A Stricter Interpretation
The beautiful queen is said to have felled a hundred men with her sapphire eyes
Daena glided through the palace’s stone hallways, resplendent robes flowing behind her. The Queen stood tall, her sapphire eyes brightened by the glow of torches in the walls. Her auburn hair, plaited intricately with strings of pearl and gold, cascaded over her shoulders.
There was a weighty grandeur to the ancient corridors, as if the very floors and walls whispered about the great heroes and rulers that had walked through the palace before her. Each stone under foot was cut with precision and laid with care, and the proud walls were cloaked in the sheen of pure alabaster. Towering sculptures of mythical beasts punctuated the length of the hallway, their stone eyes staring blankly into the void.
It was a cold, lonely place. Even after five years of living in the palace, Daena couldn’t bring herself to think of it as home. More often than not she found herself longing for the place she had grown up; large, open windows, hallways saturated with the rich smell of spiced food, the garden lake she used to swim in for hours with her brothers. She missed those simpler times. Oftentimes the palace could be a wicked place, one where the walls were not the only source of whispers.
Daena passed a group of nobles huddled in a dark corner. Their eyes cast fleeting glances as they spoke in hushed voices. That their voices were hushed, of course, didn’t mean that she couldn’t hear them.
“Look at her,” sneered Lady Tahmine, venom laced into her words like the green patterns woven into her fine dress. "Walking as though she owns the world, not realizing she’s but a plaything to the Shah."
A grizzled man with a twisted smile joined in her ridicule, his laugh as cold as the palace’s stone tiles. “Sure is good to be the Shah. Why buy cheap brothel whores when you can buy one with noble blood?” He laughed again.
Though the words stung, Daena tried her best to ignore them. She kept her head high and her shoulders squared as she walked past the huddled nobles and made her way to the throne room.
She walked through the wide, magnificent double doors, and was greeted by marble floors, vaulted ceilings and intricate, stained glass windows that cast a celestial display of shifting colors across the room as moonlight passed through them. The room was further lit by candles housed in exquisite silver lanterns. Upon a raised dais at the room's end rested the Shah's throne - a symphony in gold and gemstone. Its back, shaped like a peacock’s fan, burst forth in a display of radiant feathers, each a shimmering mosaic of emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds.
Several minutes passed as Daena patiently stood in the austere silence of the throne room. A cool draft carried in the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine from the palace gardens. As the distant echo of the city’s evening bells began, they were joined by footsteps approaching Daena from behind. She turned toward the newcomer, little more than a charcoal sketch in the dim light of the hall outside.
As the figure drew closer, the candlelight began to flirt with his form, glinting off the silver embroidery of his gold cloak. Daena looked him up and down, noting the myriad of scars he carried on his face and body, a visible record of the many years he had served the throne as Lord Counselor of Whispers.
“Salam, Lord Ardeshir,” she greeted.
The elderly man’s lips curled into a bemused smile. “Salam, your grace. Radiant as ever, I see.” He bowed low.
Daena folded her arms. “I didn’t invite you here to flatter me, Lord Counselor.”
“No, your grace.”
“So?” she looked at him expectantly.
Ardeshir bowed anew. “By the wisdom of Mithra, god of lords, I promise that everything I am about to tell you is completely true, to the best of my knowledge.” As he finished speaking, tiny cyan flickers sparked across his lips, like lightning woven from strands of liquid sapphire.
Satisfied, Daena turned away, pacing several steps. “What news do you bring?”
The older man clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance has had a stroke of misfortune. Some kind of trouble with the city guard, I’m told. It is likely we won’t be hearing from him any time soon. You know how these things can be.”
“Yes,” Daena said, a smile curling up her face to match his. “Such troubles can be quite... time consuming.” She turned to pace in the opposite direction. “And what of the other matter I asked you to look into?
“I’ve made contact with an individual in Gen bearing the talents you requested. Though... the services you want will not come cheaply.”
“Pay whatever they request.”
“Will the Shah approve of such an expense?”
“That is not your concern,” she snapped.
Ardeshir averted his gaze. “Forgive me, your grace.”
Daena pursed her lips. “Let me worry about my husband,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Just make sure the job gets done. I’ll not set foot in that wretched city without the proper leverage.”
“It will be done.” Ardeshir hesitated. He seemed to want to say more, but stopped himself.
“You’ve something to add, Lord Counselor?”
Ardeshir twiddled his thumbs. “Forgive me if I am being impertinent, your grace. My intention is not to tell you how to do your job. Nevertheless, I am quite experienced in dealing with the dignitaries from Gen. It is no exaggeration to say that I’ve met with Provost Jaffar more than any living citizen in this city.”
“Yes, and?” she asked, growing irritated. “What’s your point?”
“Are you familiar with Gen’s warriors, your grace?”
She turned to face him “Enlighten me.”
“As you already know, your grace, the people of Gen once subscribed to a... stricter interpretation of the Covenant Faith.”
“They were slavers, you mean.”
Ardeshir nodded. “Until the end of the Long War, the magi and lords of Gen bound those of lower castes by forcing them to make stringent promises from a young age. Promises that, if broken, had very dire consequences...” He trailed off. “There is an old saying. ‘People in Gen would rather be flayed alive than break one of their promises.’ In my experience, the saying is more true than anyone outside of that city knows.”
“Animals...” Daena breathed. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.
“Whatever you may think of them, the results they produced are undeniable. The warriors they enslaved were transformed into near-insurmountable foes - not people, but monsters. Many of those monsters still serve, even today.”
A chill crawled along her spine, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She was reminded of something she’d once overheard her father say. There exists no military advantage that cannot be undone by magic. The lords in Gen understand this. What they lack in numbers, they make up for in spellcasting. One must always beware a warrior or magus from the slavers’ city. She fingered the amulet around her neck.
“I worry for your grace’s safety in such a place,” Ardeshir continued. “Your guards, brave as they are, might not stand a chance if Provost Jaffar decides to seize you as a means of wooing the Scarlet Kingdom.”
“That’s what our leverage is supposed to be for.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure your husband would appreciate it if you took additional precautions.”
“Oh? And where is my husband now?” the Queen sneered.
The older man hesitated. Daena regretted her words almost immediately. Her father had always warned her of the necessity of staying calm. Losing control over one’s emotions was unbecoming of any lord, especially one from the esteemed House Davani.
“Forgive me, Lord Counselor. This late hour doesn’t suit me,” Daena said.
A small smile cracked Ardeshir’s lips. “There is nothing to forgive, your grace.”
“Your advice is appreciated. If you’ve any suggestions for augmenting my security, I would be happy to hear them.”
The old man inclined his head respectfully. “If it pleases your grace, please allow me to send for Executioner and a contingent of her Shikari warriors, so that they might accompany you to Gen.”
“Executioner...” Daena murmured. Her heart skipped a beat upon hearing the name.
Arash Shara. The sacred title held by women who best encapsulated the values of their caste. Bestowed by the Eidolons of Ibrahim, who trained all the world’s magi and set the very laws of the Covenant Faith, the title was beyond even the authority of the Shah.
Even before obtaining the weighty title, Executioner had always unsettled Daena. Since obtaining it, that feeling had only gotten worse. Of course, Daena respected, even admired Executioner. The Arash Shara woman was a paragon of virtue and strength. Yet there was something about Executioner’s cold, austere demeanor that frightened Daena, as if the Arash Shara woman was always on the brink of murder, just one heartbeat away from chopping someone in half with that massive sword she carried.
“Do you know how she obtained her title, your grace?” Ardeshir asked, as if he could read her mind.
“Hmph. Is there a soul alive who doesn’t know?”
“Then you know I speak the truth when I say that there is no one more qualified to protect you, should the situation in Gen escalate unexpectedly.”
The Queen laced her fingers. “Let us pray it doesn’t come to that.”
The Lord Counselor of Whispers inclined his head again. “Indeed, let us hope. Nevertheless, I believe it would be to your advantage to bring her.”
“Very well,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Send for her if you can.”
“It will be done, your grace.”
“Now,” Daena said, turning toward the door. “If you’ve no other business, I think I ought to visit with my older brother before I leave.”
Ali Reza wandered through the ancient library, carefully picking his way through the maze of parchment and ink. He hated this place. It was far too big and altogether too easy to become lost in. Everywhere he looked, towering shelves laden with leather bound tomes and yellow papyrus scrolls seemed to mock him. Make one wrong turn and you’ll never leave this place.
He made his way into a large, circular room where every wall was filled with yet more shelves. Despite the monotony Ali Reza could tell he’d come to the right place by the label over the door: “The Godly Histories” - the usual place where he met his master. His nostrils flared as the musty scent of the parchment permeated the air.
A figure waited for him in the shadows just beyond the reach of flickering torchlight. Ali Reza frowned. The figure ahead was too short to be the man he had come here to meet. He paused in his stride, surprise flickering over his countenance. The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing a burly man with his back arched like the bow of a sailor’s ship. An involuntary shiver skated down Ali Reza’s spine.
“Mojtaba?” he said, puzzled. “I was expecting our master, not you.”
Mojtaba chortled, the echo of his laughter bouncing off the library’s stone walls. “And why not me, Ali Reza? Are you too high and mighty to deal with a simple hunchback?” He squinted up at the taller man, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Ali Reza’s lips twitched slightly. He attempted to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Our master usually relays his orders in person.”
"Hm," Mojtaba said, the grin still painted on his face. "Maybe the master thinks you're not worth his time anymore. Have you considered that?"
Ali Reza’s throat tightened as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral.“So, what does he want me to do?”
He didn’t trust Mojtaba. Ali Reza considered himself good at reading people, but he could never tell what the hunchbacked magus was thinking. Oftentimes speaking to Mojtaba felt less like speaking to a man and more like speaking to a demon. Given some of the spells that had earned Mojtaba his reputation, calling him a demon wasn’t exactly inaccurate.
The hunchback leaned in conspiratorially. “A rare opportunity has arisen. Our master has glimpsed it in the flames.” His voice came out as a harsh whisper, rough as sandpaper against the tranquil silence of the library.
“Speak plainly, magus,” Ali Reza snapped.
Mojtaba laughed again, punctuating his laughter with a slight hiccup. He was living proof that any sound, even a hiccup, could be made to sound insidious. “You should show more appreciation for the esoteric arts,” he chided. Mojtaba paused. “Then again... you’ve never liked magic much, have you?”
The hunchback’s words triggered memories in the back of Ali Reza’s mind. Chains. Fire. A large, iron throne and a horned beast. He swallowed hard. “Stop wasting my time,” Ali Reza spat, using the harshness of his tone to mask his trepidation. “Just tell me what our master has ordered.”
Mojtaba’s grin widened, revealing rows of yellow teeth covered in flecks of grime. “As you wish. The master has decreed that you are to take a contingent of warriors and Ikitan to the sand. I will send you there.”
“The sand?” Ali Reza asked, surprise flickering over his face again.
The mere mention of the world’s largest desert made his heart pound against his ribcage like a war drum. Ali Reza despised the desert. Even just thinking of it invoked yet more unpleasant memories: the merciless sun and treacherous dunes; the relentless heat that turned men into desiccated husks and the deceptive coolness of the nights that lulled the wary into complacency; the monsters and foul beasts. His skin crawled at the thought of the malevolent eyes that lurked behind veils of sand, waiting, watching. His palms were sweaty as he clenched his fists.
“Yes, near Tel Kellah,” Mojtaba’s tongue slithered from his mouth, violet and forked. “I understand you’re quite familiar with that city.”
Ali Reza’s jaw tightened. “I was, once. For what purpose am I being sent there?”
“In the sands near Tel Kellah, you will encounter a man with a glass eye.”
“A glass eye?” Ali Reza’s confusion deepened.
“Yes. You are to take the glass eye by any means necessary, even if it means killing its previous owner.”
Ali Reza nodded. A typical task for him. He was no stranger to acts of violence. That sort of thing had been assigned to him countless times in the past, and it was something he was well suited for. In his previous life, death had been an everyday business. The frequency with which he had been asked to take lives had been startling, almost mundane.
“How many men will I be given for this?” Ali Reza asked.
“Sixty five,” Mojtaba said, causing Ali Reza’s eyes to widen with renewed surprise.
“Sixty five?!” he exclaimed. “Is the target that powerful?”
He hadn't been in command of such a large group since he had fought in the Long War. What kind of adversary would necessitate such a grand assembly?
A cold smile twisted the hunchbacked magus’s lips. “You will find out soon enough. All that matters is that you take the eye. It is necessary for our master’s plans to succeed. He has foreseen it.”
Ali Reza scowled. He didn’t like or trust Mojtaba. It was difficult to put his faith in a man who had been exiled so unceremoniously from the arcane circles of Ibrahim. Still, the master trusted Mojtaba. That would have to be good enough for him.
“Alright, when do we leave?”
The exiled magus grinned. “Tonight.”
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