《Odyssey Of The Greats: Broken Crown》


 Prologue

    The anguished screams of a hundred souls drowned out his thoughts, a wailing crescendo of torment. The legionaries smacked a few heads with the butts of their swords, screaming, ¡°Silence!¡± to no avail.


    Kramena sat hunched over next to him, clutching her crying girl in a futile attempt to comfort her. ¡°Quiet now, sweetling. Everything will be okay,¡± she said in their native tongue with a shaking voice as a lone tear ran down her cheek.


    ¡°I will have silence!¡± the tribune said. He spoke in the Chosen Tongue, which Jaroslaf had learned long ago, but most people in the hall only knew the native Rodevian. The Chosen Tongue sounded queer and foreign to Jaroslaf¡¯s ears, and strangely meek. Its words always involved a strange twisting of the tongue, where Rodevian was quick, elegant, and to the point.


    Nevertheless, all understood by the tribune¡¯s rage that he wanted silence. His armour clattered as he pushed through the hunched crowd of prisoners. Jaroslaf did not know the man by name, but he could tell he was a tribune. Identifiable because a plume of black horsehair crested his shiny ridge helm, and a deep blue cape flowed from his right shoulder, covering the steel beneath.


    Jaroslaf had become accustomed to these men, unfortunately. He hardly remembered a time when the Orisian legions had not warred with the Rodevians, or the Yariki, or whatever other tribe in all Rodevia. They are so far from home. Why do they bother us? What is it about this dry, desolate land they bloody love so much? There were always foreign metal soldiers running around one place or another, but these metal soldiers were out of their jurisdiction.


    A pungent stink of sweat and fear hung over the hall now. The piss reeked stronger and stronger as more of his older companions lost control of their bladders, sitting hunched over with their heads in their shaky hands, begging the gods for mercy. The older ones always pissed themselves, and the fat ones, too, Jaroslaf thought randomly. He¡¯d seen it many times himself, in the days when it may have been him standing amongst the soldiers who imprisoned him now, ready to take his bounty and execute the rest.


    But Jaroslaf wouldn¡¯t piss himself. Aye, my time may be up now, he thought somberly. He would greet death with open arms, not as the crooked old man he was today, but as the warrior who¡¯d ridden through the torrent of war a thousand times in his youth, who had stared at the gates of the underworld and willed to turn away. The same could not be said for his war-brothers, each of whom had slowly vanished under death¡¯s cold shroud as the years went by. He oft wondered why the gods spared him. Was it their twisted sense of humour, to leave him to rot, turning weak and frail and powerless to do anything about these legionaries that slaughtered his village?


    Perhaps it was no godly jest at all, but a testament to his unyielding spirit. Jaroslaf outlasted his war-brothers not because he was lucky, but because he was too stubborn to die. He refused to die. His bones may have been brittle, his step awkward, but his mind remained sharp as any blade. Hardened only by years of experience, years he had in abundance.


    Death was merely a companion he had danced with for decades, staring it down countless times and never flinching. If his time was up now, so be it. He¡¯d face it with his chest puffed out with only cold determination in his eyes.


    After a few of the crying prisoners had their heads smacked by a baton, the hall slowly fell into a grim silence. The hall where once the elders sat to hear petitions and plan raids, where travellers could find a safe roof for a night.


    Now it was to be their tomb.


    The legionaries dragged a young man in from outside, a slave by the looks of him. ¡°Translate what I say,¡± the tribune told the skinny lad. He nodded as his lips quivered.


    ¡°There will be a drawing of stones!¡± the tribune shouted so that all may hear, and his slave translated accordingly in Rodevian. ¡°One of you dirty rats will have the privilege of running to your savage chief and informing him that the glorious blue banner of Vero shall wave over all Rodevia.¡± He held up a linen sack that rattled every time he swung it.


    Kramena looked around frantically, keeping her daughter¡¯s head under her chin so that the girl couldn¡¯t see what went on. Her auburn hair had been ruffled up from when she was dragged in here with Jaroslaf, and muck splattered her white linen dress. ¡°What is this, Jaroslaf? Why do they play these games? They haven¡¯t even brought the men in. Ogi was out there!¡±


    The men were dead by now, Jaroslaf knew. Including Ogi, who was Kramena¡¯s brother, and an expert hunter in the village. The best hunter the Dumori had known. Most of them would likely be rotting on crosses around the village. ¡°Who knows¡­¡± he mumbled.


    The rattling of the bag sounded again, and the tribune clattered past his guards that surrounded the prisoners in the great hall. ¡°Whoever draws the white stone lives, the rest are black. Your fate is in the hands of your gods now.¡± And he began working his way around the hall, handing the bag to elders, women, and children alike. Even for Jaroslaf, that was cruel. Any child drawing that white stone would be as good as dead out there. He looked down at Kramena¡¯s little girl, biting his lip nervously.


    Each time a person drew a black stone, they screamed or cried or begged. The tribune looked as solemn as a statue as he calmly sentenced one person after another to their deaths.


    When the armoured Orisian came up to him, he stuck the bag in Jaroslaf¡¯s face, looking rather impatient by now. Jaroslaf didn¡¯t even hesitate. Let me die, he thought as he drew the white stone.


    The tribune¡¯s eyes lit up, probably glad he did not have to circle the rest of the hall. There were at least one hundred and fifty of them here. ¡°We have a victor!¡± he proclaimed, dragging Jaroslaf up by the wrist so hard the bones cracked.


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    Jaroslaf only looked down in sorrow, meeting Kramena¡¯s gaze. The woman looked like a ghost now, that woman who used to heal him when he had a cut and a splinter. There was no life left in those blue eyes as she realised what that stone in his hand meant for the rest of them. She could only clutch her child harder, whispering in her ear, telling her all will be well.


    Jaroslaf looked back at the tribune. ¡°Let her have the stone. I¡¯m an old man. It¡¯s wasted on me.¡±


    The tribune laughed, shaking his head. The horsehair atop his helm bobbed frantically. No wonder so many of them die in battle, he sticks out like a sore thumb.


    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, old man.¡± The tribune tied his sack up and handed it to one of his subordinates. ¡°Your gods have chosen you.¡±


    My gods are cruel.


    ¡°And what of your message to my chief?¡± Jaroslaf protested. The whole hall looked at him in tense silence. Hundreds of wide eyeballs, begging that he be allowed to release the stone so that one of them may have another chance at life. How pathetic they looked, all huddled there like animals, sitting in their own piss. For the first time in his life, Jaroslaf felt regret. Regret that many times he had been the man sentencing people like that to their deaths. Another time¡­ another life. ¡°I can¡¯t deliver a message if a wolf or a mountain lion mauls me. I can barely defend myself!¡±


    The Orisian raised a brow. ¡°Men who live to your age survive for a reason. You know how to take care of yourself. Think I don¡¯t know a soldier when I see one?¡±


    ¡°Give me a sword and find out,¡± Jaroslaf barked.


    The tribune and his men threw their heads back in laughter, which only enraged Jaroslaf more. ¡°He¡¯s got teeth, this one. As much as hacking you to death would be amusing, there¡¯s no sport in it. I¡¯m sure you can handle a few wolves. Now let¡¯s go.¡±


    They seized Jaroslaf by the arms and dragged him out as the hall went hysterical once again. The shrill voices of people knowing they¡¯re going to the underworld was a sound like no other. A horrible, ear piercing cry.


    ¡°And what of Yarikhad?¡± Jaroslaf yelled when they threw him out of the hall. The hot sun beat down above from the clear blue sky, harshly flashing his eyes as they adjusted to the daytime and baking his skin with heat. ¡°The Dumori tribe is under her protection. They will come.¡±


    ¡°Good, I hope they get the message clearly.¡± The Orisian smirked. ¡°For too long has that city of merchants and hagglers laid claim to Rodevia. You tell them tribune Titus Silvius sent you, and that general Rodevicus Vulcan Aventus will not stop marching until all Rodevia bends its knee before the senate.¡±


    ¡°They will kill you.¡±


    Titus snorted. ¡°I don¡¯t see any Yariki auxiliaries around, and Yarikhad is many hundreds of miles away, across the Chenean Sea, yet we are here. Now begone, run off to your next village.¡±


    The tribune turned without another word, his blue cape now a shade lighter from the dust swirling up around his feet. Jaroslaf spat, cursing both Orisium and the gods above. Why had they chosen him once more?


    Behind him, the dusty landscape of Rodevia stretched endlessly. A rug of ochre and amber, where the parched soil was cracked from aeons of heat, bathing in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. Old, dark olive trees with twisted trunks and dry bark stood scattered across the rugged terrain, their leaves whispering in the dry breeze. In the distance, a small mountain range painted the horizon with its earthen beauty, its jagged slate peaks like the sharp teeth of an old dead god. A nice sight for such a sordid day. Most of the round thatched-roof houses were empty and ransacked, with pots and utensils scattered all over the ground. The others in the middle of being burned to charred skeletons of their former selves. The stink of smoke and fire overwhelmed his nose, then followed a strange bland smell, almost like roasted beef.


    Then he saw them.


    The crosses.


    All the young men of the village, or anyone capable enough to fight the invaders, had been nailed to a crudely erected wooden cross. A pair of charred corpses, each pinned high above the ground to their own blackened cross, marked the entrance of the small village. The flesh scorched and coarse and crackling, thick metal nails through the wrists and feet. The fire had washed away all the features of their faces.


    Next to one of the crosses, a deep blue banner waved in the light breeze, bearing the symbol V, wrought in silver, within a laurel wreath, also silver.


    Jaroslaf grimaced. One of the bodies looked like a man his size, the other¡­ a child. A shiver crawled across his skin. And along the path leading to the big Elder¡¯s hall in the center of the village stood more crosses, each bearing a crucified young man. Some weren¡¯t burned.


    They may yet live. A murder of crows drifted above the crosses like a dark toxic cloud. They landed on each frail person, helpless to wave them off for the nails pinning their limbs to their upright prisons. The black birds pecked at flesh, at eyeballs, at anything they could grab, and the prisoners screamed.


    Jaroslaf yanked a stick from the ground and waved the crows off where he could. They cawed in protest and fled, leaving a trail of black feathers in their wake.


    But the worst sight was yet to come.


    ¡°Bring that log, come on!¡± tribune Titus yelled in the distance. Jaroslaf turned. The Orisian legionaries had gathered around the great hall, and two of their younger lads brought up a thick log to bar the door with.


    Then they lit the torches. ¡°Throw them now!¡± one of the centurions said. ¡°High as you can, make sure it catches the straw.¡±


    And the torches flew. The wailing of the Dumori villagers was dim at first, shielded by the circular hall¡¯s wooden walls. But then the flames grew, first consuming the roof, then dripping down like an orange liquid of death to catch the dry, sunbaked wooden walls.


    How the screams rose up to a terror then as those locked inside realised what was happening. Kramena¡­ her little girl. Jaroslaf pursed his lips, having to turn away as all the Orisian legionaries cackled under the glow of the flame. Some plucked at grapes while they watched, others cheered, and some drew bets on how long the screaming would last.


    It would last, Jaroslaf knew. Their cries would echo all across this desolate land.


    The great hall cracked and splintered, the fire roaring high into the sky, so hot that Jaroslaf still felt its heat brushing over him as he left the village.


    He had been cursed to live once more. But he would make sure chief Kresimir and Yarikhad would learn what happened here.


    He left the village alone, as fast as his old legs would carry him. Up above, the crows circled him.


    I am cursed.

 Chapter 1 - Adahnys

    Adahnys Shahar awoke as the ruler of a great kingdom this morning. Yet I feel no different than I did yesterday, or the day before, he thought, rather dull. He unrolled himself from his silk sheets, his joints crying and cracking with pain as he flexed them, as though he had awoken free from a century long hibernation in the ice. It was always the hardest part of the day. He pushed past the thin violet curtains around his bed, putting on his silk white robes, lined with purple.


    Across the bedchamber, a young slave prepared his breakfast, a bowl of sliced fruits. He hadn¡¯t seen this one before. She was a pretty thing. Slender, with pale skin and wavy orange hair like liquid fire, wearing a clean, modest white robe, covering her from neck to toe.


    Adahnys approached, quiet on his feet. ¡°You¡¯re new,¡± he said as she poured a cup of lemon-infused water from a flagon.


    She turned quickly. Her eyes widened and she let out a sharp shrill, dropping the flagon. It shattered on the marble floor, and then the slave slipped over as she tried to lurch away from Adahnys, falling to the soaked ground.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to frighten you.¡± He almost tried to help her up, and then saw his grotesque hand, covered in scaly coarse patches and red pockmarks running all the way up his arm and torso. How easy it was to forget he had to keep his distance from everyone.


    ¡°M-My deepest apologies, y-your highness!¡± she squeaked, trying to slither out of the mess she¡¯d created. Her petrified eyes never left Adahnys, though. It was a look he was long used to. After so many years, one became numb to the feeling.


    One time, he might have wanted to have her whipped for looking at him like that. For acknowledging his affliction. He knew the thought behind those eyes and the courtesy. You think I¡¯m a monster, don¡¯t you, girl? Spawned from the loins of a demon. Everyone thought that. But now he was older and wiser. Or number.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to apologise for. You¡¯re not the first.¡± He smiled. ¡°You may leave and clean yourself up, if you wish.¡±


    She slipped again whilst trying to grab the chair to hoist herself up, tumbling back down. ¡°I-If it please you, your h-highness.¡±


    Against his better judgement, he slipped a glove on from his desk and reached his hand out for her. But she only scurried further, just a little, perhaps subconsciously. Adahnys recoiled, and maybe his disappointment at her refusal of his offer for help showed a little too plainly, for the girl burst into tears and threw herself to her knees, arms at his feet in the water. ¡°I-I humbly beg your forgiveness¡±¡ªshe sniffled¡ª¡°if-if I have given offence, m-my shophet. They t-told me about¡­ you¡­ b-but I just got scared!¡±


    He sighed. ¡°It¡¯s okay. What is your name?¡±


    She looked up at him with glistening blue eyes. Her face lightly spotted with freckles. She looked like a Rodevian, though spoke the Chosen Tongue like a native. ¡°M-My name?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She bowed her head down once more. ¡°Danaca, your highness.¡±


    Adahnys nodded. ¡°You may leave and change your clothes, Danaca. Have a rest.¡±


    The slave slowly got to her feet, still eyeing him with some suspicion. ¡°Thank you, y-your highness. You are most merciful.¡± She said it without so much as the hint of a smile, only terror on her face, and scurried out of the royal apartments. Even a slave couldn¡¯t pretend he looked somewhat appealing if her life depended on it. That¡¯s what hurt the most, when their disgust could not be hidden, even when they tried to hide it. He sighed, glum. A cruel jape.


    He still had to adorn his most important piece of attire before the day''s appointments.


    My face.


    It was a mask, in truth. But it was the face he showed to the world. An exquisite piece of ivory carved in the shape of a smooth, handsome, solemn face. Inlaid with elegant patterns depicting the sun, with Yariki calligraphy lining the edges of the face.


    He put it on, ready to face the world as the shophet of Yarikhad.


    Before long, the knock came at the door.


    ¡°Enter,¡± he called.


    The two polished ebony doors swung open, pushed by a pair of bronze coloured slaves, heralding the coming of Batonam Taal. ¡°Good morning, your highness,¡± he said, bowing. His golden necklaces hung and swayed from his neck like pendulums, waving gems of ruby, jade, and lapis lazuli, glinting bright among his black robes. ¡°And I wish you a most joyous sixteenth name day.¡±


    ¡°I thank you, councillor Taal,¡± Adahnys said, rising from his desk. ¡°Though I had not expected to see you smiling. My regency is at an end, so it would seem you now find yourself without work?¡± He said it smiling, but Batonam would not see it because of the mask. But by now, those closest to the shophet could tell his emotion by the tone of his voice. He became quite good at expressing himself that way.


    Batonam Taal grinned, running his jewelled fingers through his long black beard. ¡°I may not be your regent anymore, your highness, but I retain my position in the supreme council nonetheless. And I am certain you will continue to cherish my friendship and advice for many years to come, for have we not ruled this great city together for the last three years, since the death of the noble shophet Adibaal?¡±


    ¡°You did the ruling. I was happy to watch in silence.¡± Adahnys bowed his head. ¡°To watch¡­ and listen. Father always told me the wisest men listen to their advisers, did he not? I had a wise advisor.¡±


    The old councillor smiled. His long black hair came down in curly tangles past his lined, olive face. His dark brown eyes looked near black, and he had the nose of a big bird. ¡°You honour me, highness.¡±


    ¡°Shall we attend the council?¡± Adahnys said. ¡°It would be rather inappropriate for me to appear late on my first proper day as the shophet, would it not?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Batonam waited for the shophet to move first. ¡°Lead the way.¡± They walked across the royal plaza, a citadel with high walls perched atop Yarikhan¡¯s Hill.


    Adahnys decided he hated whoever designed the royal plaza, placing the royal palace and the supreme council chamber on the opposite sides of the citadel. The walk across felt like an eternity, each painful step sending pain through his knees and legs. They had offered him a walking stick on multiple occasions, but he stubbornly refused. He would not carry himself as an old man at the age of sixteen.


    Step. Pain. Step. Crack. That was his routine. The way he saw the much older Batonam gliding across the floor with such ease made him jealous. And sometimes it would stir a dull resentment every time he saw anyone walking normally.


    The house of the supreme council sat on the opposite side of the royal plaza. A large white, rectangular building, the entrance of which was marked by a series of tall marble columns. Within was the council chamber, and today the members of the supreme council had gathered early.


    Here they are, the true rulers of Yarikhad, the shophet thought, rather bitterly. The richest men in Yarikhad made up the supreme council. Members descended from the old Pyrridonian dynasties, of which Adahnys himself was. Others belonged to ancient Durnese families, settled in Yarikhad long before the shophet¡¯s own ancestors conquered it; they were shades browner than the pale Pyrridonians. And others tended to be self-made (or inherited) merchant princes and their relatives, rich and fat from the opportunities Yarikhad presented to any citizen.


    Adahnys Shahar walked into the marble veneered, cool room flanked by two guards, with Batonam Taal following behind at a distance. All the councillors rose as he entered. Sunlight beamed in from windows on the ceiling and high up on the walls. The mosaic floor beneath was as much a work of art as it was luxury furnishing. Within the marble floor was laid a big circle, half of which depicted the fiery sun, the other half the silvery moon, surrounded by clouds and eagles and fabled winged men from the heavens. Slightly elevated were the seats of the council, all in a ring facing the throne at the back of the room. Between thirty to forty men made up the supreme council nowadays.


    ¡°Most noble councillors, I bid you good morning,¡± Adahnys said. The councillors bowed and sat down. ¡°Sit with me, councillor Taal.¡± He waved the councillor over, and went to sit in his esteemed spot in the supreme council chamber, the polished ebony throne, overlooking the room, decorated with gold and ivory and more jewels than he cared to count. As he sat, his aching spine and knees settled, and he breathed a sigh of relief, settling into the chair. Batonam took a seat as close to the throne as he could get.


    Adahnys looked around, letting the silence linger for a moment. ¡°So, what instructions do you have for me today, my noble councillors?¡±


    Light-hearted laughter echoed from the stands, bouncing around the room. The shophet laughed along with them, but he wasn¡¯t joking.


    As the laughter died down, a pale fat brute of a man, with a belly like a barrel and a long black beard laden with gold rings that covered his multiple chins, rose up from the stands. ¡°Your highness, with the greatest respect, the supreme council is only here to inform and seek your guidance on matters of state. We serve at your pleasure. First of all, and I think I speak on behalf of all of my fellow councillors here in wishing you a blessed sixteenth name day! A most glorious day for the end of your regency, to be sure.¡± Melqart Hiram waved his hands around as he said it. His green and golden robe could barely hide the rolls on his belly, and he seemed to jingle every time he moved for all of the golden trinkets he wore on his person. Signet rings, necklaces, chains, earrings, and a nose ring.


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    The supreme council murmured in agreement, with some clapping here and there.


    ¡°You have my thanks, councillor Hiram.¡±


    Melqart Hiram smiled and nodded to the shophet, and then unrolled a scroll that he picked from under his sleeve. ¡°To begin the matters of state for the day, we can release the funds to pay for the shophet¡¯s name day feast tonight, and the list of guests has been finalised. Becoming a man in Yarikhad is the most ecstatic of celebrations, and not a penny should be spared.¡±


    The councillors continued rambling on about coin and taxes and shipping. Adahnys had grown long used to it by now. It was just another day. He never needed to say much before, nor did he think to say much now.


    Until the issue of a foreign envoy came up.


    ¡°We have received troubling news from the borderlands of Rodevia,¡± Melqart said, reading from his scroll. ¡°Two Rodevian men of the Dumori tribe wish to plead a case before the shophet and supreme council.¡± At that, Adahnys rose from his seat, his curiosity peaked. Finally, something exciting. Something he may actually be able to intervene in. Foreign issues and war was a power the plump noblemen had yet to strip Adahnys and his family of.


    The fat councillor signalled to the guards to open the door, and in came two pale, ragged looking tribesmen. One was an old man, using a walking stick, with a short yet thick grizzled grey beard, bald on the head. His droopy eyes gawked at the council chamber in amazement. The other was a younger man, broad shouldered and strong, with chestnut brown hair that went to his shoulders and stubble across his strong jaw. A true warrior, that one, Adahnys thought. Both wore simple brown tunics. The younger man¡¯s blue tribal tattoos slithered out from under his sleeve across his left forearm.


    ¡°We welcome Berislaf, son of Kresimir, of the Dumori tribe. And his travelling companion, Jaroslaf,¡± councillor Melqart said. ¡°You may plead your case before the supreme council.¡±


    Berislaf¡¯s eyes found the shophet, no doubt his gaze gravitated towards the throne, and he approached. Until Jaroslaf blocked him with his crooked walking stick. ¡°Step no closer, Berislaf!¡± the old man snapped, eyeing Adahnys with fear¡­ or disgust. ¡°That is the one who carries the affliction.¡± His thick Rodevian accent dripped from every word.


    The young warrior stopped, raising a brow at the shophet, stepping back. ¡°So it is you.¡±


    The shophet stood up and walked down a couple of the stairs towards his guests, despite the protest of his knees, his arms out wide. They retreated a few paces. ¡°Indeed, it is me. Fear not, scaleskin is not so contagious as the plague. My physicians assure me. But yes, I am the scaleskin of Yarikhad.¡±


    The supreme council chuckled.


    The two men gulped, staring at him, still as statues. Adahnys returned to his throne. He¡¯d gotten so used to people avoiding him, fearing him, seeing him as dirty or unclean, or a sinner, that he almost made a joke out of it. But scaleskin was not a joke, it was an affliction that deformed his face to the point he¡¯d looked like a twisted demon, robbing him of his mother¡¯s jade eyes and bleaching them milk white, save for his pupils, and covered large parts of his skin in hideous red pours and hard crusts, almost resembling the scales of a serpent.


    ¡°Plead your case,¡± he said as he returned to his throne, and the two men calmed down.


    Berislaf nudged his head at the old man. ¡°Go on, tell him all you told me and my father.¡±


    ¡°Your highness.¡± The old man stepped forward with reluctance, his walking stick sending hollow echoes throughout the chamber as it clattered off the marble floor. ¡°A village not far from the Tane river was pillaged by an Orisian legion. They left no man alive. Crucified the ones they didn¡¯t kill immediately, along with their women and children; and those that did not get the sword nor the cross, got chains around their wrists, and collars around their throats.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Adahnys leaned forward. ¡°Did you provoke them?¡±


    Now Berislaf stepped forward. ¡°No. The village was small, mostly farmers and hunters with few warriors. How could they possibly threaten a legion across the river? My father, the Chief Kresemir, has informed me of other such attacks all along the river. Everywhere the legion goes, it leaves crosses, bodies, and fire. Our tribe is small, but there is fire and fury in our hearts. We cannot fight because most of our warriors are away fighting your battles.¡± He spat that last part out. The supreme council muttered amongst themselves.


    ¡°Mind your tone,¡± Batonam Taal warned. Berislaf¡¯s lips pressed themselves into a line, and he clenched his fists.


    The shophet held up a hand for silence, and the voices died down in a calm wave. ¡°Have we had any word from Orisium of late?¡±


    Near the back of the chamber, a slim ferret of a man rose, draped in loose white robes, a golden cap with a white headdress that flowed down his shoulders like a drape. ¡°None, your highness,¡± Farzad Zadeh said. ¡°No delegations, envoys, or letters.¡±


    ¡°And from Mahonad in Rodevia?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    More muttering.


    Adahnys nodded. ¡°Strange¡­¡± My first test. The Orisians were testing him. They would have known a shift in power was on the horizon, and perhaps they weren¡¯t threatened by a sixteen-year-old boy. More so when that boy had inherited a kingdom that had already been defeated by the Orisian Republic twenty years ago. Before he was born.


    Adahnys had not seen Yarikhad defeated with his own eyes, but he very much lived in the shadow of Orisium¡¯s victory. Shophet Adibaal would rant about battles lost and ships sunk in his black moods, cursing traitors and merchant princes for robbing him of his victory with their greed and sapping the throne¡¯s divine authority as he was brought to his knees. ¡°Like vultures flocking to my bloody crown, plucking it apart piece by piece,¡± he would often moan.


    But it wasn¡¯t just the Orisians testing him, it was the supreme council too. Gauging to see if he would be a pliant, obedient shophet, much how his father was in his final days. I have power, I have my rights. And by the gods, I will use them. Especially at the hands of unprovoked butchery and injustice.


    ¡°This was an unprovoked attack on our sovereign territory,¡± Adahnys Shahar said, louder so his voice carried through the chamber with authority. ¡°And a violation of our peacetime treaty which the senate of Orisium themselves sanctioned.¡± He turned to his scribe sitting by him, scribbling away on his parchment. ¡°Jebel, send word to general Ithobaal Tanirad in Mahonad that he is to send as many Rodevian warriors back home as the Chief Kresemir requires, as well as one thousand of our own auxiliaries and five hundred horses. They are to repay villages on the other side of the Tane river in kind, and not a step further. Raid unguarded villages only. No Orisian soldiers are to be harmed.¡± The scribe scribbled the words down on his parchment and rolled it up, sealing it with the royal mark.


    Berislaf¡¯s face soured. ¡°You say Rodevian as though we are all cut of the same cloth! I won¡¯t march with Vulovi beasts who dine with goats, or Tonevi who drink piss. I want my Dumori warriors.¡±


    The shophet raised a brow. He forgot how prickly Rodevians can be. ¡°Very well. Amend that, Jebel. Dumori and our own auxiliaries only.¡± The scribe scribbled the order on the parchment, his quill bobbing.


    ¡°Thank you, my shophet!¡± Berislaf yelled, nodding with a savage grin. ¡°Blood for blood!¡±


    ¡°Patience, highness!¡± a councillor barked.


    To which another shot, ¡°Coward! String the criminals from the trees!¡±


    Most of the councillors erupted in a rage, while some sat in silence, or shook their heads. Very few clapped in agreement. ¡°Your highness!¡± Melqart Hiram snapped, shooting up from the stand. ¡°This is a rash action! We strongly urge you to reconsider. Let us calm ourselves and send a delegation to Orisium to answer for this crime, and we can resolve this with diplomacy.¡±


    He squeezed his palm until his knuckles cracked. There it is, the coward speaks. Fearing for his money and his ships and his trade, some of which, Adahnys knew, was dealt in Orisium. ¡°When they gave us no such courtesy?¡± the shophet replied with a cool tone. ¡°Whatever their reasoning for these raids, it would have been proper for us to hear about it before such instructions were given to their soldiers. They have sent no word, so we shall not. Jebel, have that order sent.¡±


    ¡°Your highness!¡± Melqart screamed, his head going red like a cherry. ¡°You would risk war over¡­ over an insignificant Rodevian village!¡± The two tribesmen glared at the fat man, but he paid them no heed.


    ¡°War?¡± Adahnys scoffed, shaking his head. ¡°This isn¡¯t war. This is a pissing contest. We treat them how they treat us, any less and we will look weak. They will sniff the fear on us, I will not have it.¡±


    ¡°But if we just¡ª¡± Melqart tried to continue, but the shophet raised a hand for silence.


    ¡°I am merely exercising my legal rights, councillor Hiram.¡± Adahnys sat upright, straight as an arrow. ¡°You may decide what happens within Yarikhad¡¯s walls, but I very much decide what happens outside of them. That is my final say on the matter.¡± He turned to his scribe once more. ¡°Now run along, Jebel.¡± The slender, copper-skinned boy packed up his paper in a leather sachet and hurried out of the council chamber.


    Loud murmurs rang across the council chamber, and Melqart Hiram glared at the young shophet the whole time, shaking his head. My first test passed. His heart cooled a little. It was stressful, Adahnys was very much fighting battles outside and inside the walls of Yarikhad, except on the inside it was harder to tell friend from foe. He looked at the tribesmen. ¡°You two may leave now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my shophet.¡± Berislaf bowed. Jaroslaf nodded his head, bowed, and the two Dumori men left the hall, escorted by the guards.


    Adahnys stood up. ¡°If our business is concluded, I believe I have a feast to prepare for. I trust I will see the majority of you at my palace once night falls. Good day, councillors.¡±


    The members of the supreme council got up one by one, in each and every direction there were hushed whispers, private conversations, and angry stutterings. He could very much feel the mood of disappointment hanging in the room like a stormy cloud. Cowards, all of them.


    ¡°A strong move, your highness.¡± Batonam Taal walked next to him, though still kept his distance, like everyone did. But Batonam always hovered closer to the shophet than most, bar his own family. ¡°Though I would take care not to alienate the supreme council so soon.¡±


    ¡°I had no choice. Had I stood and done nothing, these incursions would have continued, and then once we lose our vassal tribes in Rodevia for failing to protect them. Who do you think these fools will point the finger at then?¡±


    Batonam nodded. ¡°You, of course. I only mean to say, don¡¯t push them away. Speak to them more softly, use sweet words to calm their anger, like a piper taming a cobra. These merchant princes are very proud, and their pride swells every day, but it does not get less fragile. If you are too prickly with them, they will erupt.¡±


    ¡°You think I should apologize?¡± Adahnys said to his old advisor as they walked across the chamber, standing over the sun/moon circle in the center.


    ¡°I think it would help heal their wounded pride. It would not do to have you at each other''s throats.¡± The councillor had such a calm, diplomatic demeanour about these things. He had been like that as long as Adahnys could remember. Even when he advised Adahnys¡¯s father. He didn¡¯t really want to apologize to Melqart Hiram. He wanted to scream at him and call him a fat pig and a coward, and to keep his nose out of matters that don¡¯t concern him. As with all the other councillors who protested, they were all greedy cowards. But Batonam was the man who could convince him to try to reconcile these people. Maybe he is the piper, and I am the cobra.


    ¡°Very well. They¡¯ll have their bloody apology when I host them at my home tonight,¡± the shophet complained.


    ¡°You are most wise, your highness,¡± Batonam said, bowing. The shophet left the hall thinking of soothing melodies and dancing serpents.

 Chapter 2 - Darius

    As Darius Zaman stood in the port of Yarikhad, listening to sailors haggling with merchants, slaves being lashed by slavers, people of all shapes and sizes from every corner of the known world, speaking a hundred different tongues, he could not ignore the twisting knot in his stomach at his next great step in life. Or maybe it was the pungent smell of fresh fish and crab being unloaded off a fishing galley docked just next to his own trading galley.


    The ship was a beautiful work of craftsmanship. A hull of fresh polished dark oak, with two rows of oars that was to be manned by experienced oarsmen, all slaves of the ship¡¯s owner, who was unfortunately not Darius Zaman. He had just been leasing the ship from a far richer man called Sakarbaal Addi for his next ambitious business venture.


    But it was nothing compared to some other ships he saw. Great fat bellied trading galleys with five rows of oars, he was amazed they could even squeeze into the harbour. Then there were the Yariki war galleys, with their ebony hulls, clean white sails, the eyes painted on the front of the ship, and a sharp steel ram at the front slicing through the water, able to cut another ship in half like a knife through butter with enough speed. The war galleys would steal off through the port, into the gated ring harbour where the Yariki navy rested.


    Darius never ceased to be amazed by the structure. The main building was like a wide, multi story circle lined with columns, an island of its own surrounded by a moat, where the next part of the harbour then surrounded it in a giant ring, able to house more ships.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to miss you, my love,¡± Tanitha said, squeezing him tight. He took his eyes off the ships and returned her affection, embracing her tight. Her touch was warm, soft, and loving as it always was. He ran his hand through her smooth jet-black hair, and when she pulled back to gaze upon him, her gorgeous hazel eyes glistened with tears.


    ¡°I love you,¡± Darius said.


    ¡°I love you too.¡± They kissed. She was a beautiful woman, his Tanitha, truly. A small, slim woman, wrapped in a layered green robe from neck to toe. Her bronze skin seemed to drink in the sunlight, and he could never get tired of her soft lips on his.


    It brought him back to last night, possibly his favourite night of all his memories, spent with his favourite person. They had rode out of Yarikhad on the back of a camel as the sun set, the giant orange orb casting the distant city behind them a shade of black against the twilight backdrop, the heat blurring the buildings as though they were a smudge on a painting. He remembered how Tanitha clutched his chest as he spurred the camel on through the fields and distant farming villages.


    As night fell, they got to some massive cliffs of black rock that promised a gorgeous view of the Chenean Sea. The deep blue waters crashing in white foam at the rocks below. They had only gotten to enjoy it for a moment before the sun set completely, and they were shrouded in darkness. And then the sea of stars showed itself above them. That was what Darius really wanted to show his wife on this night, before he was to set sail tomorrow.


    They lay on a mound of grass, where Darius unrolled a soft rug and took out a bottle of Durnese red he had sneakily ¡®borrowed¡¯ from a winehouse in the lower city. Darius lit a small fire from long dried up strands of grass and old twigs and sticks. The camel sat down beside them on its knees, looking like a big furry beige hump.


    ¡°We came here as children a long time ago,¡± Darius said as they both sat on the rug, and he passed her the bottle of deep red wine. ¡°My brother used to jest, saying here the celestials came to strip and dance nude in the night sky.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re magnificent,¡± Tanitha said, looking up in awe at the night sky, lit by millions of twinkling silver stars. A radiant, pale yellow streak, dusty in texture like a cloud, shot amidst the stars in a brilliant line, like a cosmic giant slashing the night sky with a sword of light. ¡°Darius, the gods show themselves here clearer than at the celestial temple.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve always thought the celestials favour spots of nature over any man made construction,¡± Darius said, taking a sip of the fruity wine from the bottle. ¡°The temple at Yarikhad is one of the great wonders of the world, to be sure, but what is that compared to such raw, natural beauty?¡± He waved his hand across the night sky, basking in the glow of the cosmos. The glow of the gods, the weavers of reality. Four celestials made up the pantheon of the Yariki religion; the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, and the World, and together they crafted everything man could see, feel, breathe, and touch. The Stars were always Darius¡¯s favourite of them all. None matched in their awe and scope.


    ¡°There is a certain magic here,¡± Tanitha agreed, cuddling up to him, brushing her fingers up his shirt. ¡°Can¡¯t you feel it?¡±


    ¡°I can.¡± Darius kissed her, and they fell into each other¡¯s embrace for a few moments.


    Tanitha pulled away, brushing a lock of his wavy black hair away from his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to go tomorrow.¡± Then she hugged him tight, burying her face under his chin. Her warm breaths tingled across his neck and upper chest.


    He smiled. ¡°Nor do I, my love. The wide open sea scares me. But I have to. What have I always told you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be the richest man in Yarikhad.¡± Tanitha grinned, biting her lip.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯ll be a dealer in spices and exotic wares and own a vast merchant navy that the shophet himself will envy. I shall sit the supreme council alongside the great and wise Melqart Hiram and the other princes of Yarikhad. I will shower you with fat gems the size of duck eggs and more jewellery than you could wear in a lifetime, and we¡¯ll travel the world together. Holidaying at an Araetian manse with slaves tending to our every need, and sailing far to the west to the distant lands of Anaecia on a gargantuan pleasure ship!¡± Darius could often get carried away in his fantasies, he could feel the exotic air of far away civilizations, the splash of the ocean on his face, the cold metal of the heavy trinkets he would shower his wife with.


    Tanitha laughed, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. ¡°I believe you.¡±


    He believed it too. It had been for Tanitha he took the backbreaking work of chiselling stone tablets deep in the bowels of the Great Library of Yarikhad. Nothing he wrote was original. Often he was chiselling into the rock different tedious numbers like crop yields, tax revenues for the year, how much silk or leathers or cinnamon arrived through the port, or a rich noblemen¡¯s accounts. All in all, it was mainly copying the works of better, wiser men. One of those wiser men was Melqart Hiram, the current richest man in Yarikhad¡ªa title Darius wanted to steal from him. He liked copying the work of wise men like Melqart the most, because they were packed full of wisdom regarding wealth and the principles of money management. And little by little, Darius began saving his silvers. He set aside twenty percent of his wage every time he was paid without exception, he stopped buying useless extravagances, and lived on the bare minimum. Slowly, those silvers became gold. He did that with strict discipline until he could afford to lease a trading galley and have enough investment to buy exotic wares from distant ports to sell at a great profit back home in Yarikhad. He remembered the sweat clinging to his skin every time he hammered that chisel into a stone tablet. How his back ached from being hunched over. How his arms burned. But it was all worth it for this moment of triumph.


    ¡°Oh, Darius. I really wish you didn¡¯t have to go,¡± Tanitha moaned.


    ¡°So do I.¡± He looked into her eyes, brushing his fingers along the side of her smooth face. ¡°I wish I could be trapped in this moment forever.¡±


    ¡°You always know what to say,¡± Tanitha purred, pushing his shirt up, exposing more of his skin.


    The warm breeze glossed over his skin. ¡°I just say what I feel, nothing more.¡± They lay by the dim fire, swirling embers up into the air in a calm spiral, gazing at the stars.


    The memory of that night was a sweet one, one that he would cherish forever.


    His mind was thrust back into the chaos of the port, and the twisting knot in his stomach. Was this what being sea sick felt like? Darius had never been on the sea before. Not properly, not on a ship. What if it sinks?


    ¡°Do you have everything?¡± Tanitha said as they approached his trading galley. Big, muscular slaves, bald, shaven, and sweating under the hot sun, hauled crates aboard.


    Darius looked over at the stack of crates, at the man¡ªpresumably the captain, judging by his flamboyant attire and feathered hat¡ªwho barked commands at the slaves. ¡°Yes, my things are all in a crate. I prepared it weeks ago. My clothes, shoes, sword, and my chest.¡± The chest was the most important, full of his remaining gold and silver with which he would buy cinnamon, saffron, bay leaf, cumin, and exotic south Djimalian leathers to trade back home.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    His wife clutched his arm. Tears ran down her cheeks now. ¡°I¡¯m going to miss you. Your voyage will be two months, won¡¯t it?¡±


    Darius rolled his eyes but took Tanitha¡¯s hand all the same. They had been over this a thousand times. ¡°Yes, two months. Sakarbaal Addi assured me his ships are fast, and the route is well known.¡±


    His wife clutched his hand tighter. Those small hands of hers had a fierce grip when she wanted them to. She was stronger than she looked. ¡°And what of pirates and storms? Or the great sea serpents that sailors speak of beyond the Chenean Sea?¡± She was breathing faster.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been listening to one too many drunk sailors, my love.¡± Darius laughed. ¡°Men with uninteresting lives frequently exaggerate their adventures to impress barmaids and fishwives back home. It makes them feel like conquerors.¡± It was not pirates or storms or sea serpents that scared him, it was the vast emptiness of the ocean itself. Granted, storms were a real possibility, but it was the thought of getting lost or sinking that really shook him. Falling into the deep depths, where no one would hear or find him, clutching for air in his last moments¡­ he shook the thought off.


    ¡°How would you know?¡± she snapped, the worry on her face unhidden. ¡°You¡¯ve never been out there!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve consulted with experts. Men with real stories, travelled merchants. Not drunk sailors.¡± The last of the crates were being hauled onboard, and other sailors began walking up the ramp. ¡°I really have to get going. I love you, Tanitha.¡±


    She hugged him one last time. ¡°Safe travels, my love. Promise me you will return safely.¡±


    ¡°Tanitha¡ª¡±


    ¡°Promise!¡± she snapped.


    Darius sighed, taking both of her hands. ¡°I promise I will return safely, okay? Ensure your father takes good care of you while I¡¯m away, or I¡¯ll be having words with him.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Tanitha giggled, and they kissed. ¡°I¡¯ll pray for you. I¡¯ll pray in the celestial temple itself for your safe return.¡±


    He blushed. ¡°I¡¯m sure you will. I really have to get going.¡± And with that, he released her arms and walked up the ramp, pushing past the passing slaves. A scribe took his name and recorded Darius¡¯s business on the ship, and then he was aboard.


    The ship departed after everyone was aboard, and Tanitha waved him goodbye one last time. He waved back, smiling, leaning over the railing. The ship slowly sailed out of the harbour, the oars crashing in unison into the bustling water, sending foam and spray splashing below.


    He gazed at the city as they left. The houses and markets of the lower city, walled off from the middle city. The celestial temple poking out amidst the small stone structures, a magnificent marble tower rising up into the heavens, dwarfing them all, its glass dome shooting a sharp beam of sunlight off into the distance. Then there was the middle city, walled off from the lower, home to the great library, the artisans and other professionals, the manses of the merchant princes, and the royal botanic gardens. And at the peak of Yarikhad itself, resting upon Yarikhan¡¯s hill, stood the royal citadel. The shophet¡¯s palace was clear in the distance, with its pristine columns and hanging gardens, spotting the clean white marble with patches of greenery. What it would be like to live in such a place¡­ Darius brooded over the thought.


    As the galley sailed out of the harbour, heading into the rocking ocean, he headed below decks to explore the ship. There wasn¡¯t much to see, in truth. The floor below the main deck was humid with sweat and the sound of huffing oarsmen, all rowing in perfect unison; below that was the cargo hold, where their chests were held and the cargo they picked up from the next port would go.


    On his way back up the stairs, a slave twice the size of Darius returning to his oar bumped into him. ¡°Watch your step, fucking fool!¡± Darius yelled, and slapped the man on the back of the head. The slave huffed and walked off.


    Blind fool. He brushed his clothes off and straightened his robe out. Ahead was the captain¡¯s cabin, the only comfortable spot on the entire ship. Inside was a small bed, a desk on top of which an unlit oil lamp sat, next to a parchment and a quill dipped into an inkpot. A very humble wooden room. It creaked as the ship rocked on the water. The sensation made Darius a little dizzy.


    ¡°Greetings, brothers,¡± Darius said to the two men sitting by the desk. The first was the captain, Baran Sasani, and next to him was the other man leasing a share of the ship for the duration of the expedition, Quarneem Mirza. He was a rich man, Darius knew. His white silk robe flourished with golden threads woven in elaborate floral patterns. A tall and gaunt man, with sunken eyes and a pale complexion, greying brown hair hung from his scalp.


    Quarneem raised a golden goblet, swirling with wine. ¡°Greetings, brother.¡±


    ¡°Come, sit,¡± the captain pulled a chair across the room for him, and filled him a cup of wine. ¡°Sakarbaal tells me this is your first voyage?¡± The feathers on his hat bobbed as he moved, he wore a white cotton tunic, black trousers and some thin curved shoes.


    Darius sat, rubbing his stomach, then gracefully gulped down a sip of wine. ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve never been on a proper ship before.¡±


    ¡°Just remember to go to the top if you intend to empty the contents of your stomach, and you¡¯ll be okay,¡± Quarneem said in that quiet, humming voice of his.


    ¡°How is business?¡± Darius asked the gaunt man.


    Quarneem raised a brow, shrugging. ¡°My caravans go from one city to the next, they load their wares on ships, and off it goes from one port to the next. But I must depart in Rodevia when we make port there. The border fighting with Orisian legions has scared my clients out of their wits. They are like frightened hens, I must calm them.¡±


    ¡°The shophet has responded with a show of strength,¡± Darius agreed. ¡°But I think it will blow over. Little skirmishes across the Tane river are hardly something to stop business over, or flee. Not when there is much gold to be made.¡±


    The gaunt merchant laughed. Some wine fell from his goblet. ¡°If only my clients had your sense. I would gladly deal with ten of you.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to travel with you then,¡± Darius blurted out. It was a rapid change of plan, but Melqart¡¯s teachings always instructed one to seize an opportunity when fate bestowed it upon him. And Quarneem Mirza was a successful merchant, not the richest man, but far richer than Darius.


    An opportunity.


    Quarneem inspected him up and down, bidding the captain to refill his goblet with wine. ¡°You¡¯re too green, boy. Become a bit well travelled first, then come to me. Your lust for wealth oozes from your eyes as you talk.¡±


    ¡°Is that a bad thing?¡± Darius asked, trying hard now not to glance at the gold on Quarneem¡¯s person.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want ambitious partners, I want subordinates. Ambitious people are cut-throats, and will try to topple you the moment they feel they are in a position to do so.¡±


    He frowned. ¡°I¡¯m an honest man.¡±


    The merchant pulled his fingers to his neck and pulled down his robe, revealing a long lumpy grotesque scar, running from his neck down to his collarbone. ¡°That¡¯s what the last honest man with a love of money did to me, my boy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m no liar,¡± Darius asserted, placing his cup on the desk. ¡°I am loyal to my wife and family, and have toiled hard in the depths of Yarikhad, saving every drop of wealth that comes my way so I can create a better life for myself. I have never betrayed anyone, and especially not for money.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯ve never had any money, have you?¡± Quarneem said. ¡°You¡¯ve done well so far, leasing a ship and investing in a voyage. It¡¯s further than most people get, I grant you that. But you¡¯ve yet to feel gold¡¯s sweet corruption, brother. And the rot sets in deep.¡± The merchant¡¯s sunken, tired, bloodshot eyes glared at Darius. ¡°Everyone thinks they want to be a rich man. The richest man in the world. But what they don¡¯t realise is the cost of gold, the more you have, the more you want it. You will do things a good man would not do. And you will bury the shame of those deeds with vice and sin.¡±


    ¡°Then those men are weak,¡± Darius said, stern and cocksure of himself. ¡°I have been a poor man, I have had a taste of gold, and I choose wealth every single time. I¡¯d sooner face the tests the gods give me draped in signet rings and gemstones, with a merchant navy at my back and a chest bursting with gold at my heels.¡±


    ¡°Weak,¡± Quarneem scoffed, chuckling. ¡°You think you can control the corruption of gold, you cannot. Maybe you wouldn¡¯t choose wealth if you knew what it meant. If you knew how it would turn those around you into creatures of greed, devoid of love and trust and joy.¡±


    ¡°I have a good family, and a good wife, they would never betray me. They are loyal.¡± Tanitha is loyal. Gold would never come between us.


    ¡°But will you be loyal to her, when you are elevated to heights most men can only dream of?¡± The merchant raised a brow, sipping more wine. He could really put his drink away.


    Heat rose in Darius¡¯s chest at the accusation. ¡°Of course. What is your implication?¡± He knew exactly what it was.


    ¡°That you¡¯ll fuck the first young maiden that tugs at your brand new golden chain once your wife grows old and wrinkly, or the first whore that bats her eyelids at you.¡±


    Darius slammed his wine cup down, spilling half of it on the floor. ¡°I would never betray my wife for a common whore!¡± The very thought sickened him. How it would break her. He could never do that.


    Quarneem sighed. ¡°Have I given offense? I apologise, brother. Wine loosens my tongue, and dulls my wits. Forgive me.¡±


    Darius said nothing, got up, and left the room, strolling up to the top deck to watch the galley cut through the vast ocean. I am better than common men. He had read it in Melqart Hiram¡¯s texts. For the gods to bestow their favour upon a single man, that man must believe in himself first and foremost, and must work to achieve his goals. You pave your own path, and the celestials will light the way forward, the stone tablet he copied long ago had those words inscribed on it. And he remembered it ever since.


    And Darius was on a path of greatness. He could feel it with every rocking wave, every gust of warm air that brushed across his skin.


    I will be a rich man. A great man.

 Chapter 3 - Andromeda

    ¡°One more shot!¡± a drunk youth yelled, aiming a slingshot at a naked dwarf. The dwarf stood on a table, covering his cock with his stubby hands, a wide grin on his face. A woman wearing a brown cotton tunic crawled up behind him and balanced an apple on his head.


    Everyone in the alehouse cheered them on, raising their cups high, spilling their foamy ale in a rain of debauchery.


    Andromeda loved it and cheered the drunk dwarf on merrily. The youth fired the slingshot. The projectile hit the dwarf square in the face. He grimaced, gasping in pain. The apple fell from his head and bounced off the table, falling into the crowd of drunk patrons below, and his hands left his cock as he nursed his red face.


    Everyone exploded into laughter, and then the dwarf lost his balance and tumbled off the table. Andromeda clutched her sides, knocking her cup of ale over. ¡°Oh, shit,¡± she wheezed between her bouts of laughter. She got off the lap of a handsome Pyrridonian man and went to fetch herself another drink.


    ¡°Surely that is not the true colour of your hair,¡± someone said behind her. It was a man, a young broad man, average height, with a small bush of curly blonde hair and a strong jaw, clean shaven. ¡°Is it a western style? I¡¯ve never seen such a thing before.¡±


    Andromeda smirked. She knew what he was referring to. Her hair was chestnut-brown, it flowed past her shoulders in waves, but at the front flowed two brilliant silver streaks of pale white hair down each side of her face. A unique, and oddly beautiful, condition. It brought out the silver in her grey eyes, her mother always said. When she lived.


    ¡°Believe it or not,¡± she said, turning to face him, smiling. ¡°The gods gave me the pale streaks in my hair. I¡¯ve always been fond of it. Touched by Daena.¡±


    ¡°Is that what they call it?¡± He let a wisp of her hair drop through his fingers. ¡°The Trondic barbarians to the north say pale marks are the sign of a demon-born.¡±


    Andromeda raised a brow. ¡°Is that how you compliment every girl?¡±


    ¡°Just the pretty ones.¡± He chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m Florian.¡±


    She smirked. ¡°Well, Florian, are you just going to stand there or fetch me another drink?¡±


    ¡°Rich girls like you ought to drink better than ale,¡± he inspected her closely, but she had also inspected him. He looks Orisian. And not an Orisian that lived a hard life. His knee-length tunic was a clean white lined with blue and cloth of gold, the same colour as his cape.


    ¡°How do you know I¡¯m rich?¡± she asked. The man was right, of course, but it annoyed her. She tried to dress more modestly to blend in around the lower city. She preferred it here, among the plebeians.


    ¡°The way you carry yourself, the way you walk. I have an eye for these things.¡± The corner of his lip tugged into a half smile, and he leaned in closer. ¡°I spent a lot of time around rich girls. And boys. Rich people. You still haven¡¯t told me your name.¡±


    ¡°Meda.¡± She frequently gave out that name to strangers. Especially in the lower city. And especially to Orisian strangers. ¡°I¡¯m still waiting for my drink.¡±


    Florian looked around. ¡°There¡¯s a winehouse not far from this shit heap we should go to. Less plebeians, more wine. Fine golden vintages from Anaecia or Durnese reds. My treat.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine here, with the plebs and ale,¡± Andromeda said. ¡°I like them. They¡¯re far more festive than patricians, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Florian laughed. ¡°You have not seen true patrician festivities then.¡±


    ¡°But you have.¡±


    He curled a brow. ¡°How would you know?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re an Orisian man in Pyrridon. You wear cloth of gold, and you curl your nose at everyone who walks past you, except me, it seems. You¡¯re a noble. Who are you, Florian? Why are you here?¡± Andromeda said, now distancing herself a little from the man. Despite the ale dulling her senses in a cloud of dizziness, and her odd misstep, she still had enough wit to be cautious.


    ¡°You speak as though I mean to hide myself or maintain a secretive aura. I¡¯m of a noble Orisian family, yes, and wear it proudly. I am from the house of Aventii. My full name is Florian Aventus. As for my purpose here, well, I came to Pyrridon to study philosophy. And after a hard day''s work of pretending to listen to my old rotten tutor, I roam the streets, high and low, enjoying ale, wine, and women. And here in this fine establishment, I heard they had good dice games in the back room, which I was eager to try. Nothing so mysterious, I¡¯m afraid.¡± He held his hands up in a mocking display of shame. He pulled one of the wenches over and commanded her to bring him two cups of ale, shoving a few coppers in her palm. ¡°What about you? What brings a rich Orisian girl to Pyrridon, drinking with a bunch of plebs?¡±


    My, he is a perceptive one, she thought, then wondered if he already knew who she was and was jesting with her. It must be my accent. For she too was of Orisian noble birth. But far more noble than the Aventii dynasty. ¡°Did you win at the dice tables?¡± She wanted to bring the subject off her, for she had no energy to come up with a lie on the spot.


    ¡°I lost a signet ring of solid gold that had been a family heirloom since the near founding of Orisium itself.¡± He shrugged, casually taking a cup of ale from the serving wench for himself, then one for Andromeda, passing it to her.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure your family will be sad to hear it. Though the man who won it from you will be very happy.¡± She gulped the thick ale down, wiping the foam from her lips.


    ¡°Fuck my family, fuck the ring,¡± Florian spat. ¡°And fuck the man who won it. He didn¡¯t win shit. That room was full of people who¡¯ve never seen a piece of gold in their lives. He¡¯ll have an open throat before the sun rises on the morrow, mark my words.¡±


    ¡°You could have given it to me.¡± Andromeda smiled. ¡°I like gold rings.¡±


    ¡°Mayhaps I can win it back for you¡­¡± He grabbed her hand. ¡°Shall we go and play?¡±


    ¡°You would do that for me?¡± But just as she was about to accept that offer, two men draped in black cloaks and chain mail walked through the door of the alehouse. Behind them came Hector, the captain of Tyrant Demetrius¡¯s palace guard. His hood covered most of his older, hard face. But his grizzly thick grey beard was on full display. She looked at them glum, knowing her night was over.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡± Florian asked, looking over her shoulder.


    ¡°Not really,¡± Andromeda sighed, quickly downing the rest of her ale and tossing the cup on the floor. ¡°I¡¯m afraid my fun and games are over. Goodbye, Florian.¡± She gave the man a long wet kiss, which he accepted without question.


    She walked toward the guards, sparing Hector the trouble of having to drag her out kicking and screaming.


    ¡°Will I see you again?¡± Florian called from behind.


    She turned her head, still walking away. ¡°Maybe, maybe not. Who knows!¡±


    Hector had already spotted her walking towards him and waited by the door. His face as grim and gormless as ever. His massive hand rested on the pommel of his short sword. She pushed past a few drunk plebs to get to him.


    ¡°Hector, you¡¯re earlier than usual,¡± Andromeda said, grabbing his sleeve for balance. Her last few drinks were going to her head now.


    The big man huffed. "Your father asked for your immediate return to the palace. You must rise early on the morrow.¡±


    ¡°Ugh.¡± She waved a hand at him and then pushed past the three men. ¡°Don¡¯t remind me.¡±


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    ¡°Accept my apologies, my lady,¡± he said as he followed her out of the alehouse into the cool night, the streets lit by small torches dotted around the humble stone houses, and the air filled with songs chirped by crickets. ¡°But those are my¡ª¡±


    ¡°My lady?¡± Andromeda snapped, grinning, pointing her finger into his chest. ¡°You wound me, Hector. Usually you call me princess. Have I displeased you?¡±


    ¡°Hush now, my lady. We know not who prowls these streets.¡± Hector looked around, his hard eyes peering through his hood from side to side, inspecting the narrow, winding streets of the lower city. Behind them, two plebs stumbled out of the alehouse, and one of them vomited a green-brown lumpy stream right next to the door. Hector grimaced and spat. ¡°Why must you frequent such establishments? Surely they are beneath you.¡±


    She frowned. ¡°Everyone keeps asking me that. Am I not a lady? I can go where I wish.¡±


    ¡°Not now you can¡¯t. Come now, your father wants to see you.¡± Hector led her to his horse. ¡°I had suspected you¡¯d be too drunk to sit a horse, so I didn¡¯t bother bringing one this time. You will ride with me.¡±


    Andromeda chortled. ¡°Oh, you know me too well, my sweet Hector. We can be like a prince and princess riding off to our honeymoon!¡±


    He rolled his eyes while helping her mount his destrier. It was a calm, quiet thing, and barely made a noise as she hopped on. Hector hopped on behind her, his arms coming past her waist to grab the reins. His guardsmen mounted up beside him, and they set off through the cobbled streets of Pyrridon, the horse clopping along. ¡°No more talk of princesses in the lower city.¡±


    She laughed, but remained silent. As fun as it was to annoy him, the poor fellow didn¡¯t deserve it. Andromeda was very fond of Hector, and always felt safe around him. He had been a watchful eye over her and her father for as long as they lived in Pyrridon, some two years now. He would sometimes bring her flowers from the palace gardens when they bloomed, and on her name days brought her the best honey cakes from the market. A gentle giant, he was. But Andromeda knew he was dangerous. She¡¯d heard what those hands could do with a sword, or what they have done without one. And yet she found it hard to believe, for she had never seen him be violent for as long as she knew him.


    They rode all the way up to the citadel in the night, marked by the great temple to Pyron, with its gargantuan decorative columns lining the whole rectangular structure, atop which a great marble roof sat, which was only visible for the torch light dotting it. It looked more like a shadow than a monument to a god, but she had seen it so many times that her mind could fill in the blanks. The Tyrant of Pyrridon¡¯s palace stood opposite the temple at the citadel, overlooking the whole city.


    The palace was quiet when they strode past the enormous marble columns that lined the front of the building. Their lonely footsteps echoing off the marble floors, and solemn white statues of nude, muscular men watched them as they walked by. Hector escorted her to the guest¡¯s apartments within the palace safely, where her father would be waiting for her. A shame you will not enter with me. Of all the places in this city where she could use Hector¡¯s help, it was within that room, not outside on the streets or among the plebs. The true danger was in there, her father, doubtless in one of his black moods.


    She had grown used to it, to a degree, but her heart could never stop itself from racing at the thought of entering the room where she knew he would unleash his rage on her. ¡°T-Thank you, Hector,¡± she said as she grabbed the golden doorknob to the apartments.


    Hector bowed. ¡°My princess.¡± He turned heel with all the grace of an old soldier and walked away.


    Andromeda sucked in a deep breath and pushed the doorknob with a sweaty hand. The lavish apartment hummed with the sound of a light breeze coming in through the open window, causing the saffron yellow curtains to dance in the wind. A fire burned in the brazier to the far side of the room, the logs crackling as they spat embers out.


    On a chair in the middle of the room sat her father, Erastus. Hunched over, breathing deeply as he stared at the floor with a bottle of wine in his hand. The door clicked as it shut behind her. He looked up, as though it jolted him out of a deep slumber, glaring at her through his sunken eyes, under which deep purple bags hung. ¡°I told you to be back before nightfall,¡± Erastus mumbled, burping after getting the words out. He gulped from the bottle, the red liquid running past his thin lips, dripping onto his red tunic.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t see the sun go down,¡± she said, walking into the room, trying to skirt around him and rush off into her bedchamber.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you get clever with me, you little cunt.¡± He stood, pushing against the chair to support him. His unkempt brown hair matted with the grime of the day, coming down in fingers over his eyes, and the stench of wine oozed off him. He was a slim man of average height, not much taller than Andromeda. Hector could have snapped him in two, she thought, had he not been of royal blood. ¡°When I tell you to return before nightfall, you return before nightfall.¡± He was in her face now, his humid wine breath like a fog enveloping her.


    She rolled her eyes. The initial, raw fear had passed, because now she was in the eye of the storm. And he was drunk. The man wasn¡¯t as intimidating when he was drunk. Or perhaps the ale made her bolder, as it normally did when she argued with her father. But she knew he couldn¡¯t harm her tonight, not so badly. He needed her. ¡°I¡¯ll return whenever I damn well please.¡± She tried to shove past him, but he grabbed her wrist.


    Here we go.


    ¡°You do not speak to your king like that.¡± His spittle flew into her face. ¡°And you do not defy me on the eve of such an important occasion. You must be presentable tomorrow. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Let go of me,¡± she cried, trying to yank her wrist free from his tight grasp.


    ¡°DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?¡± her father roared, a vein throbbing on his temple.


    ¡°You¡¯re no king,¡± Andromeda spat. You can¡¯t hurt me tonight. ¡°You¡¯re a pathetic drunk¡ª¡±


    Erastus slapped her harder than she expected. It knocked her to the ground and left her with a throbbing cheek and spinning head, though the ale numbed some of the pain. ¡°I AM THE KING OF ORISIUM! You will learn to respect that, you little whore.¡±


    ¡°I have respect, just none for you.¡±


    Her father grabbed her by the throat and dragged her up off the floor, shoving her against the wall. ¡°After all I do for you, for us. I¡¯m trying to win Orisium back for us, my daughter. Our home, our throne, our kingdom. And you defy me at every turn.¡±


    She struck him with a closed fist, catching him on the jaw. His grip went limp as he reeled back, and she gasped for air. ¡°I don¡¯t give a shit about Orisium.¡±


    ¡°Wow¡­¡± He gawked, bringing a finger to his lips, testing for blood. ¡°If you weren¡¯t being presented for the Anaecid Shah¡¯s inspection tomorrow, I¡¯d have knocked your teeth out for that.¡±


    ¡°Do it. You won¡¯t be able to sell me off for some distant monarch¡¯s harem then. I might live a happier life.¡± She didn¡¯t know why she fought him like this. Maybe just drunk, or maybe it brought out her true feelings, her true anger. Her father didn¡¯t care about taking them home. Where is home? Home was always being carted off to the next nobleman¡¯s palace or manse to sell off like some prize sheep.


    She had heard so much of this city, Orisium, from the tales her father told. Apparently, it was her home. Yet she had never seen it, nor breathed its air, nor stepped on its soil. It was a figment in her imagination, a fairytale, a utopia where they would be rich and powerful and plebs and noblemen alike would kiss their arses. He only cares for power, and to be something other than a drunken lech.


    ¡°Happier life?¡± He gulped more wine from the bottle, letting the last drops spill into his mouth before dropping the bottle to the ground, where it shattered. ¡°You think drinking with filthy peasants and fucking some poor milkmaid¡¯s husband is happiness? Na?ve little slut!¡± He tightened his grip on her throat again, but she resisted now, and they both fell to the ground, him trying to strangle her, she clawing at his face.


    But the more Andromeda clawed, marking his face with red streaks, the tighter he clasped her throat. Her head felt lighter, dizzy, and each breath got caught in her throat, tightening her chest. ¡°F-Father¡±¡ªshe coughed¡ª¡°I can¡¯t breathe.¡±


    His eyes widened, and he released her, panting heavily. She massaged her neck as she lay on the ground, sucking in as much air as possible. It was a wonder she didn¡¯t vomit.


    ¡°A mob of filthy plebeians and traitors slew my brother,¡± Erastus sighed, slumping himself back onto a stool. ¡°And one of those filthy plebeians stole his throne, my throne, destroyed the very meaning of the crown and chased us from our home. I will get it back. And if that means you have to fuck some foreign king in exchange for his army, then you will do that.¡±


    She pushed herself up, but didn¡¯t answer. Her throat was still red and raw.


    Her father glared at her. ¡°You think I haven¡¯t made sacrifices for this? You think I won¡¯t be at the head of a legion, ready to die when the time comes? You know nothing.¡±


    Hot tears blurred her vision. ¡°I know that I hate you.¡±


    ¡°Dim-witted whore,¡± he spat. ¡°Get out of my sight. We must rise early on the morrow.¡±


    Andromeda ran to her bedroom and burst into tears when she knew father wouldn¡¯t hear her. I won¡¯t let him see me like this. She hated her father, she hated Orisium, and she hated everyone. He had been trying to find her a husband for years now, but there were always complications. ¡®Politically unsuitable,¡¯ she had heard once, not that she had an inkling what that meant. She hoped it would be that way tomorrow, but had a grim feeling that when the sun next came up, her life would never be the same.

 Chapter 4 - Elissa

    Sometimes Elissa Shahar could feel very alone in the shophet¡¯s palace. Her children were growing, her husband was dead¡ªin her sleep she cursed Adibaal for leaving her so suddenly¡ªand she managed the general running of the palace. Yet amidst the constant flow of the new and familiar faces that made up the palace staff, she could feel alone.


    Today was not one of those times.


    The great hall of the palace bristled with noblemen and their retainers and slaves alike. A massive fire roared in the hearth at the far side of the hall, basking them with light and heat. On either side of the hearth, two long reliefs depicting the celestials stood mighty, their marble forms illuminated by the flames. The Moon stood in tandem with the Stars, holding up a thick tome. On the other side, the Sun and the World stood side by side upholding a large globe. The scent of roasted lamb and fire pepper and roast vegetables hung over the room.


    Torches lined the walls, between white banners bearing a red upside down equilateral triangle; beneath which was a red dot. The flag of Yarikhad.


    From the dais, sat elevated above the rest of the hall, she watched the merchant princes, noblemen, and anyone who meant anything in the entire city feast, drink, and laugh to their heart''s content. The joyous atmosphere was much the same on the dais amidst the royal family. Except for Adahnys, whose ivory face gave nothing away, forever looking at everyone and everything with its same gormless expression. I should get him one that smiles, she thought, remembering how much his father smiled.


    It would be rather fitting considering how many gifts he¡¯d received. If ever anyone could be spoiled in a room full of Yarikhad¡¯s wealthiest citizens, it was the shophet. Tiger-skin cloaks, jade statues of giggling fat men, a Trondic battleaxe inscribed with queer, clumsily drawn runes, but caught any light brilliantly. Farzad Zadeh had given him an ancient scroll, its dry parchment inscribed with symbols of an unknown language, thought to be able to work magic, should the reader be able to decipher the symbols. A silly fairytale, Elissa thought, and Adahnys seemed to silently agree with that assessment when he had accepted the gift. Had any man believed such a scroll could work magic, unknown language or not, they¡¯d have kept it, she knew.


    The worst gift came from Melqart Hiram. He chose a more sentimental gift. A small marble bust of the Orisian plebeian Vero Corvus. Known to history as the man who destroyed the old Kingdom of Orisium. The small, finely carved white sculpture depicted Vero wrapped up in a toga, holding up the new constitution of Orisium in his left hand, while a sparrow rested on his right. ¡°I procured this artefact at great personal cost, your highness,¡± Melqart said, then the round man leaned closer to her son. ¡°We stole it from a wealthy Orisian brat who now rests at the bottom of the Chenean, and now it''s yours. A symbol of their pride to rest in your halls! A minor victory for what they did to our kingdom oh so long ago, is it not?¡± Elissa remembered how his jowls jiggled as he guffawed.


    Could a man be so bold, arrogant, ignorant, stupid, or cocksure? Elissa couldn¡¯t decide which he was. If only she could have had his fat throat slit open right there and then to dare threaten her son like that. The threat to their family and their position was clear as daylight, considering the tension she heard of in the supreme council earlier today. Or could he really be so stupid as to come bearing such a symbolic gift and have them think nothing of it? The merchant prince also offered Adahnys an Araetian pleasure slave. Slender and petite and naked, except for the loose pink cloth she wore that covered nothing important, to which her son refused.


    Elissa would not let the affront slide. She got up and calmly walked to the far side of the hall where Melqart was hassling one of the serving slaves. She caught him in a quiet corner, where their voices were drowned out by the chatter of the hall.


    The merchant prince noticed her before she spoke and held his arms out in a welcoming gesture. ¡°My lady, Elissa¡ª¡±


    ¡°What in the gods¡¯ name do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± she snapped, skipping the false pleasantries.


    Creases formed above his brow. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    ¡°Your gift to my son. You think its meaning was lost on me?¡±


    Melqart Hiram chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re implying. The sculpture was a fine work of art, and I thought the shophet would appreciate it. We all know he is a scholarly man. It¡¯s a piece of recent history for him.¡±


    Elissa frowned, stepping closer to him. The wine oozed from his breath. ¡°And I know you are a scholarly man as well. You did not become the wealthiest man in this room by being ignorant, and your tablets litter the great library like bird shit at the port.¡±


    ¡°Are you trying to flatter or offend me?¡± He sipped wine from his golden goblet.


    ¡°The sculpture was Vero,¡± Elissa said, straightening her gown. ¡°That plebeian who murdered his own king and destroyed the crown of Orisium.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t be coy with me. We both know it was a warning for what occurred in the council chamber today. Or was it a threat?¡± Merchant princes were as proud as any monarch, and her son had offended them. It wasn¡¯t often they were told no by a sixteen-year-old boy with scaleskin.


    He laughed now. ¡°You dwell on such things too much. If it offends you and the shophet, I will take it back. Or smash it. I care not.¡±


    ¡°You serve the crown,¡± Elissa said. ¡°My son is the living embodiment of the Celestials in this world. The supreme council would do well to remember that.¡±


    Melqart¡¯s mocking smile faded for just a moment, and he set his goblet on the tray of a passing slave girl. ¡°I serve Yarikhad and its people, my lady.¡±


    ¡°To serve the crown is to serve Yarikhad,¡± Elissa snapped.


    The merchant prince looked deep into her eyes. ¡°It was on a very similar issue that Vero killed his king. Good night, my lady.¡± He placed a hand gently on her shoulder and walked away.


    A ball tightened in her throat, leaving her lost for words as the richest man in Yarikhad returned to his seat. ¡°How dare you!¡± she hissed. But he didn¡¯t hear it, no one did. Once, she could have had his tongue out for that, but those days were long over. The worst thing was that Melqart and the rest of the supreme council knew it. Disappointed, defeated, she returned to the dais. She would have to tell her son of this, but that could wait. No need to sour his name day celebrations further.


    ¡°Pleasant chat?¡± the shophet said when she sat down.


    She glanced at him, then took a drink from her refilled cup. ¡°Just exchanging gossip.¡±


    ¡°What did he say?¡± His milk white eyes pierced the shadow of his mask, looking carefully at her.


    ¡°Nothing you need to worry about.¡± Elissa set her cup down. ¡°I told him to get you a better gift next time he¡¯s hosted in our halls.¡±


    ¡°Oh, the sculpture? I quite liked it.¡± Adahnys chuckled. ¡°I prefer the smaller gifts. I can put them in my chambers. It¡¯s the absurdly large statues or chests full of trinkets that annoy me.¡±


    Her daughter leaned over, listening in. ¡°He got me a painted alabaster scarab from Menedemia for my name day, said to belong to the ancient Pharaoh Amonkhet. I think he likes little things like that,¡± Izavel Shahar said.


    ¡°Those aren¡¯t the only little things he likes,¡± Elissa sneered, watching him with the slave girls across the hall. ¡°You¡¯d be wise to keep away from him.¡±


    Elissa¡¯s spirits were lifted at the sight of Maharbaal Dagon pushing through the two front doors of the hall, strutting down the packed rows of tables. His dark leather boots clattered off the black-veined marble floor.


    ¡°Is that uncle?¡± Adahnys said, raising his head from his fist.


    Izavel shot up from her seat, her eyes searching like a hawk. ¡°Where?¡±


    Elissa beamed and got up from her seat, not waiting for him to make it to the dais. ¡°Brother! You came!¡± She gave him a warm hug.


    ¡°Sweet sister,¡± he said, flashing a white smile. His thick, black curly hair came down past his shoulders, almost blending with his black beard. His brown eyes shone like polished mahogany under the torchlight in stark contrast to his light skin. ¡°I hope I have not arrived too late.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m pleased you arrived at all,¡± Elissa exclaimed. ¡°I know how busy you can get. I¡¯m sure the children will be grateful too.¡±


    ¡°An admiral has little time to do anything but look at charts and inspect ships, I¡¯m afraid.¡± He smiled and looked over toward the dais. ¡°The children you say? All I see are strong men and women!¡± Maharbaal marched up the marble steps to greet his nephew, the shophet.


    ¡°I received word you had set sail from Gran Lodes,¡± Adahnys said, slurping wine from a thin, hollowed out wooden straw that poked under his mask. ¡°Though I had not thought to see you here. I am glad the winds were favourable to you.¡±


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    ¡°The winds!¡± Maharbaal boomed, laughing. ¡°T¡¯was not the winds that brought me, young Adahnys, but the strength and determination of our oarsmen. For are the Yariki not the finest sailors in the world?¡± He plucked a red crab claw from a nearby plate, prying it open with a splintering crack, and devoured it.


    The shophet chuckled. ¡°That we are. I am honoured by your presence, uncle.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so happy to see you, uncle Maharbaal!¡± Izavel beamed, swinging her golden goblet around for a slave to refill with fruity amber wine.


    ¡°You too, my dear. I could not miss your brother¡¯s name day now, could I? Not the one name day that makes you a man. Which reminds me! I do not come empty handed.¡± Maharbaal unearthed a leather-bound book from inside his black robes and cleared some space on the table in front of Adahnys, placing the book down.


    COMMENTARIES ON THE ILLIOCID WARS, BY MENEDEMUS I.


    ¡°Since I know how you can get buried in your books,¡± Maharbaal said. ¡°Though with your regency at an end, perhaps you don¡¯t have so much time for reading, no?¡±


    Adahnys jumped from his seat like a trapdoor spider to a wandering cricket. His face gave not even a smidge of his excitement away. It never gives anything away, Elissa thought, but she knew he was more fond of this gift than any other he had received the entire night, including hers.


    ¡°I always have time to read,¡± the shophet said, dragging his uncle¡¯s gift across the table so he could get a closer look at it. He was very careful when opening the pages, careful not to rip the parchment, though he caressed the hard leather cover with his gloved hands like a man to his wife. ¡°Menedemus The Chosen One¡­ I¡¯ve been trying to get a copy of the commentaries to the library for months. They are so rare. How did you come upon this?¡±


    Maharbaal twirled his moustache. ¡°The navy stops and searches many vessels suspected of piracy and smuggling. Sometimes we come upon interesting items¡­¡± He winked at the shophet. Adahnys chuckled.


    ¡°Thank you, uncle. I am truly grateful.¡± Adahnys bowed his head. ¡°I will study it with great care. Please, join us for a drink. We have many vintages out for the occasion.¡±


    Her brother snagged a strip of pink lamb meat seasoned with mint with his knife. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t stay, Adahnys. I only wanted to wish you well and see the rest of the family. Work leaves me with little time.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Piracy on the rise. Orisian war galleys sailing into our waters often enough to make my hairs stand. Testing us with their impudence¡ªbah! Look at me rambling about this on your name day. I¡¯ll hold my tongue now.¡±


    It made Elissa¡¯s hairs stand as well. I like it not, these grim tidings. She felt as though she were on an island surrounded by crocodiles.


    ¡°Please stay, uncle!¡± Izavel said.


    ¡°A few more moments, just for you, my beautiful niece.¡± Maharbaal made his way around the dais to give Izavel Shahar a big hug, ruffling up her midnight-black hair like she was still a child. The princess looked delightful tonight, in white robes striped with black and green to bring out the brilliant jade in her eyes. A silver circlet sat atop her head, studded with jade and sapphire and rubies. She had looked so much like Adahnys when they were both children, before the scaleskin took him. Robbing him of those lush green eyes and his dashing black hair. ¡°Where is that husband of yours tonight? Does he treat you well? And where is that foolish son of mine?¡±


    ¡°They went off somewhere together,¡± Izavel remarked, forking an olive from an oil-filled tray. ¡°Drinking with the soldiers perhaps. They love pretending to be soldiers.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t we all,¡± her uncle responded.


    Elissa got up once more. ¡°I¡¯ll go find them. They best see you before you vanish at sea for the next year.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t forgive them if they don¡¯t.¡± Maharbaal grinned, and took a seat next to Izavel. ¡°I would embrace you too, my shophet, but I don¡¯t want the whole hall thinking I¡¯ll give them scaleskin. We¡¯ll hug like brothers on a battlefield when the ignorant eyes look away, and bid each other farewell properly. Now Izavel, my darling, tell me of your exploits!¡±


    The children laughed at his remark as Elissa Shahar walked off to find her daughter¡¯s husband and her nephew. Maharbaal could always cheer the children up. And it warmed her heart knowing he was among the few brave enough to still touch Adahnys. The nature of the shophet¡¯s affliction was a strange one. It made all people distance themselves from him, and yet Elissa did not think scaleskin spread to everyone around him. How after so long could she or Izavel not have caught it? Granted, she still kept her distance more often than not. Scaleskin was an ugly thing, and presented itself worse in some than it did in others. Her son certainly got the short end of the staff.


    But Maharbaal Dagon never feared. Even since the day Batonam Taal discovered the scaleskin on Adahnys, her brother merely said, ¡°Well, I have played and let him beat me with a stick before it was seen on him, and yet I am still fine. I think I will be fine now.¡± Elissa always appreciated that about her brother. She knew how much it would mean to Adahnys. He was far braver than her.


    Elissa roamed the tables as noblemen and soldiers and merchants clattered their cups, drowned themselves with wine, groped almost every slave that walked by, and ripped meat from the roasted beef and lamb. She exchanged glares with Melqart Hiram as he gorged on a lamb rib covered in fire pepper, laughing with his men. Grease dripped onto his long beard and ran down his fingers. The pleasure slave he had offered to her son now sat on his lap, holding his wine and feeding him grapes in between his bites of meat.


    She thought only of a pig as she walked past him. A pig hungry for more than just food and wealth. A shudder crawled over her skin at the thought.


    Near the back of the hall was her nephew, Hanno Dagon. Drinking and jesting with slaves and lower merchants, and the staff of the nobles. He looked every bit like a shophet himself. With his bush of black hair, sharp jaw, a handsome face, and a broad frame. Hanno stood taller than most men, and could hold his own in a fight more often than not, much like his father. Elissa wondered if that is what Adahnys may have looked like if not for his scaleskin.


    ¡°Hanno,¡± Elissa snapped, turning him away from a young slave woman he was distracting from her duties of keeping the guests refreshed. ¡°Your father is here, come and greet him before he has to leave.¡±


    ¡°And you,¡± she hissed at the slave, who now looked like a deer in front of a wolf. ¡°Get back to work before I have you whipped.¡±


    The slave girl dashed away, going to fetch another flagon of wine. Hanno gazed at her longingly and sighed. ¡°Aunt, I was busy.¡±


    ¡°You have all the time in the world for slaves. Your father is only here briefly. And where is Kamni?¡± Elissa asked. Hanno pointed over to a table not far from them, where her daughter¡¯s husband sat with his feet up on the table, laughing at a soldier¡¯s jape. A stubby, toadish looking man. He hailed from the Saberi dynasty¡ªa powerful, influential family. And they needed powerful, influential friends.


    She walked over to Kamni, tugging slightly on his long headcap which draped over his shoulders like a head of silky black hair, though it covered a scalp of balding, short thin hair, she knew. ¡°Kamni.¡±


    The young man turned, his smile twisting into a frown.


    ¡°My brother is here,¡± Elissa said. ¡°He would be honoured if you would greet him, lest his duties take him on another long voyage when he next sets sail.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Kamni Saberi exclaimed, shooting up off the chair, almost standing to attention. ¡°And here I was just speaking of joining the navy. I am long overdue to be the captain of my own ship.¡±


    What her step son lacked in stature or physical attribute, he made up for in ambition, she gave him that. If only Hanno had such a mindset. Instead her nephew seemed to only have eyes for women, and slave girls at that. He could at least pursue a noblewoman¡­


    ¡°Well you can ask him when you go and honour him with your presence,¡± Elissa said.


    ¡°The honour is mine. I always have time for the Grand Admiral.¡± And with that, Kamni slammed his goblet onto the table and marched off to the dais.


    A headache crept into Elissa¡¯s skull. Whether it was the wine, the constant noise, or the fact she hosted a hall full of men she detested and filthy slaves she did not know. Having already seen her brother, she retreated to the palace gardens for a moment to clear her head. In some bushes just by the fountain, came fast moans of pleasure. Scowling, Elissa marched over, and saw a nobleman, insignificant because she didn¡¯t recognise his face immediately, taking a slave from behind.


    ¡°These are the palace gardens, you insolent whelp!¡± Elissa screamed, slapping the man over the back of the head. The slave boy gasped in surprise, his cheeks going red.


    The nobleman hurriedly pulled his trousers up. ¡°Apologies, my lady! We were trying to be quick¡ª¡±


    She slapped him again. ¡°AWAY WITH YOU!¡± And the nobleman ran off. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with you later. Get out of my sight!¡± she said to the slave boy, who hurried off without colour in his face.


    Arrogant little worm¡­ she thought, gasping as she took a seat by the fountain. They had even ruined the peaceful tranquillity of the gardens for her. One time she could have had the man flayed for such an affront, but now¡­ Now we are toothless. Powerless to dispense justice in my own home. These nobles¡­ how they strutted around the streets now, around the palace.


    ¡°Leaving the festivities so soon?¡± Maharbaal Dagon said behind her.


    ¡°I just¡­ I just needed some fresh air.¡± She sighed. ¡°Some peace. The gardens clear my head.¡± They were beautiful. A botanical work of art, like a green labyrinth of neatly trimmed hedges, vibrant flowers, and ivy coated pillars amidst fine marble sculptures depicting chiselled, muscular men and graceful slim women.


    ¡°Some peace would do us all good,¡± her brother said, gazing at the calm water trickling from the fountain.


    ¡°I have a bad feeling about all this,¡± Elissa said, chewing her sleeve.


    ¡°As do I.¡± Her brother nodded. ¡°The boldness of these merchant princes, the Orisians testing us¡­¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t respect my son, these councillors. The scaleskin, they think him frail, weak. It¡¯s a banner around which they can rally.¡± She knew how they spoke behind her son¡¯s back. The names they whispered in the shadows.


    ¡°He¡¯s a wise young man,¡± Maharbaal said, putting an arm over her shoulder. ¡°He will deal with them.¡±


    ¡°He needs your help,¡± Elissa whispered, a ball tightening in her throat.


    ¡°The shophet will always have his family around him.¡±


    ¡°Stay in Yarikhad a while,¡± she said. ¡°Take a seat on the supreme council.¡±


    ¡°You know I can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± she begged. ¡°We need you, we need everyone we can get.¡±


    Her brother frowned. ¡°He¡¯s not a boy anymore. He can look out for himself.¡±


    ¡°But his affliction¡­¡± her head fell into her hands. ¡°They will tear him down. Then they¡¯ll come for us.¡±


    Maharbaal looked around the gardens a while, lit by the dim lunar light beaming from the crescent moon in the night sky, then turned around. ¡°I will see what I can do.¡± And with that, he marched off into the darkness of the garden, lost amidst the shadows.

 Chapter 5 - Adahnys

    They had called him into the small celestial temple on the citadel grounds, a short walk across the paved plaza from the palace, soon after the feast had ended and the guests¡¯ departure. Thankfully, the walk did not cause his joints too much pain, especially his knees. Adahnys preferred to have a clear mind for his second test. The temple was empty at this hour, the pale stone walls drinking in the moonlight beaming through the spherical dome high above them, which gave a gorgeous view of the night sky.


    Four imposing sculptures stood at each corner of the hall, each the human embodiment of the four celestials. The Sun stood tall and proud, an average build with a youthful face and full beard, wearing a golden open faced war helmet. On his left arm he held a golden eagle, and in his right hand he held a golden spear that stood twice as tall as him. He was bare chested, and wore a girdle in the shape of the sun.


    The Moon stood in the form of a slender woman. A silver full-face war helmet sat atop her head like a crown, she wore no other armour apart from a knee-length tunic. She held a small pole arm in her right hand. On her left she held a small circular silver shield, a silver hawk perched upon the rim.


    The Stars also took the form of a woman, smaller and more peaceful than the Moon. Wrapped up in layers of robes, holding an open book in one hand and a silver telescope in the other, inscribed with elegant calligraphy. A silver circlet sat amidst her long hair, which flowed down past one of her shoulders. Studded with carved and polished gems of the star-stone.


    The World took the form of an impressive titan of a man. He had a big mane of bushy hair across his head and jaw. His muscles bulged everywhere they could. He was topless and unarmoured, only crafted with a pair of trousers. On one extended arm, he held a globe, carved with the countries of the known world and the vast oceans beyond.


    ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure of this late night gathering, my councillors?¡± Adahnys said, gazing at the altar where a piece of the star-stone rested, elevated between the statues of the Sun and Moon.


    Behind him stood three merchant princes, senior members of the supreme council. Melqart Hiram, Sakarbaal Addi, and Aqhat Yukar.


    ¡°There is an urgent matter to discuss,¡± Sakarbaal Addi snapped, running his hands along his long, thinning grey beard. His years at sea had left his skin sun kissed and his hair so coarse it seemed the salt of the sea never really washed off it.


    Melqart quickly stepped up behind him, his jewels jingling as he walked.


    ¡°Nothing bad, your highness.¡± He put a hand to his chest, bowing. ¡°Just a matter of knowing where we stand going forward. Of course, your regency has just come to an end, and we are sure you are excited to take up your duties to the people of Yarikhad. After all, what man of sixteen would not be? And we¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are overstepping your position, your highness,¡± Aqhat Yukar said in a tone akin to a relative scolding their junior. His two front teeth poked out slightly above his lower lip, giving him a ratty appearance, and his words were peppered with spittle flying from his dark lips. A ferret of a man with copper skin. He compensated for it by wearing his weight in gold and gemstones. ¡°Your rash actions regarding military affairs are endangering this city!¡±


    Melqart glared at the pair of his fellow merchant princes. ¡°I had hoped we could discuss this in a slightly more civil manner. We are addressing the shophet.¡±


    Sakarbaal scoffed. ¡°Oh, forget the false courtesies, Melqart! His foolish actions will lead sink Yarikhad and all of us with it if he is not tamed!¡± He spoke with all the crudeness of a sailor, and had a tone like he was always in command. Adahnys supposed that is how he came to own the largest merchant navy in the Chenean sea.


    ¡°Tamed?¡± Adahnys hummed. He knew why he had summoned him here, and he was surprised it was Melqart of the three of them who was trying to be civil. He wears a more deceiving mask than I do.


    ¡°Forgive Sakarbaal¡¯s blunt tone, your highness,¡± Melqart said, eyeing the ghastly man down. ¡°We only mean to say that¡­ there is a certain order in the way we do things in Yarikhad now. As I¡¯m sure your wise tutor, Batonam, will have informed you. Gone are the days when the shophets of old held the fate of the city and its citizens in the palms of their hands, or where their word was law¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your father saw to that when he allowed the Orisians to crush our fleet!¡± Aqhat yelled, his voice echoing through the large hall.


    ¡°Aqhat!¡± Melqart snapped, a vein pulsing on his neck.


    ¡°And destroy our army at Fraidmont,¡± Sakarbaal added.


    ¡°Let me explain it to him!¡± Melqart¡¯s jowls shook furiously.


    Adahnys raised his hands, and the three men fell silent. ¡°Please, I know what troubles you three noblemen. That business in the supreme council. I was merely exercising my legal rights in response to an attack on our sovereign territory. If we did nothing, the Orisians would have perceived us as weak and continued launching more of these incursions into our lands. At all of our expense. I have not interfered with internal affairs, for that is the realm of the supreme council.¡± Not yet.


    ¡°Your highness.¡± Aqhat stepped forward into the moonlight, the silver light casting his shadow dim and long across the hall. ¡°In an official capacity, what you speak is true. But in reality, the affairs of the supreme council stretch beyond the city of Yarikhad.¡±


    There it is, Adahnys thought. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure your banking cartel and trading caravans deal in many places beyond the walls of Yarikhad. But they are your affairs, not the official body of the supreme council as a legal entity,¡± Adahnys said. ¡°Do not confuse public and private affairs, councillor. I know you all have business around the Chenean sea. Sakarbaal¡¯s ships deal in every port they can, and Melqart owns just about every iron, tin, gold, and copper mine in Rodevia. Thus, any conflict with Orisium would threaten to make your pockets a little lighter, but that does not stop me from protecting Yarikhad.¡± And myself.


    At that, Melqart frowned, and his mask finally slipped. ¡°Oh, but we confuse nothing, your highness. Batonam has taught you well, but he hasn¡¯t taught you well enough to respect your betters, it seems. Our enterprises are the blood that flows through Yarikhad¡¯s heart. My ores build our tools. I mint every coin in this city, including the ones you yourself use to pay your armies. Sakarbaal¡¯s vast merchant fleet brings grain and other wares beyond counting, lest we all starve. Aqhat¡¯s gold has saved many of our citizens from bankruptcy, allowing the flourishing of free enterprise. So indeed, our public and private affairs are very much tied.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± Adahnys said, hands behind his back as he walked to face the three councillors head on. ¡°You care only to fill your coffers with gold, some of which flows from Orisium, which is why you fear antagonising them. Tell me, when has a ruler ever defended his realm by ignoring the enemy when they kill his subjects? Do not pretend you care for the citizens of Yarikhad. I will protect my people at any cost.


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    ¡°Even against you, if need be.¡±


    ¡°Impudent little creature!¡± Sakarbaal spat, stepping up, but not getting too close. ¡°You are demon-spawn! A punishment sent by the celestials.¡±


    ¡°How dare you threaten us in such a manner!¡± Aqhat raged. ¡°Or question our intentions so! The supreme council has always had Yarikhad¡¯s best interests at heart. The same cannot be said for the monarchy!¡±


    ¡°How dare you speak to me in that manner,¡± Adahnys said, stoic.


    ¡°Spare me, Adahnys,¡± Melqart said, silencing his colleagues. ¡°Stop standing on a pedestal pretending like you care for the welfare of Yarikhad¡¯s citizens, or its slaves. You only care for power, and you¡¯re trying desperately to cling to what little power you have left.¡±


    ¡°I could say the same for you.¡±


    ¡°We will not be spoken to like this by a disgusting scaleskin!¡± Sakarbaal yelled. A vein throbbing on his temple. ¡°You should be grateful a mob hasn¡¯t lynched you as demon-spawn yet. By any law they should never have given him the crown!¡±


    Adahnys glared at him. ¡°Watch your tongue unless you want to lose it.¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± Melqart roared. ¡°Sakarbaal, you dishonour yourself with these vulgar insults.¡±


    ¡°Let him speak his mind,¡± Aqhat said, shrugging. ¡°That was a privilege we won when the shophet¡¯s father lost his war.¡± Interesting, Adahnys thought, ignoring the petty jibe. Is he trying to play them off against each other? Melqart was the closest to an elder among the three, in terms of wealth and status, and seemed to be acting as their little leader. So why was Aqhat trying to undermine him? Maybe he wanted Sakarbaal to lash out or do something stupid. I should have to watch him.


    ¡°Better vulgar than veiled,¡± Sakarbaal shot back, turning around and pacing the hall, panting his breaths of frustration.


    ¡°Your highness.¡± Aqhat stepped forward now. ¡°Let us be frank now, for I¡¯m sure we are all too weary for this after a pleasant evening. Myself, Melqart, and Sakarbaal together wield more wealth and influence than anyone, or any group, in Yarikhad put together. We control the supreme council, the three of us.¡±


    ¡°We are the supreme council,¡± Melqart said.


    ¡°With that in mind,¡± Aqhat continued, his ratty teeth showing through his false smile. ¡°We demand to be consulted about any future detrimental military decisions. The shophet is a symbol of unity for the people of Yarikhad, and the chief earthly representative of the celestials in our world. You should not have to sully yourself with the dirty affairs of politics. Leave that to us, your humble servants.¡±


    ¡°Last I recall, servants do not dictate to their master,¡± Adahnys said.


    Melqart snarled, his face going red. ¡°You are not our master.¡±


    ¡°How many armies do you command, Melqart?¡± Adahnys said, pacing around the three of them, passing through the shadows of the gods. His bones began aching from all the standing now, making him irritable and impatient. ¡°Or you, Aqhat? And Sakarbaal? You love ships. Do you have any war galleys at your disposal?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand your meaning,¡± Aqhat said, scowling.


    Sakarbaal laughed, the temple ringing with the echo of his crackly voice. ¡°The little brat seeks to threaten us, just more boldly. A gang of buffalo need not fear a toothless lion.¡±


    ¡°Sakarbaal speaks true,¡± Melqart said. ¡°No army may legally enter Yarikhad. Your threat is meaningless. You are alone here, my shophet.¡±


    ¡°But I still command them, nonetheless.¡± Adahnys continued pacing. ¡°I just want you all to keep that in mind.¡±


    Melqart started laughing, a great, booming laugh. ¡°Armies can be bought, Adahnys, my boy. With this.¡± He flashed a gold coin, glinting under the light of the dome, and for a moment the shophet glanced at his own masked face carved in the coin. ¡°And we have a near limitless supply of that. Men kill for gold. Perhaps you forgot that, living atop your palace your entire life?¡±


    Adahnys chuckled, staring at the statue of The World. How he held the globe in the palm of his hand. The shophet always admired that. ¡°You may have all the gold, Melqart. But I wield divine authority. The spirit and the sword move fate further than gold pieces.¡±


    ¡°Bah!¡± Sakarbaal spat. ¡°This is hopeless! The scaleskin is too stubborn and arrogant. You¡¯ll soon see how things really work, boy!¡± And with that, Sakarbaal stormed out of the celestial temple.


    You¡¯ll soon learn the price of those crude insults, he thought.


    ¡°We are always nearby should you need consul, your highness.¡± Aqhat bowed, turned heel, and left.


    Melqart watched his fellow councillors leave, sighed and shook his head, then turned back to the shophet. ¡°So that¡¯s it then. You will not cease your hostility with Orisium, nor heed our advice?¡±


    ¡°I will heed anyone¡¯s advice if it is prudent, councillor,¡± Adahnys said. ¡°But I will not cower in the face of Orisian aggression. I made a promise a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± Melqart said. ¡°Remember, we gave you a chance.¡± The merchant prince turned around at last, and followed his friends out of the temple, leaving the shophet alone.


    Oh, I will remember. He climbed the steps of the humble marble altar where a piece of the star-stone sat¡ªa small chunk chiselled from the bigger rock, which rested at the great temple in the middle-city. The stone that fell from the stars in a ball of magnificent fire, a fallen star itself, discovered by the prophet Barekbaal many centuries ago.


    The star-stone had a dark grey outer crust, like a coarse mineral shell. Inside was a beautiful mineral structure that was unlike any other rock, crystal, or gem Adahnys had ever seen. It was like the celestials had weaved a piece of the cosmic night sky, burned it down and melted it into molten rock, and cooled it into stone. The crystalline structure was a deep violet, almost black, sheening with the small amounts of light twinkling on its surface. Within the crystals were thin silvery veins that twinkled like the stars in the midnight sky, and their form seemed to change every time the stone was turned.


    The shophet knelt before the altar, rubbing his coarse hands. ¡°Sometimes I think you wish to test me more so than normal men,¡± he said to the celestials. He had been born of royal blood and inherited a throne, one of the greatest privileges a man could hope for. Yet I wear a crown with waning power, am cursed to wear the look of a grotesque for all to see, and can barely swing a sword without my limbs ringing with pain. If not for that crown or his family name, he¡¯d have been sent off to a Moon house to rot away with all the other scaleskins. But he was the heir of Yarikhad, and his father had hid his affliction from the court in those early days, until it was too late to deny him of his birthright.


    Adahnys remembered when he came here with his father, the shophet Adibaal. The man was frail by then, a shadow of his former self, but that frail man was the only father Adahnys ever knew.


    A resentful man who did naught but curse Orisium for the fate they had bestowed upon Adibaal and his family. How he blamed admiral Germelqart for losing nearly half of what was the mightiest fleet in the civilized world at the Orisian Straits, or how he blamed his brother for losing the battle of Fraidmont, and paving the way for an invasion on their home soil. ¡°I was stripped of my dignity and authority, and they tore me apart for it.¡± His father would moan in his cups.


    The old shophet¡¯s venom had seeped into Adahnys by then, and when Adahnys last came to kneel before this altar, it was to make a promise. He knelt there as a child. He must have been nine or ten years old, his scaleskin still only just coming through in small patches on his upper arms or legs, before it robbed him of his burning jade eyes. As he knelt before the star-stone, surrounded by the four giant celestials, he whispered, ¡°I swear that from this moment on, I will be the eternal enemy of Orisium.¡±

 Chapter 6 - Andromeda

    Erastus had checked her face for any marks the instant he woke her from her dreamless slumber. A storm raged behind her eyes. The world span, and the odour of sweat and wine hung from her father like a thick fog. It threatened to make Andromeda retch.


    ¡°Good,¡± Erastus said with a smile, brushing thin locks of hair away from her face. ¡°Not a scratch on you, but you look like shit. And reek of it, too. You must bathe immediately.¡±


    ¡°I feel worse than I look,¡± Andromeda muttered, trying to settle her aching stomach.


    ¡°I don''t care how you feel. So long as you look the part and keep smiling, all will be fine.¡± Her father called a pair of slaves in. Slender, pale girls they were, and they marched her off to the bath house to clean up.


    Andromeda demanded a cup of water as they walked the marble tiled halls. When they got to the baths on the lower levels, one of the slave girls approached with a cup and a flagon of water. She snatched the cup from the girl and gulped the water, soothing her dry throat.


    Then her stomach twisted, and an awful nausea overcame her. Andromeda retched up a watery brown cocktail of last night''s ale, right by the slaves¡¯ feet on the stone slabs.


    ¡°Clean that up,¡± she commanded the slaves, saving herself the embarrassment. The two girls rushed around for towels and a mop. They were quite sweet, Andromeda thought, in their little white tunics and small brown collars. They¡¯re like little puppies.


    Steam rose from the cracks between the stone slabs of the palace bath house. Carved into the floor was a still pool of clear, hot water. The steam rising as though a dragon slept beneath the pool. Andromeda stripped out of her robes, letting them slip off her body, and slowly descended the stone steps, allowing the water to envelop her slowly. The heat stung her skin initially, but she soon settled.


    It hurt worse on the reddish scratch marks around her legs and body from where she had struggled on the floor last night, and her throat at times stung, as though her father¡¯s fingers once again clasped tight around her neck.


    She submerged herself into the pool now, pinching her nose and dunking her head beneath the water, letting the heat wash over her. That and the steam did wonders for her headache. She leaned back against the pool wall and let her legs float around the water, sighing deeply to soothe herself.


    When the slaves finished cleaning up Andromeda¡¯s mess on the floor, they left and returned with scented oils and pumice. The girls scrubbed her clean, ridding her of the grime and shame left over from last night.


    ¡°Now get out,¡± she said when the slaves had washed most of her. Andromeda wanted to be alone for a moment before she had to face her future husband. A grey dread clouded her mind. How far would they take her away? Would she ever see this place again, or would her new palace be a place she could call home?


    I¡¯ve never called anywhere home. Pyrridon was as close to a home as she could get. It was nice here¡ªthe Araetian people were a pleasant, sophisticated sort. A city of learned men and warriors alike. And excellent lovers. The first home she remembered had been in Yarikhad when she was very young. It was never a hard life, not back then, for her father Erastus had fled Orisium with a chest of gold, some jewels, and valuable royal heirlooms that fetched a very high price.


    Their house in Yarikhad boasted a pleasant view of the great ring harbour from which ships streamed on a daily basis. She liked daydreaming about where they were going, and if some had been going to Orisium, this fabled place that was her true home. On the window in her bedchamber were pots of queer plants that sat gaped open like a hippo¡¯s jaw, with teeth around their lips, and clamped shut whenever an unsuspecting insect landed inside them. And outside, lush green ivy coated half of the house like natural paint.


    They were banished from the ivy house, still when she was very young, and from then had to leave Yarikhad. Father mustn''t have had much money by that point, because they never had as nice a house again. Even when they went to the city of Menedemia to hide themselves¡ªthat was in a far more humble dwelling, and the streets always stunk of shit, and were noisy with shouting and raging from dawn till dusk. Father always insisted that the new Orisian Republic would never allow those of royal blood to live, and the pleb Vero would stop at nothing until all the descendants of the great king Orisean¡¯s line were dead.


    From Menedemia, they travelled across the Chenean to Araetia, touring the many city-states, but interest in Orisian royalty had faded by then, after so many years. Until recently, when the Tyrant of Pyrridon offered to host them in his palace.


    The sudden, renewed interest in her family put her on edge a little. She had known for years now that no gift ever came for free, and random acts of generosity or charity from a stranger were a thing of fairy tales. And yet she now lived in a palace, not having to want for anything. Andromeda couldn¡¯t help but feel that she was a pawn in a larger game, being moved around by unseen hands.


    After she was done bathing, the slaves led her back to her apartments and dressed her in a black peplos, with cloth of gold woven in the form of floral patterns, as though a web of golden ivy consumed the robes. The garment was fastened at the shoulder with a golden phoenix pin, the symbol of the Kingdom of Orisium.


    As the slaves brushed her hair and rubbed scented oils across her neck and behind her ears, the door to her apartments opened. The low chatter across the hall got louder, and in marched her father with the Tyrant of Pyrridon, Demetrius the Second.


    ¡°Ah, there she is!¡± the tyrant said, looking her up and down in her new garments. ¡°My dear, there are no words to describe your beauty.¡± He embraced her warmly. The tyrant wore a purple knee-length chiton lined with white patterns on the borders. It left his right shoulder and breast exposed, and from the other shoulder hung a white cloak. Demetrius was a well-built man, looking every bit like a monarch. A bushy mane of greying brown hair covered his head and jaw, almost hiding his lips completely.


    ¡°You honour me, your highness.¡± Andromeda bowed her head. The tyrant had all the charm and fatherly love her father lacked. She often thought that''s what a father should be like.


    Demetrius smiled. ¡°I¡¯m sure Shah Anaecius will rank you among the highest of his wives!¡±


    The thought sent a shudder through her. Being bound to a man she did not know, nor had any desire to be with, and then sharing the pleasure with his other wives! Mayhaps I¡¯ll find friends among them¡­ Andromeda thought on a lighter note.


    Erastus rushed up behind the tyrant, inspecting his daughter closely. ¡°Are you sure he will take her like this?¡± He touched his finger to her chin, pushing her head up. ¡°Keep your neck straight! Bare your chest! He must see you as a woman, not a child.¡± Then he turned to Demetrius. ¡°Unless that would be to the shah¡¯s taste? Would it?¡±


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    Demetrius waved the notion off. ¡°Nonsense. Andromeda will inspire masterful poetry that will be recited for generations.¡±


    ¡°But what if he chooses her as one of his lower concubines?¡± Erastus said, his hand shaking. ¡°I will not have my daughter chosen as a whore.¡±


    ¡°Fear not, Erastus. The shah would not dishonour the true king of Orisium in such a way. He is not so foolish.¡± The tyrant looked around, fanning his chiton. ¡°Would you join me for some refreshment in the gardens? Such a fine day should not be wasted away speaking of politics in the princess''s bedchamber.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ yes.¡± Erastus nodded. ¡°Seeing her under the sunlight might make her prettier. A fine notion.¡±


    Andromeda scowled and followed the men out. Hector, with his palace guards, escorted them to the gardens.


    A small stream flowed from a pipe in one end of the garden, slicing across the grounds until it fed into a pond, and flowed off toward the other end of the garden. In it swam fish of white and black along with spotted green ones, and a long black eel.


    The slaves brought out a tray with a bottle of wine and several goblets. The headache from the morning still lingered in her head, but she took a glass anyway. As did her father and Demetrius. ¡°As I was saying,¡± the tyrant said. ¡°The shah will take her as one of his wives, not a concubine. Women of political significance are always held in high esteem.¡±


    ¡°But he marries them all the same, does he not?¡± Erastus said.


    The tyrant raised a brow. ¡°There is a ceremony for each wife or concubine he takes, though they vary. Oh, I don¡¯t know, Erastus. You know how these westerners are. The desert sun bakes their heads a little too much, I think.¡± Then he started laughing, covering his mouth so as to not spit out any wine. ¡°A convenient custom nonetheless, don¡¯t you think? As many brides as you want. Marry a princess for every kingdom, and you could conquer the known world within a generation!¡±


    ¡°Or it would tear itself apart every generation,¡± Erastus scoffed, gulping down his wine and bidding the slaves to refill his cup.


    ¡°Indeed¡­¡± Demetrius said. ¡°Like the empire of the Chosen One, Menedemus. A son of Pyrridon himself. It seems we frequently forget the mistakes of our forefathers.¡±


    ¡°Be that as it may, the shah rules a gargantuan realm, and has an army of a thousand tribes. I care not for his ambitions or grand plans, as long as he sends his slaves to march with me to Orisium,¡± Erastus said. ¡°When does he arrive? I grow tired of this waiting.¡±


    ¡°Patience, my king. Patience. The gods favour those who wait.¡± Demetrius smiled.


    #


    Twilight descended over Pyrridon, painting the sky a lush lilac. The warm climate permitted the gathering feast for the Anaecid shah to be held in the open air east wing of the tyrant¡¯s palace.


    Tables laid out. Fresh honey roasted boar laid on wide silver dishes, stuffed with apples in their mouths to be picked at by any guests. Grapes, dates, plums, and roasted apples glazed with honey and cinnamon. The food here could probably feed the city for a day. Acrobats performed on a raised platform for the diners to watch, balancing atop one another while they stretched their bodies to their limits. A man played a flute at the corner of the hall. The court pyromancer put on a dazzling spectacle of fire tricks at the center of the grounds using special powders, sending sparks and wisps of fire flying from his sleeves of red and blue and purple, bleaching the air with his extravagant flames. Andromeda would have been more impressed if the magic was real, like the fables she¡¯d heard as a child of the ancient world, where dragons flew in the sky, phoenixes nested in the mountains, and sorcerers wielded great power.


    ¡°Have some wine, dear,¡± Erastus said, huddled up beside her, waving a goblet in her face. ¡°You cheer up when you¡¯re drunk. It¡¯ll help wipe that fucking glum look off your face.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d sooner drink it to numb me to your presence,¡± Andromeda spat, snatching the goblet and drinking.


    Her father scoffed. ¡°Whatever works for you, as long as you impress the shah.¡± He looked around, and then grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face the other side of the wing. ¡°There! There, do you see him?¡±


    She saw hundreds of people. It seemed the shah had arrived with half of his court, and truly, one thousand tribes must have made up his empire, for it looked like the representatives of every corner of the world feasted in Pyrridon tonight. Men wearing grand red robes that looked like dresses, their wives in colours and jewels just as extravagant, others in pointed hats lined with fur, others had faces studded and pierced with golden ornaments and chains. The wife of Demetrius, Lysandra, and her daughters. An older, humbler man among the crowd, with a grey beard and a head wrapped up in beige cloth, caught her eye too. His robes were in the Yariki fashion, she recalled from her youth. I should speak to that one.


    ¡°There.¡± Erastus pointed through the crowd.


    The shah was a tall, bald man with olive skin. His face painted to give it a golden aura, and black eyeshadow gave his crimson eyes an almond appearance¡ªa rare sight, she thought. They shone red like a pair of rubies. His long beard was wiry and black. A gold and green tunic sat beneath his long purple overcoat that went down to his feet, and the man twinkled with all the gold chains and rings on him.


    ¡°It¡¯s said he keeps a harem of two hundred women,¡± Erastus said with a sly grin, then chuckled. ¡°Two hundred¡­ surely not. How would you find the time to do anything else? And the children¡­ If the man is potent, he could spawn an entire army of his own blood!¡±


    Andromeda said nothing, only drinking more wine hoping the night would pass away into the deepest recesses of her memory.


    ¡°Of course,¡± her father continued. ¡°The most noble of his wives are held in higher esteem. It¡¯s quite amusing how it works. These westerners arrange their wives with almost military-esque organisation.¡±


    The thought made her stomach curdle. ¡®Spawning¡¯ the shah¡¯s ¡®soldiers.¡¯ Tolerating two hundred other women who all bed her husband. It was too much. The way the shah looked, talked, and laughed. He didn¡¯t even seem human.


    A ball crawled up her throat. ¡°Father¡­ I-I don¡¯t want him. I don¡¯t want this.¡±


    Erastus¡¯s face contorted into a vile grimace. ¡°I care not what you want. This is your duty to your family, your heritage, and Orisium!¡± He clutched her wrist, tight.


    ¡°May the gods sink Orisium to the underworld!¡± she hissed, venom on her tongue. Where that powerful will to resist came from she didn¡¯t know. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be that man¡¯s whore.¡±


    Her father dragged her out of the open air, past the columns that lined the hall, and shoved her against a wall, out of sight from the guests. She tried to squirm away, but the wine had not dulled him and made him clumsy like it did last night. Now he was stronger. His rage more terrifying. Suddenly her will to resist was vanquished, and she regretted opening her mouth at all.


    ¡°I could care less what you want. You will be that man¡¯s whore, because that¡¯s exactly what you are. A whore.¡± Erastus looked around, careful not to be too loud. ¡°You have no problem fucking filthy plebeians when you roam the lower city, but a man who is practically a god is suddenly beneath you? I think not. Had we been in the Orisian court, I¡¯d have had you scourged.¡±


    ¡°I hate you!¡± she spat, tears welling in her eyes.


    He shook her on the spot, rattling her head. ¡°Calm yourself immediately. Calm yourself! Understand this, if you ruin this betrothal for us, then I will have nothing left in this world, do you understand? And gods help you when you rouse the fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. Because at that point, losing your teeth or a beating would be the least of your worries.¡± He fumbled the knife on his belt.


    For the first time in a very long time, Andromeda was terrified of her father. There was no mercy or regret in those cold grey eyes. She nodded, sniffling. ¡°I-I understand.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Erastus dragged her out of the shade, wiping her tears away. ¡°Hide away your sorrows. It¡¯s time to meet the shah.¡±

 Chapter 7 - Florian

    ¡°Florian!¡± Her irritating screech pierced through the door at the end of his bedchamber. She banged against the wooden door. ¡°Open this door right now!¡±


    Florian Vulcan Aventus opened his eyes lazily, the world slowly materializing in front of him. The fire in the hearth had long extinguished, now a heap of ash. A warm breeze drifted in from the window.


    More banging. ¡°Florian!¡± His aunt Donna had such an annoying voice, whether she was angry, bored, or even happy. Her laughter was even worse, like a harpy in heat. ¡°Have you barred this door again?¡±


    He had forgotten about that. He was in no mood for his aunt¡¯s tantrums today. A piercing headache shot into his skull like a knife, robbing him of a good start to the day. He belched. The stink of wine clung to his breath.


    ¡°Coming.¡± He untangled himself from the sheets, accidentally bumping the naked girl sleeping next to him whose name he could not remember. A fair skinned Araetian beauty with blonde hair that shone like sunlight. She must have had some northern Trondic barbarian blood in her, Florian thought, because she fucked like a savage. ¡°Sorry, sweetling.¡±


    She opened her eyes slightly, yawning, and mumbled a response, but Florian didn¡¯t hear her. The incessant banging continued. For a moment he thought his aunt would end up smashing the door down with a battering ram. Florian removed the bar from the door, and it shot open in an instant.


    In came his raging aunt Donna. An aging woman who desperately clung to the memories of old beauty. Her hair dyed fresh black, wrapped up in a bun. Saggy flesh fell from her upper arms, wrinkles lined her face. Before she had even said a word, she emptied a glass of cold water over him. ¡°You open that fucking door when I tell you to!¡±


    He sighed, wiping the water off his face, and shaking it out of his hair. ¡°Will that be all, Donna?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she snarled. ¡°That won¡¯t be ¡®all.¡¯¡± She said it in a way to mock his voice, which only left him more irritated. ¡°Your tutor has been waiting in the atrium all morning, and you¡¯re still nowhere to be seen.¡± Donna noticed the girl in the bed behind him and scoffed. ¡°Fucking another whore after your drunken evenings, as always. If you would consort with the pigs, then sleep in the sty!¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± Florian snapped. ¡°She¡¯s not a whore¡­¡± He turned around, looking at the girl now resting on her shoulders with an awkward expression on her face, covering herself with the blankets. ¡°Are you?¡±


    The girl scowled at him and shook her head.


    Donna went over to the dressing table, snatched the white tunic, and threw it at the girl. ¡°Dress yourself and begone!¡±


    The girl hastily clothed herself.


    ¡°Farewell¡­ uh¡­ Helen?¡± Florian said, scratching his head. ¡°Or Meda?¡±


    The girl shot him a vicious glare before rushing out. She looks pretty when she¡¯s offended, Florian thought, trying not to laugh. He did remember a Meda though, the girl with the silver streaks in her hair, from a couple of weeks ago in the alehouse. Now, she was a pretty one. Florian had tried to warp fate and bump into her by chance in the alehouses around the lower city for a while after he met her, but she was nowhere to be seen.


    But now he had another woman to deal with. A much less attractive one. ¡°Lagus is waiting for you. Make yourself presentable and go to him.¡±


    ¡°Ugh¡­¡± Florian moaned, slumping back onto his bed and shutting his eyes. ¡°Tell him to fuck off¡­ not in those words,¡± he took back. ¡°You know, just give him the day off. I can¡¯t stand his tedious rambling. And still a little drunk.¡± He scratched his head. ¡°I think.¡±


    There was silence for a moment. Unbroken silence. Florian thought he may actually get some sleep until the footsteps came racing back and a fresh splash of icy cold water hit his face.


    ¡°Oh would you leave me alone, you old bitch!¡±


    His aunt¡¯s slap left his cheek hot and red.


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky your uncle is so soft on you, because I¡¯d have thrown you to the dogs by now.¡± A few of her hairs had fallen in strings out of her bun, and now lay across her face, which went redder by the minute. ¡°To be an age of five and twenty, wasting your days away getting drunk with rogues and whores. Rhea¡¯s son is the legate of the eleventh legion! Your own father was a legate by your age! And what are you? You can¡¯t even get out of bed!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a student of philosophy, don¡¯t you know?¡± He turned away from her, trying to shut his eyes again. But he was wide awake by now.


    ¡°Well start acting like it. Get up and stop wasting your life away.¡± Donna left the room, smashing the door shut behind her.


    Florian got up, but wasting his life away was something he did not intend to stop doing today. How is a life of happiness, joy, and laughter a waste? He was born to a noble, prestigious family and had plenty of money. Why not enjoy it? Is that not what the gods wanted of him? What was the point of slaving away doing things you didn¡¯t want to do all your life?


    Yet, he dried his hair from his aunt¡¯s assault and got dressed, going to do something he didn¡¯t want to do, just to prevent another one of her tantrums. His philosophy lessons were such a chore. He didn¡¯t understand what the old skeleton of a tutor was speaking of half the time. And the times he did understand, he didn¡¯t care. But still, studying in Pyrridon wasn¡¯t all so bad. It was his family''s way of exiling him rather than trying to build him a future, he knew.


    He had been banished from his family home in Orisium for losing more of his family''s money than he cared to count on back street dice games, to the delight of the game masters. That, and for slitting the throat of a game master whom he had suspected of cheating with funny dice. Those dice never fell on the numbers he needed, no matter how many times he tried to catch a streak. Florian never intended to kill the man initially, but the scuffles turned to a fist fight, a knife was drawn, and the rest was history.


    Taking loans from several prominent creditors in an effort to return to the games and win his money back also didn¡¯t help him much. He was certain that luck would catch up with him eventually, and help him turn his twenty thousand gold vennae into one hundred thousand¡­ and then he lost it all. When news of this reached his mother, she only said, ¡°My son, you had better be gone before your father comes back from duty and hears of this.¡± Florian agreed. To wound the pride and honour of the great Rodevicus Vulcan Aventus, a general of Orisium and governor of High Rodevia, was a deadly sin. The man cared more for his pride than his own blood. What sort of person takes the name of the land he rules? Florian thought. A cunt. And since Florian bore his name as a son, anything he did reflected on his father.


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    And so he came to Pyrridon. To study. Study, while anyone else of importance in Orisium was doing anything else.


    To waste my life away.


    Dressed in his red tunic, lined with black and yellow decorative patterns, he walked through his uncle¡¯s villa to the atrium at the front. In the atrium, Lagus waited patiently. The man looked well over a hundred years old. With a few wisps of thin hair on his spotty scalp, few teeth remaining, and saggy old flesh hanging from anywhere it could. He wore a tattered brown robe that left his right shoulder and breast exposed.


    ¡°Ah, Florian.¡± Lagus strained to stand. ¡°Good day to you, though it seems our lessons will begin a little later than usual.¡± His voice was coarse with age, as though eroded by time itself.


    All he could think about was his headache. ¡°I was up late last night.¡±


    ¡°No matter.¡± The old tutor brushed himself off. ¡°We can begin and end as it please us.¡±


    As it please you, more like. Florian would have liked to end right now, and go back to bed, or drink some wine.


    ¡°Though I feel like it would be a shame to waste such a nice day locked up in the study, don¡¯t you?¡± Lagus said.


    I couldn¡¯t care less. ¡°Of course.¡± Though Florian found it curious how the ancient man seemed to have more energy to go out for a walk than he did right now.


    The front door of the atrium took them outside, where the sun sat high in the clear blue sky. It¡¯s light glazing him with warmth. Their village sat on a hill on the outskirts of Pyrridon, a distance from the city on horseback. All of the villas were spacious with their own gardens and plenty of space between, a home for wealthy Araetians or foreigners who wanted a scenic escape and a peaceful life. Though Florian had come to the wrong place, evidently, because each start to his day in that infernal village was hell, in the form of his nagging aunt.


    Below, down the grassy valley, he saw the grey-brown stone maze of Pyrridon. To his back, an enormous range of snow-capped mountains loomed as far as the eye could see, stretching for miles in every direction.


    In the gardens around him, slaves picked fruit from orchids, or carried baskets of vegetables or dead rabbits. Some of them got whipped and screamed at by some fat old man for not doing something correct.


    The pair strode on a small dusty path that led to a scenic walk with a view of the lush rolling meadows and the mountains behind them. Bees and flies and small birds flew all around him.


    ¡°For today''s lesson,¡± Lagus said, strolling along the path as birds whistled around him. ¡°I have chosen a topic relevant for the times, that is, recent events.¡±


    ¡°Mhm.¡± Florian nodded, looking around absent-mindedly.


    ¡°We will discuss the philosophy of anti-conflict. Based on the teachings of the school of Dorotheus. Throughout many of the great wars of history, from the conquests of Menedemus The Chosen One through to the Chenean War between Orisium and Yarikhad, many noble and wise men have voiced strong sentiments of peace and non-violence¡­¡± He continued to drone on about wise philosophers and how much they hated war for some time. Florian only looked up at the mountains, thinking about where he would get drunk tonight. Maybe find that Araetian girl again, if he could only remember her name. Mayhaps that big winehouse in the upper city¡­


    Stop wasting your life away¡­ Donna¡¯s words rang in his head. And funnily enough, all that talk of peace only made him think of his father, the most militaristic man Florian could think of, the conqueror of High Rodevia and scourge of the Rhotari.


    He was a legate at your age. Commanding a whole legion, leading five thousand men into war, winning spoils, riches, and prestige while he was at it. Crushing tribe after tribe.


    ¡°My father might disagree with these wise men,¡± Florian said eventually.


    ¡°And so he should.¡± Lagus nodded. ¡°Where would we be as a people if we could not disagree with one another? He is an accomplished soldier, your father.¡±


    ¡°As my family so often reminds me.¡± Florian frowned.


    The old man raised a brow. ¡°It upsets you? Are you a follower of the philosophies of peace?¡±


    ¡°No, no, it¡¯s not that¡­¡± Florian scratched his head. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ no, it''s nothing.¡±


    ¡°I never took you for a man of peace. Kings breed kings, soldiers breed soldiers. Perhaps there''s a military man in you.¡±


    Florian tried to stifle a laugh. ¡°My father conquers with fire and steel, slaying savage warriors who¡¯ve been fighting since they could walk. But my sword dangles between my legs, and my conquests are far better looking and much less ferocious.¡±


    Lagus chortled, his laughter followed by a brief coughing fit. ¡°If only we could all be young men again. So much promise and adventure ahead of us, if we would only reach out and grab it.


    ¡°But to get back to the matter at hand, I chose this topic today as I heard most concerning tidings from the newsreader at the plaza yesterday. Orisian legions attacking Dumori villages south of the Tane river, the Dumori tribe repaying them in kind with steel and blood with the help of Yariki cavalry.¡± Lagus rubbed his chin as he stared across the meadows. ¡°The tinders of war seem to blow on the horizon.¡±


    Florian sat on a rock under the shade of a pine tree to rest his legs. The little energy left to him in the morning had long gone. ¡°Well, knowing my father, he will not let such a slight go unpunished.¡±


    ¡°You tired already, young man?¡± Lagus chuckled, stretching his arms and legs.


    ¡°I told you, I was up late last night. Lessons are not usually conducted on a walk.¡±


    The old man smiled. ¡°And what an instructive lesson this can be. Were you in general Rodevicus¡¯s shoes at this present moment, how would you resolve this diplomatic scuffle? Violence or peace?¡±


    ¡°I feel like there''s a correct answer here.¡±


    Lagus shook his head. ¡°No right or wrong, just what you would do.¡±


    As Florian pondered anything but that question, thinking about wine and women and which dice games he would try out later tonight, he found no answer to his tutor¡¯s question. He just didn¡¯t care. A hawk flew high overhead, and Florian noticed he was keeping the tutor waiting. ¡°War then. In my experience, the only language universally understood by man is violence. It transcends language and creed and tribe. We can mince words about who is right or wrong, but when someone takes out a blade and ends the other''s life, then the previous disagreement doesn¡¯t mean much, does it? Might is right.¡±


    ¡°Might may be right in practice,¡± Lagus said. ¡°But is that very state of being in and of itself right?


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Florian moaned. ¡°Does it matter?¡±


    His tutor sighed. ¡°Perhaps, perhaps not. Maybe that is a question for wiser men than us.¡± He whacked Florian¡¯s leg with a stick, prompting a grunt from him. ¡°Up now, let us continue walking. You shame yourself being beaten by an old man in this manner.¡±


    They walked the rest of the trail. It curved at a grassy hill further up, crossing over a small glistening stream, and went back down to the villa. ¡°Whether war is right or wrong,¡± Lagus said. ¡°One thing is certain. In times of war and chaos, even the lowliest of us can rise to greatness.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to tell that to every plebeian and slave I meet.¡± Florian picked up a long blade of dried grass, crushing it in his fingers. ¡°They¡¯ll be thrilled to hear it.¡±


    ¡°My legs are weary and your attention seems to be elsewhere, Florian.¡± Lagus stretched his back, his spine cracking from top to bottom. ¡°I think we will cut our lesson short today. I bid you farewell.¡±


    It was the best thing he¡¯d heard all morning. Florian bid the old man farewell and wasted no more time.


    The sun still beamed high as he headed into the city and got to the first wine house, and burned warmer still by the time he was stumbling awkwardly to the next. He drank with freeswords, gambled with thieves, got in a few scuffles, and spent the night in one of the more luxurious pleasure houses in Pyrridon, effectively robbing himself of the month¡¯s allowance. The next morning, his head throbbed with dull pain yet again, and his first instinct was to pour another cup of wine, and wake the delightful olive-skinned woman next to him so he could conquer her a second time.


    He half expected aunt Donna to come crashing through the red velvet curtains of his rented room screaming, ¡°Stop wasting your life away!¡±

 Chapter 8 - Darius

    Rain lashed down hard against the thatched straw roof. Lightning flashed the pitch-black dwelling with a bright blue glow for a brief second, leaving his vision blurred until the room returned to darkness. The loud cracking of thunder followed.


    Every now and then a drop of rainwater fell on his face from a leak in the roof. How do these barbarians live in such clumsy huts every day of their lives? Darius Zaman thought. Then he remembered Quarneem¡¯s words as their trading galley sailed out of port, leaving them in a dusty village. ¡°Welcome to Rodevia!¡±


    Darius pulled the cotton blanket over his shoulder as he turned to avoid the droplets. Sleep came hard in this humble little Rodevian village. He appreciated the tribe¡¯s hospitality, for they were honoured to host guests of Yarikhad itself, but the accommodation was lacking. A straw bed hastily made up in the corner of the village elder¡¯s hall. The straw prickled into his back, causing the skin to itch every few minutes. His hands and feet leaned over into the cold, hardwood floor past the bed. The blanket was also itchy, crawling with mites. The snores from the elder¡¯s family and slaves ruined the peaceful ambience of the rain. Though none of that seemed to bother Quarneem Mirza, who slept as peacefully as ever.


    The expedition so far was not as glamorous as he envisioned it. I should have expected as such. He grunted in irritation, trying to sleep.


    The rain reminded him of being out at sea again¡ªhis stomach grumbled at the memory. It had rained out there too, on the ship. They sailed on the edges of a storm after the second day of the voyage. The huge waves had sent his stomach in a knot and had him bent over the railings retching, but the captain assured him the ship could handle it. He had prayed in the storage deck alone that day, hoping his fellow shipmates wouldn¡¯t catch him. But how terribly the boat rocked, swaying from side to side as though it would tip over. The groaning wood, the crash of the water against the hull. In that moment nothing mattered but getting on land. Not his gold, not his fine clothes, or even his wife Tanitha. I just had to get on land.


    And land they did. On an abandoned beach far to the east of Yarikhad, where nothing but sand, green patchy bushes of prickly plants, and reddish-brown rocks stretched on for miles. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking and fighting for scraps of food. The slaves hauled the trading galley onto shore and pitched it on the shore, throwing the anchor out. Then the crew began setting up their tents. For days, near a week, they camped out on the dreaded beach as the captain eyed the grey overcast each day with worry. ¡°I will not sail into a storm. The gods will sink this ship in an instant for our foolishness were we to do that. We will wait for as long as I say so.¡±


    Quarneem had tried to argue with captain Baran, urging him to sail through anyway, for he was losing time, and feared he would lose his clients. His gold. Clearly that was more important to him than his life. To think the merchant had jibed about Darius¡¯s ¡®lust for wealth¡¯ as he had called it. Nothing could have convinced Darius to sail through a storm.


    Maybe that is why he is a rich man, and I am not.


    There was something about Quarneem¡¯s determination to get to his destination despite the danger that Darius admired. That is the will of a conqueror, he thought. Only this man fought with gold instead of steel. And for those days while they were stranded on the beach, Darius pleaded with the merchant to allow him to join his caravan in Rodevia. Quarneem kept refusing the first couple of days, but Darius eventually wore him down, and the merchant agreed to allow Darius to invest in the caravan. Only for that one trip, but that was all Darius needed. He would make a business partner of the merchant yet, and learn many secrets from him, no doubt.


    The morning crow of a rooster awoke him as the dawn came.


    Across from Darius, Quarneem¡¯s straw bed lay empty, the merchant nowhere to be seen. The elder¡¯s slaves ran back and forth around the wooden hall, a fire already lit in the hearth. Over the hearth a pot bubbled, the smell of meat and vegetables drifting up from it.


    Darius untangled himself from the cotton sheets and got dressed, heading out into the village. The ground was a brown wet sludge from last night''s rain, quickly drying under the hot sun. Villagers wandered back and forth, carrying water and fruits and other goods. A stray muddy dog paced through the center, trying to pick at any scraps people fed it. Around the gardens of the small round thatched mud-houses were shoddily constructed fences of twisted logs housing pigs, chickens, and goats. Some of the larger houses had cattle.


    He wondered where Quarneem had gone. After spending a few minutes roaming around the village like a headless chicken, Darius saw Quarneem emerge from one of the small mud-houses. Topless, his robes wrapped up in a ball around his head, wearing brown linen trousers. He scratched his crotch and threw a golden sun to a fat, older man who waited by the door. The coin glinted in mid-air before being caught by the ragged villager, flashing a ugly green smile at the gold coin. Behind Quarneem emerged a young fiery haired Rodevian woman.


    ¡°Thank you for the wonderful morning, my dear.¡± Quarneem kissed her. She barely managed a smile in return, looking rather glum, then said something in the Rodevian tongue in response.


    Quarneem noticed Darius standing in the middle of the village, looking like a lost child, and walked over. ¡°Ah, Darius! Shall we make ready to depart? The caravan is just by the stables.¡±


    ¡°Did you just¡­ was that a brothel?¡± Darius asked, looking back at the little house and the girl Quarneem had kissed. It didn¡¯t look like a brothel. Then again, none of the houses really looked like houses, not as Darius had been used to back home. Humble round huts, some built from stone.


    ¡°No, just another house as the many others here,¡± Quarneem said as they walked to the stables.


    Darius frowned. ¡°Then who was that whore?¡±


    ¡°She wasn¡¯t a whore, just a farmer¡¯s daughter.¡± The merchant scratched his chin. ¡°At least I believe he was a farmer. The house stunk of shit as it was.¡±


    ¡°But you paid him?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The merchant grinned like a child. ¡°Anyone can be made a whore, Darius, because everyone has a price. I take great pleasure in finding out what that price is. Today, that price was quite cheap.¡±


    He raised a brow. ¡°So you don¡¯t even care for laying with her, only that she submitted to you?¡±


    Quarneem looked around for a moment, searching for an answer, then shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it. Laying with them is a joy, to be sure, but there is a certain satisfaction in making them your slave.¡±


    Gold¡¯s sweet corruption¡­ Darius recalled this very man saying the words to him. They got to the caravan, and Quarneem wrapped himself up in his black robes. ¡°Your wife cares not for these little games of yours, then?¡± Darius asked.


    ¡°She may care, she may not,¡± Quarneem said. ¡°I have never thought to ask, for I care not. What will she do, run away from the big stone house she lives in?¡±


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    ¡°Well, she might.¡± Darius fastened his scabbard around his waist.


    The merchant shrugged. ¡°Then I¡¯ll find another.¡±


    How does this man have even the remnants of a soul left? Darius didn¡¯t know what to make of this man. How could he be so wise and accomplished in matters of business, and yet be such a depraved fool anywhere else? The thought of laying with another woman was unbearable to Darius.


    ¡°We still have time,¡± Quarneem said. ¡°I¡¯m sure her father will let you have a go if you throw him a golden sun.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°My wife would never forgive me. Would you get the horses?¡±


    ¡°Your wife.¡± The merchant laughed, stroking his long silky beard as he went to get the horses by the stable. They huffed at his touch. ¡°Your wife has likely taken another lover already. They get lonely when we are away¡ª¡±


    Darius grabbed the hilt of his short sword. ¡°Do not speak of her that way.¡± He trusted Tanitha with his life, and never lost a night''s sleep over such things. She would not do that to me.


    The merchant glanced at his sword, and the grin ran away from his face. ¡°Forgive me. Too much time around freeswords and sailors.¡± Then a laugh escaped him. ¡°We¡¯ll break you down yet.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be waiting a while for that¡ª¡± Darius was interrupted by the sound of wooden and metallic tinkering coming from the carriage. Frowning, he turned and walked toward the front of the carriage. A boy, an adolescent by the looks of him, patched with dirt on his face and bushy brown hair on his head, was trying to get into Darius¡¯s chest of gold. The boy saw Darius, froze for a moment with wide eyes, and made to run away.


    But Darius snatched him. ¡°Thief!¡± he roared. The boy tried to struggle free, tearing the brown linen tunic he wore, but Darius clutched the lad¡¯s arm by then, ignoring his cries for help. Quarneem came around, investigating, but all around, the villagers stopped what they were doing to watch the scene.


    ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± Quarneem said.


    ¡°The little savage is trying to get at our gold!¡± A hot rage filled his belly, remembering all the blood, sweat, and tears he had to shed for that gold. To think a barbarian tried to get his fingers on it unleashed a beast within him.


    Among the small crowd of Rodevian villagers, an older man with long white hair and a beard to match, and some blue tribal tattoos across his neck and shoulder, came to the forefront.


    He did not speak the chosen tongue of the civilized world, instead the strange sounding Rodevian. Quarneem spoke to him in his tongue.


    ¡°Tell him to execute this criminal!¡± Darius yelled.


    The merchant frowned but spoke the foreign tongue to the village elder. The man¡¯s face contorted as the two bickered for a while. Quarneem¡¯s hand darting between the boy and the chest, his tone getting more irritated. The elder shook his head, first screaming at the boy, and finally sighing. Then he muttered some more words to the merchant.


    ¡°You may exact your justice on the boy,¡± Quarneem said as the boy wriggled around in Darius¡¯ grasp. ¡°But they will not do it for you. There are no executioners here.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Darius spat. ¡°I¡¯m no common executioner!¡±


    ¡°You are if you want your justice.¡±


    Darius looked to the boy once more, the fear in his young eyes, then looked to the hilt of his sword. ¡°How can this be? Does every man resort to the blade when they have been wronged here?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t Yarikhad, boy,¡± the merchant said. ¡°Hurry up and do your business. We can¡¯t stand around here all day.¡± He muttered something more to the village elder, who just shrugged in response, looking at Darius.


    His heart picked up in his chest. He had never killed someone before. Not that he was against such things, but Darius always imagined his first kill would be another man, someone who was his match. Not a helpless child. He looked to the hilt of his sword, suddenly aware of the sweat on his palms. The boy cried something to a woman in the crowd, who now burst into tears, screaming at the elder.


    Darius unsheathed his short sword from his scabbard and kicked the boy in the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. He cried out in pain, tears streaming from his eyes. Screaming words at Darius he did not understand. Perhaps that makes it easier¡­


    Pressing the blade against the tender flesh of the boy''s neck, Darius caught his own terrified eyes in the steel¡¯s reflection. And the way the boy jumped at the mere touch of the cold blade made Darius shudder.


    After raising the sword, the woman, who he assumed was the boy¡¯s mother, screamed in terror. Darius grimaced, and just hit the boy on the back of the head with the flat of the blade. The boy fell to the ground, clutching his head in pain. ¡°Don¡¯t steal again,¡± Darius said to him.


    But the merchant grabbed Darius in an instant. ¡°What are you doing?¡± he hissed.


    ¡°You told me to exact my justice,¡± Darius said, lowering his short sword. ¡°So I did. He¡¯s just a boy. I will not kill him. The pain and fear of this day will be a scar in his memory and remind him not to steal again.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Quarneem snatched the sword from Darius¡¯ limp hand. ¡°You said you would kill him. I told these villagers you would kill him. So he must die now.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± His eyes widened. ¡°Why?¡±


    The merchant rolled his eyes, sighing in frustration. ¡°Oh, my boy. You have much to learn.¡± He raised the sword and drove it through the boy¡¯s back.


    The thick, drawn-out sigh of the boy¡¯s last breath would haunt Darius¡¯ memory forever. That, and the horrifying, near animalistic shriek his mother made as she collapsed on her knees into the damp mud, clutching the tunic of another woman.


    Each villager looked at the pair of merchants as though they were monsters or invaders. Quarneem gazed over the crowd as he handed Darius his sword back, wet with blood. ¡°Now you get the horses, since I did your dirty work for you. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    Darius did as he was bid in silence, the blood gone from his face. Meanwhile, the merchant went over to the village elder and placed a jingling leather pouch of coins in his palm. He did not have the strength to look back on the scene as they rode away on the carriage out of the small Rodevian village. A vulture circled overhead.


    ¡°By the gods, why did you do that?¡± Darius said as he cleaned his sword with a cloth. ¡°I gave him his punishment.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Quarneem snapped. ¡°You loudly announced you would execute the boy for his crime, and then backed down when the honour of the task was placed upon your shoulders. By backing down, you made the pair of us look weak, and would have shown that we do not mean what we say.¡± He looked Darius in the eye now, those grim, flint eyes staring through his soul. ¡°These lands are wilder than Yarikhad, make no mistake. Rumours spread like fire, and if we are known to be weak, then other people¡ªfar more dangerous than little boys¡ªwill seek to steal from us. I will not have you put this caravan in jeopardy. You will never do that again. Do you understand?¡±


    Darius pressed his lips into a grimace. ¡°He was just a boy¡ª¡±


    ¡°You decided his fate!¡± Quarneem roared, his voice thundering through the trees around them, sending some birds into flight. ¡°Not me, you! Don¡¯t make threats you don¡¯t intend to carry out. That¡¯s the last I will hear of it. You wanted to join me. You want wealth and riches, so you do what is required of you. That is the last time I bloody my hands on your behalf.¡±


    He went to say something, but then held his tongue. Quarneem was right, and in that moment, Darius realised why the man had that gaunt, grim look about him. The way he always looked tired, exhausted, or demoralised. Maybe every time he¡¯s had to kill or commit some vile act, it left a scar. And now he is a shadow of what he was. Then Darius wondered if the same would happen to him¡ªthe thought sent a chill crawling up his spine.


    You decided his fate¡­ The words rang in his head, and he remembered the look of terror on the young boy¡¯s face.


    They continued riding on the bumpy dirt road, the horses struggling with the wagon over each steep hump. Rodevia had left a grim taste in Darius¡¯s mouth so far. A land of elm and twisted old oaks and ash trees. A land that was green in some areas, dusty and barren in others, and mostly somewhere in between, with patches of bushes and grass amidst the dusty landscape. It was not as hot as Yarikhad, and rained a little more frequently, though it was still warm.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Quarneem said as he spurred the horses on. ¡°It¡¯s not all muddy little villages along our route. There are many Yariki settlements around Low Rodevia, usually on the coast, but we have a few in the heartland too. With any luck, we shall stumble upon an inn during our travels as well.¡±


    An inn, or a proper settlement would be most welcome. Darius had grown sick of the stale water from his waterskin. He yearned for sweet wine or lemon flavoured spring water. He wanted to bathe in a proper bath house to wash the dust of the land off him.


    Their route would take them through the city of Mahonad, Quarneem assured him. The seat of Yarikhad¡¯s power in Low Rodevia. By some accounts, a miniature Yarikhad itself, with bathhouses and marble temples and great monuments to Yarikhad¡¯s power. Built over an older settlement of a great, ancient Rodevian civilization. And from there they would travel north to visit Quarneem¡¯s clients, as well as silver, iron, and tin mines, in search of new business.


    And perhaps they would see more tribes along the way¡ªno, that was a certainty. Darius tapped his foot against the carriage nervously. He thought of the boy who he had sentenced to death and kept cleaning his blade.