Izhera II
Isambora, Izhetai had once told her, was the gateway to Taytamba by land if one approached from the north by way of the Crone’s Road. West of the highway was the vast Manju, a rainforest inhospitable to all but its blood-drinking natives and the less said about them, the better. To the east was the Sea of Wrath where Jangir pirates abounded, endless tormenting the merchant ships that dared to traverse those risky waters.
There was a minor road that cut through a narrow pass in the Mountains of the Moon, but few or none used it given the high probabilities of avalanches, floods in the rainy seasons, mountain bandits and the conspicuous fact that it passed through Biwìle country, a region trapped in perpetual civil wars since the dawn of time.
It was of the utmost importance then that the city – already sitting on natural chokepoints – be the most fortified place in the kingdom after the capital.
It seemed its time had come, however, for even in the distance she saw none of the menacing high red walls that their enemies had once relentlessly thrown themselves against only to be slain time and time again; they had been shattered by Beyish magespell.
If she imagined hard enough she could see the white-hot flames that had licked at stone, wood, flesh and bone alike with no prejudice, and the bloody rubble under which the ash-painted faces of women and children looked up skywards with blank eyes. Even now, as the procession slowly rolled into the half-destroyed city, its native denizens looked forth with such vacant stares she wondered how many horrors they had seen for all joy to be sucked out of their eyes.
More than you know. She let her gaze stray to the east, where out of sight the Isam River flowed forth into the sea, cutting through green marshland that discouraged ships from mooring anywhere near the city. She had overhead the hushed conversations spoken between her fellow captives of the bodies the invaders had dumped in the river, so many the Isam had been red for weeks. Mothers, fathers, siblings… thousands upon thousands, all for what? Glory? Fame?
She was not versed in grasping the ways of men, or the joy they so cherished over the spilling of blood – but surely, the Sun Emperor’s greed had to have bounds. Was Beys not the greatest nation on the continent? Were her people not admired and feared? Did her territories not stretch so far that the sun could both rise and set at the same time?
Your gods are dead, the one named Asrael had said to her when he’d caught her praying for the little ones who at night wept for their mothers and siblings. Not yet, she vowed as the procession ground to a sudden halt before the gates of the city’s citadel. Not yet.
*****
“Is Benne Izhera comfortable?” inquired the red-haired Shewa* – an older woman who spoke with a lisp – fussing over her clothes, while another fretted over her hair.
“Yes.” Izhera responded blankly. What else could she say save for that? She doubted the Circle would do more than what was necessary for her survival, princess or not.
Nevertheless, an entire cohort of palace women had been assigned to her, unsurprisingly for non-altruistic reasons. Of all the people that she hated, these women from Babir Zawha* came near the top of her list albeit she knew such thoughts were irrational.
It was their fathers’ and brothers’ faults; their men’s greed and treachery that had caused all this pain and suffering. They had betrayed their liege and king, and she cursed all of them every night. No doubt they had been put with her to spy on her doings, a laughable idea, for she had naught to do except wait.
The Shewa dressed her up in soft silks and gleaming jewelry – rings and earrings and bracelets too many for just one person. Sweet-smelling oils and fragrant perfumes were applied to her skin – after they had spent the entire afternoon drawing her arms and legs with bira ink in intricate patterns – and her pale hair was done up in the style of the Isami. When they were done, she could barely recognize herself.
There was to be a feast that night, preceded by a short ceremony which would announce the end of the war and the annexation of her home. The entire thing left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wondered where her brothers were; were they safe in the refuge of their mothers’ homelands, or had they already been hunted down and killed? Were all of Seha Razhai’s sons truly done for, with none left to avenge him?
The door swung open without preamble and a tall, bald-headed man strode into the chamber, heavily scarred hands clasped together. He was not dressed in armor as the rest of his ‘brothers’ were wont to do, preferring a simple garb of long jade robes and pointed sheepskin boots, but Izhera knew he was deadlier than the rest of the Circle combined save one – the one who had murdered her father. The man was named Eshkil, the second-in-command of his band of villains. For some reason, he was nearly always at her side.
“Benne Izhera,” he said softly, as he always did, dipping his head a little. Whether he used such a tone only for her ears or it was his true nature, she did not know, but she did not let her guard down – not that she could fight him. Her only weapons were patience and prayers.
Your gods are dead, said Asrael again, hands slick with her father’s blood.
“Is she ready?” he questioned the Shewa, all six of whom refused to meet his eyes save for the one with red hair.
“Ne. Jhiro laita.” she answered bluntly. Yes. She is ready.
The battlemage then turned to scrutinize Izhera deeply, much to her discomfort. Seemingly satisfied, he stretched out to her a narrow hand, which she stared at with both confusion and repulsion as she guessed his intentions. He must’ve seen her expression because he said,
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“You need not fear it. The magefire that blemished my hands can hardly touch you now, Benne.” He drawled nonchalantly and then added in a commanding voice, “Take my hand.”
It is not flames I fear, she thought as she did as he said, but what your hands can do.
*****
The zhenfi* hall – a place where a high chief sat down in everyday to judge and counsel, to dispense merits and punishments onto those who lived within his territories, to lay out a feast after every harvest season for his banner-men, to thank the gods in sickness and in health – was filled neck-high with foreigners.
Had she not seen the war in the last dregs of its terrible glory with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed that such camaraderie was truly between invader and defender and not relations. When had the Beyish integrated themselves so thoroughly in Isambora to laugh with such freedom with the people whose kinfolk they had freely slaughtered not even a year prior? It was a far cry from the desolate faces she’d seen outside among common citizens. For the umpteenth time, she wished she was brave and powerful enough to smite them all down.
There were a few faces in the crowd that she had recognized; Noni Sibeni’s four sons, the youngest of whom gave her an apologetic smile which made her heart ache. They had played together before she was admitted into the care of the Moonsingers, and even after that he never failed to spare her a few words whenever he came to the capital for the harvest festival with his now dead father. He was as helpless as she was.
The treacherous dogs from Babir Zawha she was not astonished to encounter; there was the hawk-nosed Bezaz and his cousins, brothers Aasho and Anshe dy’Azhire, among others. However the presence of the nobles of Fatabora and Bajha were a surprise, as she thought them the most loyal to her father’s house and if not that, to the Enkit which to which they so ardently sacrificed to every year, an important matter of pride to them.
Your gods are dead, said Asrael again, sword raised high ere it descended upon her babe of a nephew’s neck. She almost wanted to believe the war god’s herald for had not her countrymen acquiesced to Beyish demands without protest, they who swore themselves and their houses to loyalty until death under the Flame Father’s vigilant eye?
“Do not blame them too much,” said Eshkil, appearing behind her out of the blue.
She tensed. “Blame who?”
The man welcomed himself to her table – she sat alone in a corner and few would meet her eyes, much less go her way – and speared a sliced mango with a fine, delicate-looking dagger. She did not have an appetite, but he helped himself generously before turning his attention back to her, notwithstanding the fact that she preferred his absence.
“War is a terrible thing.” he informed her, as if she did not know such a thing. Did he think her a stupid child? Nevertheless, she said naught.
“Sometimes it behooves one to think of the future, especially in dire circumstances. It was either conforming or death, Benne.”
She let her gaze land on Bezaz and his double-crossing compatriots. “Do the Zawhi know you go to such lengths to excuse their treachery and cowardice, given their prideful nature? Or are you not aware that the royal blood they so thoroughly boast of demands they be unflinching in the face of adversity?” she challenged hotly before she could stop herself. He looked at her strangely.
“If I recall correctly, Benne, ‘twas thee who set thyself upon a brother of mine to beg for thy nephew’s life – not that it spared his blood upon thy father’s floor, daughter of Zorya.” He said in Oldspeak with nary a hint of an accent between his words and it was like a pail of cold water had been poured atop her head. Her ears rang and she could feel gooseflesh start on her skin. The only people who knew…
“You…” she started and made to stand up if not for the hand that quickly shot out to grip her wrist tightly under the table.
“Stay still,” he commanded and she followed, her heart thundering against her ribcage. His gaze flitted about the hall and its occupants who remained oblivious to his scrutiny. Upon satisfaction he started speaking once again in a low voice,
“Benne, your father and his father before him came to Damri many years ago, cutting down all who stood against them as the Beyish have done to your people now. My mother, my brothers, my uncles. My father – the high chief – pleaded for my life, his only living son among seven.”
A beat of terrible silence. “He was a strong man and to see him like that, like a dog begging for scraps…” the sentence trailed off.
He unclasped the hand on her aching wrist and she regarded him anew. His face did not bring to mind anyone she knew, but what she did know was that there hadn’t been a high chief in Damri since… her eyes widened.
“You grew up in the embrace of the Flame Father,” she managed to utter. Her mouth felt dry. Blood in the water, blood in the sky, Benne Golemei’s husky voice whispered in her ear.
“Yes.”
“You burned His temple and all who were within that place on a Night of Remembrance.” A day so etched into the mind of every Tayta child it was impossible to forget.
“Yes.”
“You are the one they call the Kingsbane; the man who slew my grandfather.” A death so horrible and fear-inducing few talked of it in public lest they face her father’s wrath.
“Yes.”
A pregnant silence filled the space between them, so dark and heavy she thought she’d drown in its sheer oppressiveness. Was he here for revenge? To give her the terrible fate her father’s sire had suffered; burning in undying flames for days on end while the respite of death eluded him? Her gaze dropped to Eshkil’s scarred hands and her mind fresh with the knowledge of how such events came to pass made bile rise in her throat.
“Are you here to kill me?” Izhera whispered. Was it better to die by Hoshnu’s cruel, silver-eyed Chosen’s hands rather than the Kingsbane?
He gave her such an impossibly kind yet terribly sad smile it felt like whiplash.
“Why would I harm my own sister’s only child?”
And Izhera’s world came crashing down. Blood in the water, blood in the sky.
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Shewa - a woman trained from a young age to serve in the palace or the homes of nobles and Tayta bureaucrats.
Babir Zawha - a province in Taytamba ruled by the dy'Azhire family who boast kinship with the dy'Tefizha; Tayta rulers. The two houses have been in a cold war for ages until three centuries ago when they were untited in marriage, effectively ending their feud.
Zhenfi - literally meaning 'place of union'. Its where a high chief conducts his daily business.
Benne - a form of address used for unmarried noblewomen.
Noni - a form of address used for married noblewomen.