Izhera III

She did not sleep that night. Eshkil had silently left her side after revealing to her that vital piece of information and promising to tell her more if fate deigned the proper time for it. Blood-kin by her side when she was so far away from home, one she’d likely never see again? Hadn’t the dots connected, she would’ve called him a liar to his face. All Izhera knew was that her mother was from the southwest and had had but one brother who served at the Temple of Light.

It was assumed he had been among the many dead who had perished in the flames when that place was burned to cinders – an irony given who they served, and a hook other temples were eager to use – and she had never thought to ask more. Zorya dy’Tefizha had died when Izhera was only eight and her father spoke and knew little of his second wife. Or he did, and deigned not to tell his daughter. After all, why would he burden her with the knowledge that her uncle had murdered her grandsire and countless others in cold blood?

Eshkil would not have done it if he had not been taken from his home by force, a traitorous voice whispered within her, if he had not seen his kin murdered and his only sister made to bed some foreign prince.

No! She warred against such thoughts but they hounded her all the same.

Conforming or death, Benne. No, it did not negate the fact that he was allied with the likes of Asrael – the cruelest man she had ever known. She could not think–

Is Eshkil’s thirst for revenge so different from yours?

The question gave her pause, and she tossed and turned in the dark for hours and hours. By the time her mind agreed to be swept away by the promise of dreamless sleep, the sky was already ablaze with predawn light.

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Tebtai dy’Besse of Bajha was a large-eyed, square-faced man who resembled a barrel more than anything else. All ten of his thick fingers were bejeweled with colorful rings adorned with precious stones of all manner, his robes being equally magnificent. He was the new high warden of Isambora, something many natives were resentful of, she was sure. Isambora belonged to the Isami, Golemei had always said.

The man seemed to know this; his hair and beard had been dyed in brilliant shades of orange and red in the Isami style, though she doubted this display would endear his new subjects to him. He had invited her to a mezha* – an invitation she was unable to refuse in any capacity - and greeted her far too cheerfully for her liking upon her arrival at a resplendent verandah which boasted stunning views of the sea. What he wanted from her she did not know and did not care for if it didn’t have anything with her going back home.

Today, no battlemage had accompanied her as they had always done prior, but an army of Shewa were at her ‘beck and call’, so to speak. She was relieved, and not just because she didn’t have to look at Eshkil once again. The screams of her friends as they were slaughtered were still fresh in her mind, as were Asrael’s unfeeling eyes as he gave leave to Beyish soldiers to rape and pillage innocents. Do as you will, he had said, tattooed hand stroking the indigo tresses of a weeping girl kneeling at his feet. Nausea threatened to overcome her, but she swallowed thickly and pushed it down.

“Is Benne not hungry?” the man queried, hand gesturing at the table set before her.

The fried catfish resting atop lightly roasted greens and peppers and sweet red bean paste looked tempting, as did the fried dough stuffed with fowl meat, nuts and fiery spices.

She smiled tightly. “I’m full, Seja.”

“Not even a pickled quail egg?” he pointed to a large plateful of the delicacies. Tasegai’s favorite, she thought with a sudden pang and shook her head, even though her stomach protested at being ignored.

“What do you need of me, Seja?” she asked before he offered anything else.

He laughed heartily. “Nay, it’s what you need of me. Anything; clothes, jewels, servants…”

She resisted the urge to hurl at his face the contents of the full decanter at her side; shame on him, the heartless cur! What use did she have of such things? Did he think they would fill the hole in her heart?

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“Can you bring the dead back to life, Seja? Can you make them breathe anew?”

"Nay.” He said.

“Then there is naught you can do for me."

He raised both hands in a peacemaking gesture. "I only want to make your stay here as comfortable as possible, Benne."

"Why? I have nothing to give you in return." Why indeed? To what ends?

He shrugged carelessly. "It's only a small kindness. Something tells me you will need a lot of kindness to weather whatever storm awaiting you beyond the gates of this city."

Kindness isn't what I need, dy'Besse, she thought, a miracle is what I need. She knew in her heart of hearts such a thing wouldn't come to pass, but she could only hope.

"Nevertheless, Benne dy'Tefizha," the warden speared a fat morsel of ostrich meat dripping with sauces as he spoke, "in a few days time you shall be gone from this land forever. Tis best to make the most of a situation such as this, if I must say."

There was little that could distract her from everything that was happening, and she did not appreciate his attempts at... whatever this was, but courtesy demanded to be followed and thus she remained in her seat, staring blankly at the man before her.

"What does Benne know of the Emperor of Beys?"

"I know enough." She answered curtly.

"Not nearly enough, I'm afraid." He disagreed.

"I know he fashions himself the avatar of a god, as did his father and his father before him. I know his word is iron, and there is no stretch of land in the entire northeast that has not tasted his 'liberation'."

"Jabba still stands," said dy'Besse.

"Jabba still stands," she affirmed in turn, but Hoshnu's Chosen will throw at that city thousands upon thousands to satisfy his blood lust. It will not stand forever.

"In spite of that, the Chosen has spoken. A tutor has been found for you, to... smoothen the road ahead."

"A tutor?" She asked stupidly.

"Ne. A tutor, yes, to teach you Beyish ways and most importantly, the language."

Izhera wished she had thrown the decanter at his fat head. How dare he?! The thought of doing anything remotely Beyish made her sick. It was the worst insult she could ever deal her slain kith and kin.

"No." She said.

"Tis not an option, I'm afraid. You are to marry the Emperor-"

"Among many others. I'm sure he won't mind if one of his concubines speaks nary a word of his mother tongue."

"He shall. I know Benne dreams of escape and freedom but these are just that. Dreams." He spread his hands wide, gesturing around them as if to prove a point. "This is reality. And if you want to survive-"

"You are no friend of mine to give me advice on how to survive!"

"If you want you survive," - he continued nonchalantly, undisturbed by her sudden explosion - "it would be wise not to rush into these things head-on. So many have already died, and your life added to that uncountable pile of bodies would be a waste."

Why? Why her?

"There is another kind of death, Izhera dy'Tefizha, and you must die this way to live anew. You must forget. That is the only way to survive."

Conforming or death, Eshkil's voice echoed somewhere in the depths of her mind.

"No." She said. What did she have to live for except a thirst for vengeance that will never be sated, justice that will never be in her grasp? She was alone. Abandoned.

And then it happened, so suddenly she was surprised she didn't get whiplash; her mother's eyes turning white and bright as the heavens roared above her, a man with a scimitar made of starlight reaching for her with a golden hand, Eshkil's black lips whispering a word so dark and powerful she wanted to tear her heart out from the pain of hearing it.

If shadows are all you see in front of you turn around to face the light, said a fully veiled Golemei, her hand raised towards a full, pregnant moon.

And the light came from the north, writhing its way out of pitch black darkness.

Blood in the water, blood in the sky.

And she knew no more.

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Seja - a respectful term of address for noblemen.

Mezha - a brunch, basically.