Darkness, unending and all encapsulating around the prince, though Mazin had long since grown used to it. He didn’t know when this dead blackness began, nor how he found himself in this position.
The darkness was always an ally, even before the Essence sparked within him when he turned nine. Ma mentioned times when her stilled, seeing him linger in the shadowed corners of his room. Out of his cot, crawling in the darkness, ruby eye glowing like a flame. The sun favoured Zaki, the night was his own. It made this unnatural place a manageable location whenever he found himself here.
Prince Mazin sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, eyes shut. It made no difference anyway; his Tamer eyes saw nothing. His ears never failed to pick up the whispering however, as common as wind, swirling indecipherably around him. He wasn’t alone in this strange place, but no one revealed themselves.
The hairs on the back of his neck straightened suddenly, and his eyes burst open. A whisper caressed him from behind. He swore it called to him, and his eyes searched the blackness to no avail.
“Prince.”
This time he surged to his feet, then groaned when the crushing weight of the darkness weakened his knees. He took a moment’s pause, inhaled the nothingness and straightened his back. Mazin’s ears twitched when he focused, calming his breath to silence as he waited for it to come again.
“Prince.”
He braced against an unseen attack out of instinct, but it was his face that suffered a breath this time. After a blink a pair of rubies floated ahead. He rubbed his eyes but still they remained. Mazin’s heart stopped. The dark Feline blended with the nothingness. Its eyes seemed to look through him. He turned back and saw only more endless blackness. When he turned back the rubies were gone.
Mazin shouted for the Feline to wait, but nothing came out. He tried it again, then slapped his thigh. The prince closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, picturing the dark Feline’s rubies in his mind. A bubble expanded in the back of it soon after.
“What is this?”
The words sprouted from his brow and floated away like falling petals from a rose. They echoed all around him, fading without reply. His fine hairs pricked up again, and Mazin crossed his arms to shield his chest. It failed and the unseen hammer battered him off his feet.
He reached behind to break his fall but the floor vanished. Mazin fell into a pit. Mouth agape, screaming his silent fear.
Prince Mazin gasped awake, grimacing as his eyes suffered a disturbingly well-lit room. He groaned soon after, last night’s drinking sloshed in his head. Mazin tried and failed to rise from his pillow, whimpering when he thumped back down. He belched, and bitterness tickled his tongue. Bile rotted wine invaded his nose. Mazin gagged, struggling to keep his stomach from churning.
Gentle scratching in one corner distracted him. Someone was here, sweeping for some reason. Oblivious to him waking up. He raised his head, fighting his wine sickness, and spotted a grey servant. A youthful one, whose robes sparkled white thanks to the brilliant sunlight blazing through the many open windows.
Mazin scrunched his brow at the woman’s back. Blonde highlighted her brunette hair, wrapped into a tidy bun atop her head. Her sun kissed skin glistened with the beginnings of perspiration. A Jaguar, one who spent more years in Bil’Faridh than the Boor Province.
He fell back down and groaned, glaring through the wine-red canopy above him.
You enjoy torturing me, don’t you? He spat up at the Great Beast. Improper, near blasphemous in truth, but he couldn’t help but feel that if the Great Beast was the omnipresent being the clans once thought it was, it made him its plaything.
Mazin’s wine sickness surged back to punish him for such thoughts, hammering his head deeper into his pillows. Flashes of last night returned to him, additional pummelling for his mind. Nabila’s face dominated amongst the overwhelming flurry of images. Her emerald dusted taut face smiling at him. Sincere, without pity or fear while her green lips shifted wordlessly. Stygian black hair sleeked straight, with emeralds hanging off the ends.
Zaki was with a child, or near one. Ma and the kumkani seated with the inkosi. Daeron Geb and one of his sons, even Gazsi Isis.
Hummed music tore him away. He strained his neck towards the youthful servant again. She faced him now, eyes fixed on the floor while she swept. Her lips pouted and her flowery humming mumbled into the beginnings of a ballad he didn’t recognise.
The servant’s broom clattered to the floor before she yelped. His mismatched eyes widened when her pale eyes did the same. A glint of sunlight exposed grassy flecks in her pale irises.
“Forgive me Prince, I thought you were… I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, no, please there is nothing to forgive. I shouldn’t have been staring.”
Her shamed scent made him feel worse.
“I uh… I’ve never woken up to,” Mazin stopped himself when his voice cracked.
“Your moth… the pharaoh asked me to watch over you, and bring your breakfast, should you want it?”
There was no deceit on her scent, which only worsened his guilt. She lingered and twiddled his thumbs while his chest tightened at how drunk he must have been.
“Yes please, thank you,” Mazin grimaced, almost forgetting to reply.
“Your bathwater is here already, it’s so humid they didn’t bother with heating it.”
“Thank you.”
She bowed and rushed out of his room, leaving behind her broom. Mazin groaned again.
You are a fool!
He skipped out of bed in nothing but a loincloth. Fear of her return demanded he push through throbbing behind his eyes as he stumbled his way to his brass bath. Mazin filled it and stretch the partition before sinking into the relieving coolness. It quickly became lukewarm, but his wine sickness was soaked away. Peace was short-lived however, for more servants rushed for his room.
They brought baked bread, oats, and something sweet that made him gag. A whiff of frothy beer ruined his chilled milk and water. By the time sizzling lamb forced its way into his nose, his empty stomach rolled.
Mazin mumbled his thanks as they departed, but one remained, the same sun kissed Jaguar. She retrieved her broom and resumed sweeping.
Why is she still here? He almost moaned aloud.
His limbs were scraped raw, and he left behind murky water as he donned loose fitting linens. Formal nights were infrequent, but when they came, the discomfort drained him. Constricting vests and their endless jewels and elegant stitching, gold amulets, bracelets and rings, Ma demanded a lot. She once threatened to shave their heads and force scratchy wigs when they didn’t put any effort in keeping their curly hair organised.
Mazin shuffled towards his breakfast with damp hair. He started with bread and milk, everything else still upset his stomach. The Jaguar woman opened more shutters, allowing the humidity oppressing the Sank’Ta Province, let alone the capital, a stronger hold in his room. Beads of sweat sprouted on his perfumed umber skin.
Distant hammering filled his drifting mind, trickling in from outside. Master Roole was working on a new piece, perhaps he might pay him a visit. The smith’s hammer cleared his mind every time he visited the forge, because now his mind reminded him of last night again. Ma and the Jaguar servant carrying him, Ma a little too jubilant. They hovered over him with his clothing in their hands, grinning at each other. Mazin’s chest tightened. He buried his head in his hands.
“Is something wrong, Prince?” She asked.
“I was bad, wasn’t I?”
She tilted her head at him when he glanced at her after a pause. It took her a moment to catch on, then her cheeks turned rosy. Her eyes dropped to her slippers.
“You weren’t bad… I mean, it was no trouble. The pharaoh did most of the work, she only asked me to accompany her.”
“I see.”
Where is Zaki when I need him?
“I don’t know your name grey one, may I ask for it?”
“Cyrea, Prince.”
Mazin smiled after she did, and his tongue shrivelled again. Cyrea clutched the broom with restless fingers.
“Would you like some of this?”
His smile faltered when she hesitated.
“You’re allowed to rest right? If it’s too forward of me I apologise,”
“No, there is no need prince. Thank you.” She took the seat next to him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he went too far.
He offered his family sized breakfast to her. Cyrea took a sweet cake and nibbled on it, her eyes wandering around his room.
“I didn’t know grey ghosts allowed young people amongst them.”
“They don’t, I’m only here because of the pharaoh. She singled me out while I was on my way to the kitchens for more training. I thought she needed my help, but we simply talked while she carried you on her own.”
She didn’t break eye contact, she didn’t cower from his ruby eye, but that only made him turn away instead. Thankfully she did not notice his discomfort.
“If I may be bold Prince, the pharaoh is a wonderful woman. Funny too, it was almost as if, well maybe I shouldn’t say.”
Mazin suspected what she hid, and he wasn’t sure on how to feel. Grateful or angry, it wasn’t the first time Ma tried it. He hoped she wasn’t forced into it. At least she didn’t smell fearful like the others. Masood Geb was Ma’s last attempt, though Masood blamed him for the supposed trickery. Nearly two years ago now, Ma apologised more than she needed to.
Cyrea’s skin glittered bronze when she yawned. He avoided her eyes when they returned from their wandering. Beautiful indeed. She tapped her fingers on her thighs, but Mazin couldn’t find the words. Thank the Beast she wasn’t a Tamer. His face burned at the thought of her catching whatever scent he gave off. He added Ma alongside Master Roole on his list of visits for the day.
“Where are you from Cyrea?”
“Dhak Cha’Jhel. I was born there, but my earliest memories are of the road, and the jaguar district here.”
“Now the palace, how did that happen?”
Good Mazin, good, don’t throw away her attention now.
“Oh, it’s a boring story, especially for a prince.”
“I know boring, I’ve spent many hours in the archives below. There are some stories that would age you if you ever had the misfortune of listening to them, let alone reading them yourself.”
Cyrea chuckled and his chest warmed.
“My aunt was a grey ghost. Before she passed, she named me her successor. I was twelve when my mother sent me to the palace to answer the summons.”
“Twelve?”
“I’ve been training since.”
Mazin almost asked for her age, but instead he remarked at his own ignorance on palace servants. Succession amongst them was a surprise, or that the duty seemed to be for life. Cyrea noticed his expressions and Mazin softened his face.
“It’s not so bad. Life in the jaguar district wasn’t enjoyable anyway. My mother working in a tavern and all. She hardly had enough time to watch over me, my aunt’s kindness was a gift from the Great Beast. Though the lessons are difficult I will admit. Did you know Pharaoh Heydar, your grand uncle, sorry you knew that already, despised white meat? Especially from the sea and lakes, before the civil war ended trade with the Tiger Clan, it was important to know. Why I was told defeats me still.”
Cyrea was a masterful rambler, perfect for his awkward silence, and he couldn’t help but feel it suggested her own comfort with him. Unaffected by his blood red eye. Her naivety was endearing, not that her grey ghost elders were typically cynical.
“What I have picked up on is crafting wonderful scents. I adore citrus. It’s simple, but strong on the nose. It certainly takes my mind off training myself to suppress my own scents, I’m hopeless at it.”
Mazin frowned at her.
“Our duty is to serve, prince. Subtle frustration after heeding an order can only be misconstrued by the wrong noble.”
“That seems a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Not at all, I think it’s a useful skill. Even the most experienced ghosts struggle with it, which makes my own failings easier to understand.”
That remained him of something Kumkani Lihle always emphasised during their training. ‘We are emotional beings, Tamers most of all, the true battle isn’t suppressing them, but to ensure our emotions have no control over us.’ It always came whenever he frustrated them both, when Zaki was grinding his teeth, and himself flat on his back, after being embarrassed by the kumkani.
“Oh, I’m sorry Prince Mazin, I have been rambling.”
“Not at all, I enjoy your company. Your voice is wondrous.”
Cyrea blushed, and so did his face warm when he realised what he said.
“You honour me, Prince.”
“There was something you were humming, a tune I didn’t recognise when I… woke up,” Mazin said after clearing his throat.
“Teresa of the Gah’Van? It’s something I learned from my mother.”
“Teresa Farkry?”
“The traitor?” Cyrea pondered, then shrugged. “Teresa isn’t a unique name, at least not in the Boor Province.”
Mazin’s heart leapt at the chance to learn more about the Black Knight of the Jaguar Clan. Teresa drew her sword against her own father, King Eleric Farkry, freed the rebels from their cells and vanished with them. Tales of dark Tamers always drew him in, no matter the biases of the authors, which often tended towards negativity.
A whiff of lavender oil emptied his mind, soon the pitter patter of slippers followed. He ignored Cyrea’s question when he stood up, straightening himself in a sudden panic, adjusting his curls.
“Is something wrong, Prince?” She asked again.
“No problem at all dear,” Ma said as she floated into his room. Sky blue silks streaming behind her, hanging loosely off her body. Her face was plain, save for kohl darkening her eyes, extracting its subtle hazel hue. Also extending her lashes and eyebrows to her temples.
“Pharaoh Nadiyya,” Cyrea rushed to bow.
“Forgive me, I must steal my son away, I hope you do not mind?”
“Of course, not pharaoh, of course not.” Cyrea curtsied.
Ma beamed at her, then nodded at him to follow her out.
Ma drew many eyes as they walked together through the passageways. Palace guards and grey ghosts alike. Everyone paused and bowed at her. She muttered her greetings in reply. Without fail, scentless beyond her lavender perfume, her smile never faltering. He was exhausted nodding at all of them. It continued until they passed Sanctuary’s gardens on the ground floor. Whispers of their otherworldly powers tickled him until they crossed the crystalline great hall. Their steps echoed within the vast emptiness.
“How was she?” Ma asked.
“Nothing happened! That’s not… what?”
“I only asked a question; I hope nothing happened. Walking into your room with your pants down isn’t something I’m eager for.”
“She’s beau… she’s nice.”
“Nice,” Ma scoffed as they left the great hall behind. They turned into an empty passageway towards the fighting rings outside. “The girl is prettier than me.”
“That’s not a comparison I would make.”
“Mm.”
Mazin groaned at her mocking giggles. A passing palace guard in black scale armour nodded at him after bowing at her.
“The girl was watching everything from a side door, her face when I caught her was something I’ll never forget. I’ve never seen someone so eager to help me carry you.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“I’m sorry.”
She paused when the passageway quietened, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Is something wrong baby, anything for my shoulders to share?”
“No,” Mazin said in a rush. No doubt she smelled his lie, but she didn’t press him. “Where are we going?”
Ma smiled after her face faltered for a moment, and waved him to follow again.
Humidity washed over them like a blanket the moment they exited the palace. The sun battered down on him the moment it had full view of him. Mazin grumbled at himself for wearing black.
Zaki stood beside the largest fighting ring, yawning into his fist with heavy eyes. Mazin’s mood lifted, at least he wasn’t alone. Kumkani Lihle lingered nearby, in plain robes of ochre with black beads. A warm smile on his face as they approached. Mazin glanced at Ma but she hadn’t changed.
Unlike Zaki, he didn’t mind the possibility of whatever brewed between Ma and the Kumkani. They were always together because of the kumkani training them. Zaki made it a habit to assume the worst of every situation.
“Drunk boy!”
Mazin jumped as the harsh words invaded his mind. Pride’s golden gaze blinked at him from the stone seats. His sienna fur glimmered under the sun. His overgrown mane fluttered to the will of the humid breeze.
“I am amazed you can stand after last night.”
“You leave my baby alone,” Ma butted in before he could defend himself. He shrugged and the Sinha snorted aloud.
“Ignore him, and go stand with your brother.”
Zaki massaged the bridge of his nose. He smelled like he rushed bathing, wearing coarse and thick linens.
“Planning to spar?” Mazin asked.
“You should too, best thing to do is to sweat the wine out,” Zaki suddenly glared at him. “We need to talk.”
“Boys!” Ma said with her fists on her hips. The kumkani smirked at his sandals.
“Did we have to do this outside?”
“Do you want your gifts or not, Zaki?”
Zaki grumbled under his breath. Mazin eyed the bundles behind Ma and the kumkani.
“I know your induction is days away Zaki, and your departure as well Mazin. What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t teach you to be Tamers? Before I present my gift, I believe the kumkani wants to present his first.”
The kumkani stepped forward.
“There is little better I can give you two than the training and knowledge I’ve shared already.”
“I know of something I can still take from you,” Zaki muttered. The kumkani grinned at him. Mazin’s eyes fell down towards the ivory pommels of the billao short swords on each side of the man’s waist.
“I think of myself as more than your trainer, and I hope you two feel the same. I’ve grown fond of both of you, more than I expected. Every day I thank Pharaoh Gawahir for seeking an alliance with my Leopard Clan, for it led me to you two. I almost see you two as my sons.”
Ma raised an eyebrow at the kumkani. It warmed Mazin’s chest. The kumkani dug into his pockets and produce two small boxes.
“I had these made a year ago. I hope you like them.”
Mazin gasped at the jewel within. Ruby encrusted black steel snaked around pale vinewood. A thin chain of black steel coiled around the ring.
“This is ironvine!” Zaki exclaimed.
The fabled technique of combining steel with vinewood was a secret only the Panthers knew of.
“How did you… how could… how?”
“I have my friends,” Kumkani Lihle grinned.
Zaki’s ring possessed gold instead of black steel, and sparkled with tiny topazes instead of the rubies on his.
“Thank you, Kumkani,” Mazin echoed Zaki.
“It should mould to your finger when you slip it on, at least that is what I was told. I’ve never owned any ironvine myself, so I don’t say that with much confidence.”
“Now I regret allowing you to go first,” Ma said quietly behind him.
Mazin snapped the box shut while Zaki admired it on his fingers. Ma retrieved the two wrapped bundles and stood before them. Zaki didn’t give her a chance to speak. He darted forward and wrapped his arms around her in a flash.
“Okay, there’s no need for that. They’re only weapons.”
Her words failed to mask the overwhelming joyful scent of sweetness from overflowing into his nose. She handed their blades to them and Zaki was already tearing away at the silk wrappings that Mazin caressed.
The khopesh sheath was dyed black, with a large red sun stitched on both sides. Zaki oohed when his khopesh sung its freedom, and Mazin rushed to do the same. It glimmered like a silver star, thicker and wider than the mass-produced blades. Strengthening script littered both sides of the blade, and hilt. There wasn’t a strong curve like with others, but the tip curled into a sharp, wide hook.
“How much did this gem cost?” Zaki asked, ogling the pommel of his blade close to his face. The yellow topaz was the size of a baby’s fist, to match the ruby on Mazin’s.
“You should ask your father. It was his idea, his money.”
Zaki shoved the blade back into the sheath and strapped it to his back, a little put off. The golden hilt, wrapped with fine leather, sparkled under sunlight. Mazin admired the dark leather wrapping around the blacksteel hilt of his own blade.
“Really, on your back?” Ma smirked at Zaki.
“Thank you, Ma,” Mazin said.
“Don’t forget Kamal Heka wants to see you in the evening.”
Those words were for Zaki alone.
“And don’t hurt each other while I’m gone.”
She nudged the kumkani, while he whipped out a pipe from his pocket. Ma waved at them before striding into the palace. Kumkani Lihle stuffed his pipe, then dabbed a finger into it and puffed a mouthful of smoke. Mazin’s nose drowned in the honeyed sweetness.
“What do you think of Jazmin?” Zaki asked.
“What?”
“Jazmin, Jazmin Isis, what do you think of her?”
“Mazin chases a mother of many, and now you are chasing one as well?” The kumkani asked, smirking. “Have I been teaching the wrong lessons to you two?”
“You’re not funny,” Zaki snarled as he drew his khopesh, nodding at Mazin to follow.
Mazin descended the cramped, winding stairs sinking into the darkness. A torch flickered ahead, too bright for his eyes, but his legs continued onward. Another torch flickered ahead, creating another pause in the darkness. This pattern continued for longer than he expected. It had been some time since he last visited the archives beneath the palace.
Ma rejoiced when he told her. She couldn’t wait to share her rather bland secret path. The way she described it, he expected hieroglyphs swarmed stairs, murals of Sinha and old pharaohs, but no. Only grey stone, with a few torches blazing needless light in his path.
The stale air became moist, forced into the hall beyond a rotting wooden door before him. A few steps later his ears filled with hushed activity. Shuffling slippers, shifting and crinkling pages, scratching quill pens on dry parchment, and some coughing. Mazin pushed the door open and a wave of fresh air greeted him.
The archive was a sprawling village beneath the roots of the palace. The courtyard hummed, air pumps high above amongst the strange and ever glowing crystals lighting up the archives for Unblessed eyes. Gifted by a forgotten kingdom beyond the Mahn’Parvat in the distant past. Warmth emanated from the crystals embedded above and in the many columns below. Never too hot nor too weak.
Ma told him a story once about a fire from an overturned lantern, which then led to the strict law against fire in the archives.
A faded Sinha was painted on the door, though time stole much of its form. It was little more than a blob, once of pharaoh blue, now black.
Mazin hesitated, eyeing the endless desks and benches spread out in the courtyard. The chatter was never louder than a buzz, considering how close it was to the library behind. Archivists in their parchment yellow robes sat together and alone, hunched over books and loose pages. Discussing historical details or their favourite prose, the works of well-known and long-gone archivists. He caught a few mumbled complaints about upcoming duties, some dreary tome forced upon them to study. He eyed a few palace guards around, standing beside columns, their eyes ever watchful within their helms.
Mazin strode with his arms behind his back, fingers fiddling the ironvine ring on his middle finger. The Tamers amongst the archivists noted him early, nodding before returning to their words. There were Gebs and Hekas about, noses buried in parchment. Some recognisable faces of Cheetahs and Leopards, those who accompanied their monarchs to the capital.
He turned left towards the grand ivory doors before the library. Books travelled in and out, checked at desks where archivists with black chains and burly arms documented the movement. A pair of palace guards stood watch, one for each towering door. The black plated palace guard, with a Jagu’ara carved into the centre of his bulky breastplate, nodded at Mazin. His green eyes sparkled, and Mazin smiled.
“Prince Mazin, an archivist shuffled towards him with a glowing crystal ensconced within a glass lantern. “A pleasant surprise.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The man appeared to be a Lion. Dark eyed, bald, a little hunched, yet his skin was quite pale.
“It would surprise me if you did, yours is the recognisable face.”
Mazin sensed something more, but ink overpowered the archivist’s scent. It stained the man’s fingers and his robes. Which was slightly different from the others. It was parchment yellow, but littered with onyx jewels.
“Is there anything I can help you with? Maybe a specific book, or the works of a renowned archivist?”
“Uh… perhaps you might direct me to… have you heard of the tale of Sekhmet Half-Beast?”
“Sekhmet?” The archivist’s brows soared. This time there was a scent, one he didn’t recognise, but it was bitter on his tongue. “There’s nothing written about the Half-Beast beyond myth and loose fables. I’ll admit, they’re written well, but they are all children’s stories with little evidence supporting them.”
The archivist fiddled in a pocked then produced a key. He offered it to Mazin, with the lantern.
“Here, chains keep the older books in place deep in the library. When you are finished, return the lantern and key to one of these brutes. Tell them the key belongs to Fazil.”
Fazil bowed then shuffled away.
The condescension was strange, but not uncommon. Archivists, and Zaki for that matter, always took offence whenever he openly wished to read fables.
Mazin strode into the vast stone library with lantern low and warm against his leg and the key tight in his fist. Most of the archivists within wore robes similar to Fazil. There were some with yellow topazes instead of onyx gems. All focused on their books, backs bent, some lips moving without sound.
He scanned the shelves, reading the colourful books with labelled spines. Organised according to clans, detailing former monarchs and significant events. Civil wars and in-depth cultural studies. He halted, noticing a small section on the lands beyond the Mahn’Parvat. There weren’t many, but he snatched the largest one.
Bavamso and Beyond: Recollections of the True North of Mahn’Jaanvar.
The title seemed interesting enough.
Mazin pressed on, eyeing the decay of time withering the books deeper into the library. Books on the peak of the Bannerless, and the Age of Disunity. The Age of Heresy and the foundations of the Bannerless followed. Rise and fall of the Great Beast’s worship, the following time of enlightenment that prevented further catastrophe. He quickened his pace when the books on the Lion Clan’s period of incest filled his eyes.
Soon the chained books arrived. Some desks hosted more jewelled archivist, but shadows kept a stronger hold this deep in the library. His Tamer eyes remained untroubled. The darkness was an added comfort instead.
Mazin raised the lantern. The chains sparkled against its light, revealing strengthening script carved into every link. Not even thieving Tamers would succeed. It stank of mould, and the colours faded from the covers. Titles withered off of covers, a struggle to read even for his eyes. Sekhmet Jumped out to him and he doubled back for it. He unlocked the chain and sneezed after he cause a puff of dust.
A secluded corner beckoned him and he sat on a cushioned chair. He thumped the books down on the desk, with only the lantern for light. The surrounding shadows encroached, dimming the crystals above.
Mazin’s eyes jumped between the two books. His wanderlust pulled him left, while his wonder pulled him right. It pained him to make the choice, but he shoved his wanderlust aside and dragged Sekhmet to the middle. The book coughed a plume of dust, Mazin waited for it to settle before breathing again. The pages were stiff and brown, wrinkled and reluctant to bent. The first page was blank, the prince sighed with relief when he saw ink on the next.
Sekhmet, the name alone insinuates an existence pre-founding, or at the very least the early years of the Founding Age. However, with no descendants, no mention amongst other founders of the Lion Clan, to validate such a person is reckless. Despite that, to continue delving into a unique legend, let us assume that Sekhmet did exist.
It is now understood that the statues crafted by early Lions, a humanoid figure with a Sinha’s head, were a means of symbolising a Tamer. The second name of ‘Half-Beast’ implies something more however, perhaps power, which Sekhmet was well known for, or truth. Unfortunately, much has been lost about the Po’Vaj, the abilities they possessed, and their origins, which makes it difficult to associate Sekhmet with them.
The tales sprouted from such a person is where we will begin our investigation. A dissection of the potential truth from a greater-known story, A Wandering Half-Beast.
Mazin groaned. Historical investigations were not what he wanted, he yearned for more stories. The fading black ink thrust an extra weight on his eyes, aided by his earlier sparring with Zaki, and the caressing warmth on his cheek by the crystal lantern. His head drooped, and soon the prince gave up the battle. Saved by his arms, his head fell, then the encroaching darkness swallowed him.
He gasped awake within the nothingness, dark and unyielding. As the moments passed, he gathered himself and sat down. Cross-legged, hands resting on his thighs, ready to mediated until the dream ended. The weight of the darkness was ever-present, though seldom greater than a feather. Mazin focused on the swarming whispers around. Incoherent muttering danced all over the place.
It was a slow process. Calmness refused to enter him. The surrounding voices pulled him away. One became the loudest amongst the others. It lingered long enough to distract him.
His fine hairs surged upright, from his neck down to his arms. Someone was nearby. Mazin kept his eyes shut, hoping they would pass. The presence became eyes, then his own burst open in the pitch darkness. He searched around himself and found nothing, as expected.
“Your eyes are useless here.”
The whispers were silenced, and the words battered him.
“You take to the void well.”
The harsh words washed over him as he rose to his feet. At first his lips parted, then he paused. Mazin pictured the image of a dark Feline’s eyes, but the words refused to form.
“I am no beast.”
Mazin’s eyes popped open again, there was nothing except for the echoing words. Someone’s eyes dug beneath his skin. He refused to allow this stranger to ruin the darkness for him. A bubble grew in his mind when he imagined a face.
“Who are you?”
The words sliced out of his brow and dispersed amongst the unending darkness.
“You learn swiftly.”
Mazin snarled, he hoped the stranger saw it, but his eyes saw nothing in his hopeless search.
“I am reluctant to reveal myself, and my purpose. There is fear, of you and my actions, more than you may understand.”
“Do not speak as if you know me!”
“I do know you, we all do, this palace talks and everyone listens.”
Mazin’s patience ran out, and he tried to pop the elusive bubble in the back of his mind. An air of panic filled his nostrils.
“Wait! Please wait. To speak without restraint would put both of us at risk.”
“You know who I am, why not come in person?”
“You have no Tamed. That you enter the void already is impressive, but dangerous. Your Essence glows.”
“In person then, we meet face to face.”
Mazin’s eyes continued to search for the stranger, despite the hopelessness of the task.
“What makes you think I am near?”
“You spoke of the palace, and the gossip. You know because you are here.”
The stranger paused again, and another scent crept in his nose, one he didn’t recognise.
“When you are alone and unencumbered, do not fear a stranger.”
The bubble popped and Mazin jumped. His hands rushed for his head, hoping to catch the fleeting sensation in vain. He wheezed for the stranger to wait, but his jaw hung ajar. With the return of the swarming whispers and muffled muttering, Mazin slumped.
He then tensed immediately, his instincts exploding into action. It failed to stop what came, for the ground below vanished. Mazin fell, screaming nothing, until a hand clasped his shoulder.
“Well, what a surprise.”
Mazin gasped aloud when he saw who spoke. It quickly turned apologetic after his racing heart slowed to a jog. More than two centuries dragged her face down, perhaps three. She appeared nothing like the elders he saw in the city, those who hardly pushed eighty and seemed a foot away from the grave. Her eyes were milk white, with withering darkness for irises. She stood hunched over in faded robes of black and gold, like the capes of the palace guard.
“A slumbering Lion prince in my library, slobbering over my knowledge. What a sight.”
“Sorry, Mother,” Mazin slurped the drool on the edge of his lips, then wiped with a sleeve. A droplet of moisture darkened the page below. “I lost track of time.”
She raised her crystal lantern at him with a slight quiver, but slapped away his attempt to aid her.
“Authorless tomes have that effect on most readers. They lack the personal intimacy of a name and the writer’s bias,” she wheezed a few times before Mazin realised it was laughter. Her ghostly gaze lingered on him, and his heart wobbled. She pursed her lips and her face hardened.
“What do you seek within Sekhmet?”
“Nothing!” His chest tightened. “I mean… fables have always intrigued me.”
“This one is no storybook.”
The Mother’s seriousness disturbed him.
“Rahim Safekhet retells Sekhmet’s adventures in Legends and Myths of the Lion well. As far as I can recall, Oma Thoth alone bettered his mastery with the pen, her family’s end was a loss for us all.
They stared at each other in silence. Since his void dream, the library quietened, and the glowing crystals dimmed. Mazin waited for her to say more, he didn’t know what to say himself. The Mother’s misty eyes studied him, searching him, peeling his skin back.
Ma said she would rather die in battle than wither away. The Mother of Knowledge remembered so much, despite forgetting her own name. Her eyes faded, and her strength, yet here she remained.
“Well?” The Mother’s eyes fell upon the second book on his desk. “Is Bavamso and Beyond sufficient? A little bland, if you don’t my opinion. Talal failed to realise that facts alone make for a dull read.”
“No, uh, I think it’s far too late for me to be here,” Mazin rushed to his feet and straightened himself, ruffling his curly head before snatching up his books. He forced them under his arm and grabbed his lantern.
He nodded at the Mother and rushed away. Her eyes bore into his back, tearing through his robes and slicing open his skin. It lingered while he returned the key and muttered Fazil’s name to an archivist. The burly woman shook her chains when he tried to take Sekhmet. Mazin saved himself an argument after glancing into the darkness from where he rushed from and caught the Mother’s eyes still on him. Her hunched silhouette unmoved.
Prince Mazin ran away with Bavamso and Beyond through a quiet courtyard. A few stray archivists remained, scribbling and muttering to themselves. He darted through the aged door. The stairs were a blink in his memory as he strode through the quiet passageways of the palace. Above ground and dimly lit. Servants nodded at him, as did the palace guards.
A hint of citrus preceded the doors to his room, and the fear faded. Mazin yawned when he burst into his room, enjoying Cyrea’s work. His supper waited for him, beside a flickering candle on his dining table, smelling of mutton.
The few open shutters allowed the night-time humidity to dance within. Mazin fiddled with his ironvine ring after placing his book on a desk. Another gust hugged him from behind, reminding him of his heavy eyes. The city was quiet, and his bed called. Threatened by the possibility of the void, he delayed the inevitable. His mind haunted by the stranger’s voice echoing against the darkness’ walls.