a riot is the East Quarter. The rioters approach from the south.”

  “What do they want?” Sadja said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And the east gate? Is it closed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sadja clenched his jaw together. “Call a general halt. Take half of the garrison and reinforce the east gate. I will lead the rest out to put down the riot.” He glanced at Navran then said, “You go ahead to Veshta’s with your Uluriya. Finish your business there.”

  Navran’s heart thundered in his chest. Maybe it would be wise, to go to a safe place with his people. But maybe he owed the city more. “Is the city mine?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  Navran gestured at the streets around them. “Would you hide from a riot if this were Davrakhanda?”

  Sadja scowled. “Are you saying you want to come with? We can’t risk it.”

  “If they’re rioting against my rule, let me face them myself.”

  Sadja raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps that’s wise. Come with me, and I’ll give you a sword.”

  Sadja bellowed for a man of his company of similar size to Navran. One shortly appeared, and in quick order stripped off his panoply and handed Navran a sword. Navran took the weapon with a feeling of trepidation, waving it from side to side and feeling how the weight shifted in his hand. It was heavier than he expected.

  “Don’t think you’re going to use that much,” Sadja said. “You haven’t been trained. Let the threat of it do your work for you. Let the men see you carrying it. Now boy, help the Heir put on his armor.”