Canyons
The throne of Gen did not always host a mere provost. In the time before the Golden Empire, those who sat the canyon throne were kings.
Black flames slithered down the contours of stone walls laden with fine tapestries. Violet light contoured the flames, pulsing, writhing with life of its own, as if they bore sentience. It would have been an unnerving sight had Daena not know the true nature of that ambient glow.
“My Queen.”
The flames coalesced, taking shape into a radiant young woman in a fetching, silk gown. Her milky skin radiated that same violet incandescence, like moonlight.
Daena rose from her satin cushion and approached the woman. “You’ve finished scouring the palace?”
“I have,” She-Who-Burns said, her voice as soft and milky as her skin.
“And?”
“I have located the safehouse.”
Daena perked up. “It seems Lord Ardeshir’s sources are well placed.”
The djinn’s ghostly image flickered briefly. “It was well hidden. Furthermore, it is guarded by Ershadi Dehghan.”
“Stormwall’s apprentice...” Daena mused. “That is interesting.”
“Shall I seize the boy?” She-Who-Burns asked.
“No,” Daena said. “Better to leave him there for now. Knowledge of the boy’s existence is enough.”
The djinn appeared somewhat crestfallen. She-Who-Burns. Such a strange name. Daena wondered what experiences would motivate her lifelong companion to choose such a moniker. Moreover, was she the one being burned, or the one burning others?
Daena took the djinn’s hands by her fingertips, surprised as always by how thin and delicate they were. “What else did you find, my sweet?”
“They’ve replaced the slave kennels. They now keep rooms of contract tablets, rows of them, dozens. They’ve done the same throughout the city. There must be a thousand creatures entombed.”
Daena pursed her lips. “They’ve replaced their human slaves with inhuman ones.”
“If they’re slaves, does that make me one too?”
The question caught Daena offguard. She-Who-Burns had never voiced such a concern before. Daena began to unconsciously finger her pendant. “Do you consider yourself one?”
She-Who-Burns smiled. “No. My contract with you saved me. Before you I knew only pain and madness.” She paused. “If you enshrine me in stone, I may revise my opinion.”
Daena chuckled. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Is it even possible to put a djinn in a contract tablet?”
“It has been attempted.”
She wasn’t sure what to think of that, so she didn’t answer. “And now the city of Gen has an army of monsters,” she mused. “That is rather startling.”
It seemed Provost Jaffar had been busy over the past decade. During and before the Long War, slaves had made up more than half of Gen’s army, outnumbering the soldiers hailing from the warrior caste nearly two to one. Most cities that had ended their slave trade, or had it ended for them, had seen some downturn in their economy and martial power. Gen seemed to be an exception. The Provost, it appeared, was a more industrious man than his father.
“You feel threatened by their monsters.” It wasn’t a question. “Shall I destroy the tablets, my Queen?” The djinn’s ceaseless black eyes glowed with the light of the candle lit chandelier above.
“Impatient, aren’t you?” Daena asked.
“As were the fires that made me.”
The Queen raised an eyebrow, though her servant did not elaborate. “We need Gen on our side,” Daena said. She caught herself fingering her pendant and stopped. For a moment she studied the amethyst gem embedded within.“If we do find ourselves at war with the Scarlets, perhaps Provost Jaffar’s new monsters will be useful,” she added after a moment’s deliberation.
Her musings were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. She-Who-Burns abruptly burst into black flames, snaking through the air back into the amethyst in Daena’s pendant.
The Queen turned. “Enter.”
The door opened. One of the palace’s attendants stood at the threshold. He was dressed in forest green robes bearing an insignia of a viper, the symbol of Gen. The attendant bowed. “Your grace, the Provost is ready to see you.”
“It’s about time, isn’t it?” Daena sneered.
“Yes, your grace.”
She sighed. “Very well, lead me to him.”
Daena strode behind the attendant, her heels tapping on the cold stone floor. Her two guards, standing at attention outside her room, fell into step on either side of her. The palace of Gen had a different aura than the one in Tel Kellah. The design was brutally utilitarian, walls embedded with metal fixtures that held weapons — swords, pikes, crossbows.
The hallways were narrow and dim, illuminated by evenly spaced braziers burning with a muted, blue flame, ka given raw form. She wondered whether the Provost employed any demons that could draw from the flames in those braziers. Such a design would have been ingenious, perhaps something to be replicated in the royal palace.
Gen was proud of its story. The murals on the ceiling spoke to that. They depicted centuries of history: the first settlers to arrive in the canyon, the rigors of constructing a civilization. First they built a city by the river, then they funneled parts of the river to create the twin lakes that even still sat atop the cliffs overlooking Gen. For as noble as those stone bearers seemed in the tapestries, however, Daena knew the truth - those men and women had been slaves, living brutal lives with but meager hopes for something better. Tel Kellah had answered that call. The Golden Empire had answered that call.
But would Provost Jaffar see it that way? Or would he see the Golden Empire’s interference in Gen as an intrusion, an affront against the city’s history? And what of this new monster army of his? Would they also serve the Golden Empire, or would they become the Provost’s tool of retribution? Her heart thudded against her chest. She couldn’t afford to fail here. There was too much at stake, both for the empire and for her personally.
The gem in her pendant pulsed, tearing her from her thoughts. Again, she began to finger it unconsciously. She was bothered by the question She-Who-Burns had asked her. If they’re slaves, does that make me one too? Was She-Who-Burns her slave? Even if their contract had supposedly saved the djinn from a life of eternal pain, was a life of carrying out Daena’s orders much better? Wouldn’t it be better to be free?
“That’s a pretty gem, your grace.”
Daena’s head snapped in the direction of the one who had spoken. The Shikari warrior was taller than she was, muscular and lithe in a way only soldiers were. Her midnight black hair cascaded to her tailbone like a river of obsidian, matched only by the penetrating stare of her dark eyes.
The Shikari warrior grinned. “Cat got your tongue, your grace?”
Daena chuckled. “Bold, aren’t you?”
The Shikari warrior made a show of adjusting her robe. “It’s better to have bold people serving you.” Her voice was smooth but had a rugged edge, like a blade hidden within silk.
Daena put a finger to her lip. “Hm, is that so?”
The warrior’s grin widened. “Sure. We’re less predictable. I’ll bet your usual guards never speak to ya. Sounds boring if you ask me.”
“Perhaps,” Daena admitted. “Do you have a name, then? Are you bold enough to share that with me?”
The Shikari warrior straightened her posture and gave a half-bow, the smirk still playing on her lips. "Certainly, your grace. They call me Zahra."
“Zahra...” Daena mused, letting the name roll off her tongue.
“Your grace, we’ve arrived,” the attendant interrupted, causing Daena to turn.
They stopped in front of a large door, upon which was painted a mural encapsulating all the history shown by the murals lining the ceiling. The images were organized in a pyramidal fashion, with the events furthest back on bottom and the most recent on top. The city’s assimilation into the Golden Empire two centuries earlier was included. The history, however, stopped just before the start of the Long War.
Daena straightened. “So we have.” She glanced again at the Shikari warrior. “Well then, Zahra the Bold, I hope you’ll serve me as audaciously as you speak. I may well need it here.”
Zahra’s grin spread across her face like blood from a wound leaking onto one’s shirt. “As you wish, your grace.”
The attendant pushed open the doors. Daena stepped through and found herself on a wide balcony overlooking the cliffs that enveloped the city of Gen. It was a marvelous view - a vast, winding gorge with iron rich sandstone staining steep yellow hills like blood. The heat of the day caused the air to shimmer as if with flame. The balcony was protected from the beating sun by a dark roof supported by columns along the corners of the balcony. At the balcony’s edge there was a wide dais with a throne embedded in the center.
Provost Jaffar lounged comfortably on a silk cushion atop the throne, nursing a jeweled goblet of wine. “Salam, your grace. It is Gen’s sincere pleasure to receive you.” The deep bass of his voice projected outward like the announcement of a professional orator, shimmering with authority as the air with heat. It was so different from Shah Bardiya’s constrained rasp, so much more confident. The Provost leaned forward. “I must say, you are even more radiant than when you last visited our great city.”
She couldn’t help noticing that he too had grown. The last time Daena had been here he had been a mere adolescent boy, watching as his father was executed. Now he stood a man, tall, broad chested, and with a disarming smile as dangerous as the sais some warriors used to break swords.
Daena folded her arms. “You kept me waiting for two days.”
Jaffar began to sip from his cup, then suddenly stopped. He turned toward one of the attendants nearest him. “Fetch the Queen a goblet.”
“No need,” Daena said. “I’m not here to drink.”
Jaffar shrugged and slurped from his cup, draining it. When he was finished, he held it out to be refilled. “I beg your forgiveness, my Queen. I am afraid I was delayed in my return to the city. We were on a hunt when you arrived, you see.” The Provost’s cupbearer poured another helping of velvety, scarlet liquid.
“A hunt,” Daena repeated skeptically.
“A necessary endeavor. Like Tel Kellah, our borders are unfortunately rife with demons. As Provost it is my sworn duty to protect Gen’s citizens.”
“You hunt them personally?”
Jaffar smiled. “Are you so surprised, your grace? A good ruler must lead by example, don’t you think? From what I hear, the crown princess and I are of one mind on this matter.”
“Hm,” Daena mused. “Perhaps you’re right. Is this where your new army comes from?”
Jaffar’s smile widened. He nodded in her direction. “Did you scour the city with a djinn? Is that what the gem on your necklace is for?” He gestured outward toward the cliffs surrounding the city. The lakes atop them shimmered beneath the sun’s rays. “A pity. If you had asked me I would have personally given you a tour. It would be my honor to show you how remarkable a place you’ve come to. Our city has stood for even longer than the Isles of Ibrahim. By the time of the Golden Empire, we were already centuries old.”
Daena regarded him with a blank stare, unamused by the history lesson. “You seem to long for a time when the ones who sat upon that throne were considered kings rather than provosts. How like your father. I do hope you learned from him what happens to those who dwell too much on the past.”
The Provost recoiled as if slapped. It took him a moment to regain his composure. He rubbed his forehead warily. “Not one to mince words, are you? It seems we are both like our fathers.”
Daena approached the foot of the dais. The Provost’s guards made a move to block her, but Jaffar held up a hand to stop them. “Let us not take each other for fools,” Daena said. “The relationship between Gen and the empire is terse at best. It was little more than a decade ago that my husband oversaw the sacking of your city.”
“Indeed,” Jaffar agreed. He stood, and for the first time Daena realized how tall he was. “I remember that day well. I remember standing in the square as Stormwall’s killer took my father’s head from atop a stage. Later I thought about how conflicted she looked as she did it. Such a tortured soul. She didn’t even participate in the final battle, but Shah Bardiya wanted a spectacle. He wasn’t wrong to use her. She was the tallest person I’d ever seen. Who better to take my father’s head than someone with such presence? That day is where she got her Arash Shara name, isn’t it? Executioner.” When he spoke, his voice radiated outward, echoing as if with the urge to escape into the canyon.
Daena folded her hands behind her back. “Gen seems to have flourished under your rule. You all clung so desperately to the notion of slaves, but in their absence it seems you found something better.”
Jaffar smiled again. He began to descend from the dais - one slow, deliberate step at a time, until he stood mere inches from her. The sun’s rays seemed to caress him from behind, cutting across chiseled features that made him seem like a statue of an ancient god. Daena’s guards raised their weapons as he approached. She motioned for them to stand down.
Jaffar put a hand to her cheek. She resisted the strong urge to recoil. Men, she thought. Always so entitled to laying their hands on women. Always of the mind that they could intimidate just by standing a little closer. Within her necklace, the presence of She-Who-Burns pulsed alongside her heartbeat.
“Do you so fear our entrapped monsters?” the Provost asked. “Why? As you’ve reminded me, Gen is a part of the Golden Empire. I am at your service. Our monsters are yours to command.”
“As I said, let’s not take each other for fools,” Daena retorted. “There is hardly any goodwill to be had between us. You and I, however, will come to a rational agreement based upon mutual interest. I will offer you the likes of gold, additional security, and political assurances, and you will in turn offer the empire a renewed oath of allegiance, one with a few new details. When we are finished we will bind our agreement with magic.”
Jaffar was silent for a moment, then burst into raucous laughter. “By the wisdom of Mithra...” he breathed. “You really are the second coming of Ashezama Davani.”
He was about to say more, but was interrupted by an attendant rapidly striding over to whisper in his ear. The attendant was impressively subtle. Daena caught the words ‘matter of great urgency’ but nothing else.
Jaffar waved the attendant away and straightened. “You must forgive me. A matter has arisen that I must see to. Would it be a terrible insult to ask that we delay until tomorrow? Perhaps we can convene more privately then to work out the details of our forthcoming agreement.”
“Fine,” Daena said. “Attend to your city.”
The Provost bowed, then strode out of the room.
Daena left the room a moment later, flanked by her guards. She began again to fiddle with her pendant. “Now then,” she murmured, half to herself, half to She-Who-Burns. “Let us hope Lord Ardeshir comes through in his other task.”
The Lord Counselor of Whispers made his way through a sprawling labyrinth of shadow, guided by flickering torchlight along the walls. In opposition to the bustling liveliness that punctuated floors above, the cells below thrummed an eerie stillness, punctuated only by the occasional moan or cry from the depths.
He passed by rows upon rows of cells, each one sealed with heavy iron grates. The metal was dark and pocked, the legacy of countless years of rust and struggle. Shadows played tricks on the eyes, dancing and morphing as if the very darkness sought to ensnare one's soul. A suffocating dampness pervaded the air, a mix of mildew and the feces of prisoners.
The Lord Counselor stopped by one particular cell, older and more wretched than the others, its iron grate heavily corroded, bearing the marks of countless escape attempts. The lock on this one was monstrous, heavy thing, twice the size of the others and covered in scratches indicative of desperate hands clawing at it over many years.
Inside, the stone walls bore dark stains, residues of old dampness and worse. Unlike the other cells, this one had chains embedded into the walls, their lengths ending in rusted cuffs, hinting at the dangerous nature of its occupants. A single, flickering torch on the outside barely pierced the gloom within, casting a ghostly glow over the floor which was uneven and cracked, pooled with stagnant water in places.
Three figures huddled within the derelict chamber, tattered rags barely clinging to their emaciated forms. Their beards hung ragged and long, and their hair was a tangled mess, matted with grime. They looked up with dark, wary eyes, empty pits of despair that sung of no hopes or dreams, for these were men who had long since abandoned such things.
A cruel smile played on the Lord Counselor’s lips. He began to hum softly. “Oh, you poor, wretched things. Damned by society, sentenced to die unseen and unheard.”
One of the prisoners, hearing the taunting voice of the Lord Counselor of Whispers, began to stir. Pulling himself painfully from the cold, damp ground, he crawled inch by inch to the front of the cell. Skeletal fingers, tips blackened and raw, slowly encased the corroded bars.
“M’Lord. H-How may we be of service?” the prisoner rasped in a voice as thin as a metal wire. He was truly a wretched thing, dark veins running like webs across his skin. A hungry glint sparkled in his black eyes, hunger not just for sustenance but for the warm embrace of the sun's rays, a fading memory of freedom.
“An astute one, aren’t you?” the Lord Counselor mused. “That’s good. Those instincts will serve you well in the task I have for you lot.”
The other two prisoners, stirred by the interaction, began to shift in the dim light. One, with matted hair draped over his face, slowly raised his head, revealing eyes that were sunken and bulging. The other, a larger form leaning against the back wall, let out a soft, guttural noise, more animal than man. They seemed to sense that something had changed, that their fates were not yet sealed.
The Lord Counselor smiled encouragingly. “I am prepared to offer you all clemency for your crimes. A new beginning, some would call it.”
Before he could say more he was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, heavy boots trampling cold stone with slow, deliberate echoes. Ashezama Davani rounded the corner a moment later.
The Lord Counselor of Whispers bowed. “Lord Ashezama,” he whispered, unshapely tongue causing his words to come out as a hiss.
Ashezama inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Lord Ardeshir. I was told I’d find you here.”
“I’ve heard that you frequent these dungeons often.”
Ardeshir chuckled. “I myself was rescued from one of these very cells. My wise teacher, peace be upon him, believed that good help often comes from the most unexpected of places.”
Ashezama raised an eyebrow. “From a dungeon cell to the Shah’s wise council. That is quite the leap to make.” He took a step toward Ardeshir. “One can’t help wondering what it is a man like you desires.”
Ardeshie raised his palms in a placating gesture. “I only want what’s best for the empire, my lord.”
“Of course.” Ashezama clasped his hands behind his back. He approached the cell, studying its inhabitants. His lip curled in disgust. “Rapists and murderers, is it? Is this for my daughter’s task, then?”
“Hers, one or two of mine, and yours, if you should have need.” The Lord Counselor of Whispers purred his last words, evidently pleased with himself.
“Hmph. There may yet come a day.” Ashezama turned away from the prisoners, meeting Ardeshir’s eyes. “You’ve served for many decades,” he said, more a statement than a question.
“Four Shahs now. Some seventy years have I been loyal to the throne.” He paused, then inclined his head toward Ashezama. “And, of course, to the Shah’s Lord Advisor.”
“Indeed.” Ashezama turned his back on the cell and the Lord Counselor of Whispers. “I take it you are familiar with the real Makhun?”
“Of course, my lord! One does not trade in whispers for so many decades without establishing a contact or two in the underground city.”
A thin smile tugged at one corner of Ashezama’s lips. “One or two, you say?”
“In my line of work, I have often found modesty to be rather valuable.” Ardeshir offered a theatrical bow, demonstrating impressive flexibility for a man his age.
“I’m sure,” Ashezama replied dryly.
Ardeshir’s smile stretched his cheeks, like the famed grinning cat. “Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but is there something I can do for you? It seems unlikely that you’d come so far to seek me out just for conversation.”
“There is a magus in Makhun whom I wish to see,” Ashezama said. “I would like you to send for him. Discreetly.”
This time it was Ardeshir who raised an eyebrow. “May I inquire as to the purpose of this meeting, my lord?”
“You may not.”
Ardeshir laughed. “Very good, my lord. Can I assume this meeting is mandatory?”
“It is.”
“It will be done within the fortnight.”
“Good.” Ashezama inclined his head in Ardeshir’s direction once more. Without another word, he strode from the dungeon.
When the Lord Advisor had left, Ardeshir turned back toward the cells. “Well, then. It seems I have need of more of you than I had planned today.” In response, other men in other cells began clambering for the bars, skeletal fingers brushing against the rusted iron. Ardeshir laughed anew. “Provided, of course, each of you is willing to pay a small price for your freedom.”
Comentarios