Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
The Dark Side of the Sun
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Fantasy The Dark Side of the Sun [Closed]
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Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Storms were common within the confines of Evalsana.
Sharp and cool, the rains fell swiftly, droplets bouncing against the dusty roads and cobblestone disturbed only by the occasional flash of lightning and boom of thunder. The moat which surrounded the city rioted, filling tall and dark boiling beneath the feet of the soldiers as they slowly dragged themselves across the threshold, having come back home at the cold hour in which day turned to night. Darkened was the sky on the day of the return of King Ferzidand. His head was bowed, his unshaven face marred by a gruesome scar that struck beneath his heavy-lidded left eye. Large and imposing he rode upon the top of his horse, his head canted downwards as to hide his face from those that had come to look on the parade of the returning men from the war in the south.
Behind him rode his son. Young and fair, Luthiel looked up, chin unquivering and glare hardened towards nothing. He bore no scar though he sat stiffly, a bandage noticeably peeking from beneath the confines of his frayed tunic cuff. The rains poured down harder as they cobbled through the city, riding past the gate as a sliver of lightning lit the land behind them, mockingly South, teasing their retreat from the battlegrounds.
It was said that it rained when the old King Flavius the Conquerer had rode upon his grey stallion through the ungated lands and slew those who pagan barbarians that dared oppose him. Enthralled and driven by the Gods themselves, lightning had come and set the land asunder, striking down every tree and every house which had been built by heathen hands and heathen hearts. Driven forward by the will of Ysil himself, Flavius conquered every bit of land and strode, thundering as a giant would among the hills and valleys until he had cobbled together a land which was rife with fertile soil and made to be his own, planting there his seed and his home.
It had been there that the Isprana line had started, with young red-bearded Flavius as he cast his flame across the land. His flame which burned so bright that none could dare combat it. From the barren land, he had pulled spiraling pillars and hard dark stone that loomed over like a shadow of a beast. Black and well crafted, the walls stood sturdy. A castle had been built by bloodied victorious hands long ago.
Victorious.
King Ferzidand knew no victory. He walked as a man defeated, as there was none who had not heard of his defeat in the sinful South, being overtaken by sinners, liars, and thieves. The jovial mood that had once taken the land had turned somber long ago when the messengers had come through town bearing their blackened words upon blackened tongues.
Another crack of thunder.
The residents of the town fell to their knees, bowing their heads as they passed by them.
‘Glory be to the King!’ mumbled lacking enthusiasm and muffled by the rains which had followed. They grew soaked.
‘Glory be to the King…’ Luthiel’s features grew imperceptibly more hardened, his jaw clenched and he did not move his gaze anywhere other than forward. It was said he resembled the King when he was in his youth, pale and limber, Luthiel’s long fingers curled delicately about the reins of his horse. For one, unnoticeable moment, his eyes flickered to his father's broad back. His teeth gritted.
He had said to not advance so soon.
He had said to siege the city of Aldurin was a bareboned victory not worth its salt at best and a slaughter at worse.
And now the King was there, riding with the decorum of an old beaten horse as though it was within any of them to feel pity for the fool that walked so wantonly in place of a ruler. Luthiel’s knuckles paled further as his grip on his reins tightened. They whitened, yet he kept his gaze forward, his glare hard and impenetrable, and his posture straight. As a King should sit, unbowed, and near perfection even in the face of defeat.
The road turned and the King and Crown Prince came to the stables. Without waiting for his servant to help him down, Luthiel swung his legs over and jumped to the ground, his teeth gritting as the wound at his side tugged at the movement. The blow seemed to have come out of nowhere, slicing into the junctions of his armor deep and hard. It had been that which had led him to be driven from the battleground and forced back into the tents, on the edge of surrender as the blazing eyes of the warrior gazed from beneath a bronze visor.
“Help his lord king from his horse,” Luthiel said dismissively as his furred cloak was taken from his shoulders.
“I do not need you to give orders for me, boy.” Ferzidand huffed from atop his horse, groaning in pain and exertion, the horse seemed ready to buckle beneath his weight, its head lowered to the ground and exhaustion seeming to have overtaken it.
An eye twitch and then a stiff bow. “I apologize to your most royal majesty, I meant no harm.”
His father was huffing, out of breath, red in the face from exertion or anger, such was hard to tell. He had grown fat in the years before, his dark beard having turned grey and his once sharp features lost. Pale as the moon and soft he held no edge any longer. Though he still stood tall over his son, he had long since lost the reins of control.
“The bastards… cursed bastard… They use the magic of the Dark One among them, and they use it against us. The Lord tests our holiness once again and again I have been proven to be foolish to think my men could hold out against them.” he brought his hand to his brow, his red cheeks bright as he shook his head and then roughly shoved past the servants that attended to him, brazenly ignoring his son as he stepped from the stables and to the castle.
“Absolute heresy… Where is my Queen? My Daughter? They greet my return home, no?” He turned sharply. “Take me to them, now.”
“Your majesty.” A servant bowed his head lowly and then raised it again. For a moment his eyes grazed over the fair Luthiel who idly fixed his frayed cuff. Then he stood and bobbed his head in a nod, leading them from their muddied miserable existences into the warmth of the castle and towards that which they wished for.
A soft tune filled the hot air. Dry and unyielding, the white sun hung glaringly bright above their heads, the skies clear and blue it was as though the day was blessed by the touch of the God Luvian. And on that blessed day, a tune softly hung about the air, undulating and unending the song was that which was said to be composed by the fingers of Jaadan II. A warrior and a poet he had managed to intertwine his two passions and form something which was greater than himself. His hands nimble and his voice sweet he told of the Battle of Arindor in which the Tirites had slew the dragons that had dared to breathe their destructive fires upon them. Unburned and unbroken they had risen from the ash around them and slew those dragons and those who rode upon the backs of them.
The warriors of Aldur could not be burned, it was said. No flame could destroy them as long as they stood strong and true. Like twin blazes in the sky, their swords would turn and ebb, slicing easily through the flesh of their enemies. It was undeniable that they would be victorious on those beautiful sands at the edge of the city of light where the disgusting heretics of the North had thought it wise to lead siege against the gates.
The walls were impenetrable. It was well-known that never once had they fallen, even when the ground had quaked beneath their feet and the ultimate test led by the Gods had proven it to stand solid and unending. To think they, mere humans, mere heathens, mere vermin were capable of breaking it down was near laughable.
Feruza paused, her long tanned fingers hovering over the final strings of the fine song, her head tilted to the side as she hummed in thought. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulder, plaited and tied with golden thread and decorated with jewels, it was oiled and brushed clean so that with every shift and turn of light it would catch it within its black shiny depths and reflect it back out. Her lips curled into a frown as she brought her hands back, sitting them on her knees.
“Why did you stop, your radiance, I was enjoying the song,” Shanar said, her head bent over her embroidery. “If only you had put words to it…”
“No…” Feruza drummed her fingers against her thigh. “No… it is not right. Mm… we shall make a song of our great victory. Shanar, write to Ashar and tell him that he shall accompany me in that.”
Shanar put aside her embroidery and stood to walk to the desk. The room was large and opulent, marble white and accented with golden hues, a pool resided in the middle, large and flowing with rippling clear waves, on the surface danced large and bloomed flowers that let off a sweetened fragrance. A large balcony was opened, allowing for the unyielding hot sun to slip through and highlight the cheeks of the princess that was curled upon the silken cushions. A frown was etched on her lips, a wrinkle on her brow. Bright blue eyes stared from beneath black lashes at the turn of the unwavering sun.
They would hear the praises of their victory sung across the land, weaving within the praise to the Sultan who had led them by the leash to this unyielding victory. But on the edge of that sunny day, there was a storm which stirred just on the edge of the horizon, flashing and twisting near them now, a war which would be larger than life, perhaps even one which would define them here and now.
Her finger came to her lips, they curled up in a near impish smile as she stood from her cushions, the wrinkle from her brow having left as she spun on the balls of her feet. They were on the edge of a unifying movement in which the Tirites could prove to unite in ways which they had not since the times of the old King Darius.
“I shall be visiting my father,” Feruza said, tossing her long braid over her shoulder so it fell between her shoulder blades. “We are, I believe, on the edge of the greatest piece of poetry which shall ever be written of us.” Her fingers grazed the elbow of the guard who stood just outside her door, her smile was wide and she tilted her head.
“To the sultan, eh? He has not got all day and he shall be happy to see his lovely daughter today.” Young and vivacious, it was certain Feruza would mark the shifting tides in the generation, she knew the kingdom like she knew her own mind, and her teeth were bared already for the blood of the enemies at the edge of the borders that dared to believe they could mark the territory of the South.
“You ride on the wave of victory still, your radiance?” the guard asked politely, his dark eyes flickering to her only briefly.
She let out a rather childish giggle. “And the tales of the King being so fat he could not even wear a proper suit of armor.” That would have to be included in the song, woven flawlessly into the lyrics, the pale king riding, uncentered and unfocused upon his dying horse. Already the hymn was on the tip of her lips, the lyrics buzzing in her head. The richly decorated halls of the palace were slick and shined to perfection, servants and slaves walked about, heads bowed and eyes lowered as she came to her father’s rooms, primed and prepared for the talks of war that would soon overcome them, encompassing them. Perhaps even take over the rest of her youth.
She touched her still round cheeks. It would do well to finally change their discussion from that of who she would come to marry. A hum escaped her lips, but she did not tarry. It would do no good for such things. Besides, when a man came that deserved her, she would take his hand exuberantly. But now, she walked nimbly upon the fine line which was war and peace. The South would not be discarded by the North any longer. If the King wished to know war, then war he would have.
Sharp and cool, the rains fell swiftly, droplets bouncing against the dusty roads and cobblestone disturbed only by the occasional flash of lightning and boom of thunder. The moat which surrounded the city rioted, filling tall and dark boiling beneath the feet of the soldiers as they slowly dragged themselves across the threshold, having come back home at the cold hour in which day turned to night. Darkened was the sky on the day of the return of King Ferzidand. His head was bowed, his unshaven face marred by a gruesome scar that struck beneath his heavy-lidded left eye. Large and imposing he rode upon the top of his horse, his head canted downwards as to hide his face from those that had come to look on the parade of the returning men from the war in the south.
Behind him rode his son. Young and fair, Luthiel looked up, chin unquivering and glare hardened towards nothing. He bore no scar though he sat stiffly, a bandage noticeably peeking from beneath the confines of his frayed tunic cuff. The rains poured down harder as they cobbled through the city, riding past the gate as a sliver of lightning lit the land behind them, mockingly South, teasing their retreat from the battlegrounds.
It was said that it rained when the old King Flavius the Conquerer had rode upon his grey stallion through the ungated lands and slew those who pagan barbarians that dared oppose him. Enthralled and driven by the Gods themselves, lightning had come and set the land asunder, striking down every tree and every house which had been built by heathen hands and heathen hearts. Driven forward by the will of Ysil himself, Flavius conquered every bit of land and strode, thundering as a giant would among the hills and valleys until he had cobbled together a land which was rife with fertile soil and made to be his own, planting there his seed and his home.
It had been there that the Isprana line had started, with young red-bearded Flavius as he cast his flame across the land. His flame which burned so bright that none could dare combat it. From the barren land, he had pulled spiraling pillars and hard dark stone that loomed over like a shadow of a beast. Black and well crafted, the walls stood sturdy. A castle had been built by bloodied victorious hands long ago.
Victorious.
King Ferzidand knew no victory. He walked as a man defeated, as there was none who had not heard of his defeat in the sinful South, being overtaken by sinners, liars, and thieves. The jovial mood that had once taken the land had turned somber long ago when the messengers had come through town bearing their blackened words upon blackened tongues.
Another crack of thunder.
The residents of the town fell to their knees, bowing their heads as they passed by them.
‘Glory be to the King!’ mumbled lacking enthusiasm and muffled by the rains which had followed. They grew soaked.
‘Glory be to the King…’ Luthiel’s features grew imperceptibly more hardened, his jaw clenched and he did not move his gaze anywhere other than forward. It was said he resembled the King when he was in his youth, pale and limber, Luthiel’s long fingers curled delicately about the reins of his horse. For one, unnoticeable moment, his eyes flickered to his father's broad back. His teeth gritted.
He had said to not advance so soon.
He had said to siege the city of Aldurin was a bareboned victory not worth its salt at best and a slaughter at worse.
And now the King was there, riding with the decorum of an old beaten horse as though it was within any of them to feel pity for the fool that walked so wantonly in place of a ruler. Luthiel’s knuckles paled further as his grip on his reins tightened. They whitened, yet he kept his gaze forward, his glare hard and impenetrable, and his posture straight. As a King should sit, unbowed, and near perfection even in the face of defeat.
The road turned and the King and Crown Prince came to the stables. Without waiting for his servant to help him down, Luthiel swung his legs over and jumped to the ground, his teeth gritting as the wound at his side tugged at the movement. The blow seemed to have come out of nowhere, slicing into the junctions of his armor deep and hard. It had been that which had led him to be driven from the battleground and forced back into the tents, on the edge of surrender as the blazing eyes of the warrior gazed from beneath a bronze visor.
“Help his lord king from his horse,” Luthiel said dismissively as his furred cloak was taken from his shoulders.
“I do not need you to give orders for me, boy.” Ferzidand huffed from atop his horse, groaning in pain and exertion, the horse seemed ready to buckle beneath his weight, its head lowered to the ground and exhaustion seeming to have overtaken it.
An eye twitch and then a stiff bow. “I apologize to your most royal majesty, I meant no harm.”
His father was huffing, out of breath, red in the face from exertion or anger, such was hard to tell. He had grown fat in the years before, his dark beard having turned grey and his once sharp features lost. Pale as the moon and soft he held no edge any longer. Though he still stood tall over his son, he had long since lost the reins of control.
“The bastards… cursed bastard… They use the magic of the Dark One among them, and they use it against us. The Lord tests our holiness once again and again I have been proven to be foolish to think my men could hold out against them.” he brought his hand to his brow, his red cheeks bright as he shook his head and then roughly shoved past the servants that attended to him, brazenly ignoring his son as he stepped from the stables and to the castle.
“Absolute heresy… Where is my Queen? My Daughter? They greet my return home, no?” He turned sharply. “Take me to them, now.”
“Your majesty.” A servant bowed his head lowly and then raised it again. For a moment his eyes grazed over the fair Luthiel who idly fixed his frayed cuff. Then he stood and bobbed his head in a nod, leading them from their muddied miserable existences into the warmth of the castle and towards that which they wished for.
A soft tune filled the hot air. Dry and unyielding, the white sun hung glaringly bright above their heads, the skies clear and blue it was as though the day was blessed by the touch of the God Luvian. And on that blessed day, a tune softly hung about the air, undulating and unending the song was that which was said to be composed by the fingers of Jaadan II. A warrior and a poet he had managed to intertwine his two passions and form something which was greater than himself. His hands nimble and his voice sweet he told of the Battle of Arindor in which the Tirites had slew the dragons that had dared to breathe their destructive fires upon them. Unburned and unbroken they had risen from the ash around them and slew those dragons and those who rode upon the backs of them.
The warriors of Aldur could not be burned, it was said. No flame could destroy them as long as they stood strong and true. Like twin blazes in the sky, their swords would turn and ebb, slicing easily through the flesh of their enemies. It was undeniable that they would be victorious on those beautiful sands at the edge of the city of light where the disgusting heretics of the North had thought it wise to lead siege against the gates.
The walls were impenetrable. It was well-known that never once had they fallen, even when the ground had quaked beneath their feet and the ultimate test led by the Gods had proven it to stand solid and unending. To think they, mere humans, mere heathens, mere vermin were capable of breaking it down was near laughable.
Feruza paused, her long tanned fingers hovering over the final strings of the fine song, her head tilted to the side as she hummed in thought. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulder, plaited and tied with golden thread and decorated with jewels, it was oiled and brushed clean so that with every shift and turn of light it would catch it within its black shiny depths and reflect it back out. Her lips curled into a frown as she brought her hands back, sitting them on her knees.
“Why did you stop, your radiance, I was enjoying the song,” Shanar said, her head bent over her embroidery. “If only you had put words to it…”
“No…” Feruza drummed her fingers against her thigh. “No… it is not right. Mm… we shall make a song of our great victory. Shanar, write to Ashar and tell him that he shall accompany me in that.”
Shanar put aside her embroidery and stood to walk to the desk. The room was large and opulent, marble white and accented with golden hues, a pool resided in the middle, large and flowing with rippling clear waves, on the surface danced large and bloomed flowers that let off a sweetened fragrance. A large balcony was opened, allowing for the unyielding hot sun to slip through and highlight the cheeks of the princess that was curled upon the silken cushions. A frown was etched on her lips, a wrinkle on her brow. Bright blue eyes stared from beneath black lashes at the turn of the unwavering sun.
They would hear the praises of their victory sung across the land, weaving within the praise to the Sultan who had led them by the leash to this unyielding victory. But on the edge of that sunny day, there was a storm which stirred just on the edge of the horizon, flashing and twisting near them now, a war which would be larger than life, perhaps even one which would define them here and now.
Her finger came to her lips, they curled up in a near impish smile as she stood from her cushions, the wrinkle from her brow having left as she spun on the balls of her feet. They were on the edge of a unifying movement in which the Tirites could prove to unite in ways which they had not since the times of the old King Darius.
“I shall be visiting my father,” Feruza said, tossing her long braid over her shoulder so it fell between her shoulder blades. “We are, I believe, on the edge of the greatest piece of poetry which shall ever be written of us.” Her fingers grazed the elbow of the guard who stood just outside her door, her smile was wide and she tilted her head.
“To the sultan, eh? He has not got all day and he shall be happy to see his lovely daughter today.” Young and vivacious, it was certain Feruza would mark the shifting tides in the generation, she knew the kingdom like she knew her own mind, and her teeth were bared already for the blood of the enemies at the edge of the borders that dared to believe they could mark the territory of the South.
“You ride on the wave of victory still, your radiance?” the guard asked politely, his dark eyes flickering to her only briefly.
She let out a rather childish giggle. “And the tales of the King being so fat he could not even wear a proper suit of armor.” That would have to be included in the song, woven flawlessly into the lyrics, the pale king riding, uncentered and unfocused upon his dying horse. Already the hymn was on the tip of her lips, the lyrics buzzing in her head. The richly decorated halls of the palace were slick and shined to perfection, servants and slaves walked about, heads bowed and eyes lowered as she came to her father’s rooms, primed and prepared for the talks of war that would soon overcome them, encompassing them. Perhaps even take over the rest of her youth.
She touched her still round cheeks. It would do well to finally change their discussion from that of who she would come to marry. A hum escaped her lips, but she did not tarry. It would do no good for such things. Besides, when a man came that deserved her, she would take his hand exuberantly. But now, she walked nimbly upon the fine line which was war and peace. The South would not be discarded by the North any longer. If the King wished to know war, then war he would have.
Last edited:
Faynman
New Member
Isabelle had heard the news of the king's defeat during her morning stroll, before word had gotten out to the public. She prefered to be alone but occasionally seeked companionship with members of her milieu. Today she walked with Elia Tyrell. Elia was a beautiful and tall woman with raven black hair, beady eyes, and always wearing the most opulent silks. Before Isabelle's consummation with Ferzidand had unified the Norums with the Irspanas, the Tyrells controlled the largest army in the Northern hemisphere. It's lord was Jason Tyrell, Elia's husband, who Elia had somehow convinced to bend the knee and join the Isrpana dynasty in exchange for the title Warden of the West. Elia was an active socialite with a personality as catty and ornery as her position allowed her to be. A lady in waiting, she had served Isabelle since her arrival in Evalsana, and they were best friends since, despite their contrasting personalities. Everyone thought they were an odd pair.
The sweet smell of lilacs permeated the air around them, and morning dew wet their sandals as they walked. Isabelle and Elia were dawdling along the grass between finely trimmed hedges. A pair of kingsguards followed uncomfortably close behind them, but Isabelle didn’t care. Elia, however, seemed to sour each time she had to repeat herself because of the tumultuous clatter of the kingsguards' ringmail. She occasionally stopped to berate them on the matter and shoo them away, but, although the kingsguards were amicable, they started their ambling from far away and creeped up behind the two ladies until she had to snap at them again.
Elia stopped and turned to a marble bench to their right. Condensation coated the seats, and Isabelle hoped Elia hadn't intended to sit. Isabelle knew her idiosyncrasies and noticed she had been acting peculiarly. She was asking far too many questions. Isabelle knew, the more Elia seemed to be interested in other people, the more she actually wanted to talk about herself.
Suddenly, Elia turned and curtly said, "Leave the gardens. I wish to speak with the queen alone now." Her voice had an edge like steel.
The guards exchanged a look. They wore the king's colors, and their faces hid beneath their steel helmets. "M'lady. War is a dangerous time. We kingsguard have a duty to protect the queen. One could not anticipate when and where those southern savages will strike," said the taller one. His voice had a rasp from old age.
The words roiled inside Elia. She tightened her clasped hand, and her brows furrowed. "There is one entrance, forty men guarding it, and no one else here. If they attacked with enough force to kill forty men, you two buffoons make no difference," Elia spat her words like venom. Isabelle could sense the irritation in her voice. Elia had a habit of working herself up.
Isabelle had to keep the peace. "Sir Henry Lorian and Sir David Rockhold." She looked at one of them then the other. "You've both done a fine job at protecting us. Please leave me with lady Tyrell for now. It will take but a few minutes."
The guards exchanged a puzzled look before bowing. Members of the royal family rarely knew them by name. Amongst other things, they were simply addressed as dogs or guards or not at all. "As you say your grace," they spoke in unison and headed out. Elia cursed at their backs.
"Elly. There is something on your mind. What is it?" Isabelle said. They used nicknames in privacy.
Elia raised a brow as if to ask how she knew. She decided to let the question hang instead and reached under her sleeve to pull out a square parchment. "A rider in the night bearing a letter from Jason." She flicked the letter open and turned it for Isabelle to read. "He says we're losing the war and the south is advancing.”
Isabelle's heart skipped a beat, and, suddenly, her knees buckled.
Elia fumbled and veered Isabelle's fall towards the bench. "Goodness, calm yourself. Your husband and Luthiel are not harmed. They're retreating, and Jason said we should prepare for their arrival in the coming month. Are you alright Izzy?"
The bench was cold on Isabelle's skin. A prickling chill touched her as the wetness seeped through her garments. It was uncomfortable, but she couldn't find the strength to stand, only nod. "Y-yes" She spoke after a long, drawn-out heave.
“Izzy, don’t let your family be the death of you. My son is still too young for warfare thank the gods, but have you ever considered what you'd do if Ferzidand and Luthiel died?” Elia said with genuine concern in her voice.
The silence told her no. The commotion had caught the attention of the kingsguards who stormed towards their queen. Isabelle and Elia finished their walk around the garden prattling like normal, but, although Isabelle seemed well, Elia could sense the sudden distance between them.
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Isabelle fixed the choker around her neck. It was ostentatious, a clear display of her stature. The symmetric lining of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds dazzled light coming from the chandelier above. A gift from Elia for her name day, Isabelle didn’t want to accept it back then. Old Nan indoctrinated that a lady should not show her vanity and slapped her when she asked permission to keep the present, but Elia thought otherwise. A lady has a duty to herself as much as her family, Elia said when she brought the necklace back. Isabelle didn’t say respond, she couldn't, and she kept the necklace anyways.
Slender and beautiful, Isabelle was all a lady would hope to be: her posture disciplined, her commands soft, and her steps angelic. As the only daughter of House Norum, these were her duties since birth, and she was unmatched in them. However, tonight, she eagerly decided, she would forget her duties. Months of war had left her bedside lonely, and it made her yearn for affection, to be touched, to make love, more than anything in the world.
She picked out her most lascivious dress for tonight's reunion. A relic of a time when her status wasn’t secured through matrimony, it was made of glimmering olive satin. It's deep neckline showed the parting of her breasts, and her shoulders were bare, allowing her fair skin to kiss the warm air inside the palace. Fastened by a flower brooch on her collar, drapes of organza wrapped around her neck, flowed onto her shoulders, and downwards onto her back like a waterfall. Her hair had been brushed until it gleaned light, and she wore it sophisticated, with small braids that ran down the top and converged into a ponytail at the end. A silver pin crafted into the shape of a mockingbird, the Tyrell's sigil, was fastened on her head, yet another gift from Elia.
The nine branched tree of her house was embroidered onto her right breast. Each branch represented a god that was family to her. She prayed to Ygritte the Mother for the safety of her brothers and father who were far away and her mother who died the night she was born. Ornn the Smith was more handy. She prayed to him whenever she lost her favorite necklace, and she swore it worked. By far her favorite was the Maiden Aerial who she talked to daily about no particular thing, but it's good to have a friend after a day of spankings and lessons.
She stood besides her daughter and a servant inside the throne room, standing on steps leading up to the throne. "Podrick, is it right to serve the king Irithylli wine after battle? Maybe a lighter red would go down easier," Isabelle asked the servant. She began to roll a goblet between her fingers to preoccupy herself.
Podrick was a tall man wearing a doublet over a woolen tunic with the king's color. His face was gaunt and pockmarked. A line of dead flesh showed the remnants of a cut from the right side of his forehead down to his chin. Compounded by the thick clothing that Isabelle instructed him to wear, the summer air stifled him, and he sweat profusely. His hair was saturated with sweat, and itchy beads rolled down his cheeks. He held a flagon on top of the palm of one hand, and his other hand held the handle.
At the age of five, Podrick was given to Isabelle as a wedding gift by a slave trader from the far east. She was only fourteen at the time, and he remembered the exotic blue of the trader's forked beard, the aisles of tables lined with pitchers, roasted pig, bread, and wheels of cheese, the brawls between the northmen (usually the Norums) and the other houses, and princess Isabelle who, until she was sent away to the bedding ceremony, spent the entire evening staring at her half eaten drumstick timorously. Isabelle had been a compassionate owner, and he couldn't wish for any better, but she had certain tendencies that made life more difficult. Her pickiness was one of them.
Prodrick rolled his eyes and spoke dryly, "No, your grace. The Irithyllians are the finest at their craft. The king and prince will drink it all without problem." It was the fifth time the queen had brought up the question, each time with a different wine, and, each time he had to pour out a flagon.
Isabelle waited, then started again. "How old is the wine?"
"I bought it yesterday, your grace."
Isabelle turned to face Podrick and shook her head. "Even the Irithyllians can not make wine that sweetens without age." She put the goblet infront of him, "Podrick, please pour just a little."
Podrick poured, hiding a look of impatience.
Isabelle sipped from the goblet, ruminated, then shook her head. "No,no. This isn't sweet enough. Podrick, you must empty this and fill it with the wine from Cape Kurd instead. Hurry, the king will be here any minute now and will be thirsty." She turned him around and sent him towards the entrance of the throne room.
"Yes, your grace". Podrick groaned underneath his breath before walking at a pace barely slow enough to not spill wine onto the carpet. Abruptly, the twin doors opened, and his eyes widened. He bowed, splashing wine on his tunic. “I welcome you home my king and prince Luthiel.”
Isabelle's heart swelled. She walked to the king, starting with her those floaty footsteps that she was so good at but ended up in a sprint. Tears wetting her eyes, her arms reached up to wrap itself behind the king's head, and she showered him with kisses. “Welcome home my love”.
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The war room buzzed with chatter. Sultan Ashoka sat against the front wall, facing the entrance, leaning against a large wooden map of the continent. A girthy man, he had slanted eyes, a diamond shaped face, and sun-kissed skin that looked like dull copper. The long twin braids of his forked beard, decorated with numerous golden rings etched with vinyl patterns and embedded with rubies, ran along the surface of his white robe and curled onto his lap. It was tradition for Sultans to only cut their beards during defeat and oil them only in victory, and he had not lost a battle in seven years, so the dark strands of his chin shined as bright as gold.
Two rows of generals sat in front of him. Three lewdly dressed servant girls walked around to refill empty cups out of silver pitchers, but, although that was their duty, the men scarcely finished their liquor and would mainly call a girl over to sit her on his lap and grope them.
"The Northern king showed his true colors. He's a coward, too fat to fight. I say we send three hundred thousand riders north and burn the cities in the name of Luvian," said a voice in the background.
"Ay and send the bastard back with no eyes," another chimed in and soon a few dozen spoke up in agreement.
Sultan Ashoka sat with arms crossed and eyes closed as if he was displeased with the conversations amongst his generals. A breeze entered through a single opened window, and he felt the chill of wind cut his sweaty cheek. It was his nineteenth year on the frontline, his sixth defending against the imperialism of the North, and yet the reality of war still made him shiver. Finally, he had forced the north onto the other side of the Narrow River, but that did not guarantee victory, and the coming months would decide the fate of his people. "One victory does not make us conquerors," he said with a frown. "No Triste has ever marched past the Narrow River. The Northerners know their lands better than we do and have just as many able men. We could be walking into a trap."
"Your majesty, we must not waste this opportunity. How many times have they sent their armies south? How many women and children have they killed? As long as their king is alive we can not live in peace. The war won't end unless we end it ourselves." Again, the room flooded with voices of agreement.
Sultan Ashoka stroked his beard in thought until he heard a muffled thump and a loud slap. His eyes opened to find one of his generals standing with an arm raised as if he had just struck the servant girl in front of him. Wine stained the fabric of his light blue robe and created a dark blotch that dripped onto his feet. In tears, the girl stood silent with both hands on her swelling cheek. Sultan Ashoka recognized him as General Gadafi. A large man with a pugnacious attitude, Gadafi was given command of the eastern cavalry and had a reputation for cruelty. He had a compact body, graying hair, a well shaved face, and the physique of a warlord. Against Ashoka’s wishes, he led the campaign towards Northern extermination and had his men execute every Northerner in the southern hemisphere. A mad dog, Ashoka called him, but he could scarcely find anyone more suited for warfare.
"Look what you've done to my robe. You're too dumb to even pour me wine you bitch," he cursed and flung a half empty goblet at her. His face was flushed red from intoxication.
The girl took the punishment. She knelt to soak the puddle underneath Gadafi's feet with a dirty rag. Sultan Ashoka could see her back trembling and heaving as she held back her sobs. "Forgive me your excellency," she said, low and weak.
A silence befell the room. The generals watched indifferently while the other servant girls stared with pitying eyes.
The puddle underneath Gadafi's feet was gone, and the girl reached for the empty goblet. Gadafi kicked it away. The girl stood up, picked it up, and walked over to hand it to him. She kept her head down, but Sultan Ashoka saw her timorous expression. A dark circle about the size of a knuckle bruised her right cheekbone.
Gadafi stared down at her vivacious figure. His eyes scanned her supple frame starting at the thin brown curls on her head, onto her bare shoulders, then to the glimmering velvet scales of the bra around her large breasts, then to the fair skin of her exposed midriff, and finally at the slits on her skirt from which her leg stuck out. She must have been no older than thirteen but was starting to develop womanly features, and Gadafi saw an opportunity. His lips curled into a grin. "Take her to my chambers and lock her up. You can’t serve wine, so I'll let you be my whore instead." He clapped and two guards walked up behind him.
Guards gripped the girl's arms on each side. She squirmed for freedom. "Your excellency please it was an accident. I promise it will never happen again. Please. I beg you," her voice finally cracked, and she sobbed. Her words were forced out in between hiccups.
Sultan Ashoka could hear the cadence in her voice. "Stop." His voice was brusque and echoed inside the room. "Bring the girl here."
The guards did as they were told. Gadafi watched sourly and bristled forward with words of retaliation prepared. Sultan Ashoka stopped him with a palm.
Up close, Sultan Ashoka could see the girl's, green eyes, sharp chin, and high cheekbones, a conventional beauty. A film of sticky wine covered her chest and midriff. "Where are you from girl?" He said.
“Qaaryat, your majesty,” she said, forgetting an accent in the name. Her fingers pushed away tears.
“It's a sin to lie to the sultan. You’re a northerner aren't you? Again, where are you from?” His words sliced through her like cold steel. The room hummed with chatter again, but the atmosphere was hostile.
Gaddafi rose with a smirk and pointed his unsheathed dagger at her. “A Northern witch. Give me the names of the slave trader that brought her here. I’ll make sure they burn in the same pyre,” he roared and the others followed.
“Guards, the next time he interrupts me, take him away,” said Ashoka, not moving his gaze away from the girl. “Now where are you from girl?”
"A northern village called Kiev, your majesty," she frayed with quivering lips and again on the verge of tears. She swept a glance at the crowd. All eyes were on her, and the million daggers she got from their looks made it hard to breathe.
"Can you read?"
"I can read your majesty. And sow a little and cook and clean," she said, afraid she might've talked too much.
Sultan Ashoka pulled out a square parchment from his breast pocket, opened it, and laid it spread on the table in front of him. "Then what does this say?" A finger jabbed at a passage written in black ink. In red, little notes were written along the edges of the sheet from when the sultan's attempt to decypher the message.
"It says. House Walder will send five hundred men by the end of the month. Send some men to wait for them along the Trident. Signed Norman Walder....Your majesty."
Sultan Ashoka shot an icy glare at Gadafi. "Maybe if you didn't spend so much time raping and slaughtering our prisoners, we'd have enough information to plan a proper siege north,” he berated. Gaddafi heard the derision in his voice and withdrew sullenly. Sultan Ashoka turned to the girl. "Girl, you will serve and teach my daughter how to read and speak the tongue of the Northerners. If you fail to do so, you will go back to serving wine instead. Do you understand?"
The words were cold, but there was a comfort. She nodded.
"Escort her to my palace. Tell nobody where she is from, have her bathed, dressed in new silks, and prepare a bed for her. Anybody who her touchers her on the way will be going against my word and executed," said Ashoka as he gestured at the two guards and returned the letter to his breast pocket.
The generals watched as they made their leave. A guard opened the mahogany door of the palace and allowed the girl to walk ahead.
"And girl, Qaaryat," said Ashoka as he rolled his tongue in an exaggerated pronunciation.
The girl turned with a puzzled expression.
"It's pronounced Qaaryat. If you're going to pretend to be one of us, you'd better speak our language correctly."
Her eyes widened, and she bowed before making her exit.
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The courtyard rang to the song of swords. Sparring sessions were held daily before noon at the Elsayad orphanage, and Ashara stood to spectate a pair of boys. The taller one stood guard. His sweaty hands tightened its bony fingers around the hilt of his wooden sword as he reestablished his grip. Underneath boiled leather and a sweat soaked burlap tunic, his chest heaved from intense battle, and Ashara could tell he was losing. The short boy read the signals and pressed the attack. He held his blade with one hand and swung overhead. His emaciated body sat on the strike. The taller boy blocked, pushed forward, and leaned down on his sword as they wrestled for control. Suddenly, the shorter boy charged a kick. His foot landed between the taller one's legs, and his opponent fell down with a loud oof. The taller boy laid on his side with both hands cradling his crotch.
"You cheated you bastard," said the taller boy, grunting from the pain and short of breath.
"No, I won." The shorter one replied between heavy panting. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheeks, and he rubbed his face against the roughness of his burlaps to scratch the itch.
Ashara sniggered and couldn’t resist a smile. Words to live by, she thought, and nodded in approval.
With their gazes locked on one another, the boys didn't see Ashara's gesture. The taller one bared his teeth, and, just as he was about to utter a curse, a voice broke the tension.
"Enough," said a gruff man approaching from the distance. Abdel Elsayad stopped besides Ashara, barely strained by his run across the yard. "How many times do I have to tell you. If you can't fight properly, don't fight at all," he said as he folded his arms over his yellow silks. He had an imposing stare, beady, almond eyes, and an impressive physique that made him tower over Ashara by over a foot. The mass and size of his muscles showed through contours on his clothing. "Give me twenty laps. You will have no dinner tonight if I see you slowing," he said. He pointed a finger towards the opposite side of the courtyard where a group of similarly dressed boys were jogging.
The short boy frowned. His body sagged downwards from the burning acid that was pumping through his arms and feet, but, after a brief moment, he found the strength to drop his sword and run.
"And you. Find another partner to spar with. Your height didn't make you any less weak"
The taller one nodded and scurried away with his remaining dignity.
Abdel combed his bushy gray beard with a finger and contemplated. "Lot trouble these lots are. My wife always complains about the girls but atleast girls listen. Teaching them to fight is like teaching a cow to fly."
"You should know. You were a boy too." Ashara quipped.
Abdel raised a brow. "Aye and I fought better than any of them," he retaliated.
"They’ve never picked up a sword before. The Elsayad family owns three hundred acres of land, twenty thousand slaves, and I believe holds nineteen seats in court? Surely you could've afford a master-at-arms. Forgive me your excellency, but I expect you wouldn't be half the swordsman you are without his lessons," she said, hoping that would be the end of it. No one knew Ashara's lineage. The archives said she and her twin brother were born from a tavern whore and adopted by a farmer in the edge of Kairo, but, although she had no name and no status, she was respected as if she was the sultan's daughter herself. She had a talent for knowing things and arming them like weapons. The rich feared her the most.
Abdel stared at her coldly then guffawed. "No wonder you can't find a husband. That sharp tongue would make any man run away."
Ashara smiled and reached inside her leather tunic to pull out a brown sack tied at the top by thin ligatures. She tossed it up with one hand and caught it. The ringing of coins followed the impact. "Anyways, I think you know why I'm here. How much for the boy?" She eagerly changed the subject and pointed at the short boy on the verge of collapse from exhaustion.
"Omar? A little young no?" Abdel asked, bemused. "You'll have a hard time teaching him. It took me a whole month just to teach him how to swing. Besides, you saw what he did, your assassins will have their groans pulverized before they know it. You should wait until he's of age."
"I think otherwise, your excellency. Teach him how to kill now and that's all he'll ever know," she replied as she pulled the knot open. "Will twenty gold dinars be enough?"
Abdel nodded. He hated when Ashara called him that. It made her seem innocuous, but he knew she was a dagger of cold blackmail, coated with the poison of her research, always pressed against the skin of those she hated. "Aye that'll do."
The sweet smell of lilacs permeated the air around them, and morning dew wet their sandals as they walked. Isabelle and Elia were dawdling along the grass between finely trimmed hedges. A pair of kingsguards followed uncomfortably close behind them, but Isabelle didn’t care. Elia, however, seemed to sour each time she had to repeat herself because of the tumultuous clatter of the kingsguards' ringmail. She occasionally stopped to berate them on the matter and shoo them away, but, although the kingsguards were amicable, they started their ambling from far away and creeped up behind the two ladies until she had to snap at them again.
Elia stopped and turned to a marble bench to their right. Condensation coated the seats, and Isabelle hoped Elia hadn't intended to sit. Isabelle knew her idiosyncrasies and noticed she had been acting peculiarly. She was asking far too many questions. Isabelle knew, the more Elia seemed to be interested in other people, the more she actually wanted to talk about herself.
Suddenly, Elia turned and curtly said, "Leave the gardens. I wish to speak with the queen alone now." Her voice had an edge like steel.
The guards exchanged a look. They wore the king's colors, and their faces hid beneath their steel helmets. "M'lady. War is a dangerous time. We kingsguard have a duty to protect the queen. One could not anticipate when and where those southern savages will strike," said the taller one. His voice had a rasp from old age.
The words roiled inside Elia. She tightened her clasped hand, and her brows furrowed. "There is one entrance, forty men guarding it, and no one else here. If they attacked with enough force to kill forty men, you two buffoons make no difference," Elia spat her words like venom. Isabelle could sense the irritation in her voice. Elia had a habit of working herself up.
Isabelle had to keep the peace. "Sir Henry Lorian and Sir David Rockhold." She looked at one of them then the other. "You've both done a fine job at protecting us. Please leave me with lady Tyrell for now. It will take but a few minutes."
The guards exchanged a puzzled look before bowing. Members of the royal family rarely knew them by name. Amongst other things, they were simply addressed as dogs or guards or not at all. "As you say your grace," they spoke in unison and headed out. Elia cursed at their backs.
"Elly. There is something on your mind. What is it?" Isabelle said. They used nicknames in privacy.
Elia raised a brow as if to ask how she knew. She decided to let the question hang instead and reached under her sleeve to pull out a square parchment. "A rider in the night bearing a letter from Jason." She flicked the letter open and turned it for Isabelle to read. "He says we're losing the war and the south is advancing.”
Isabelle's heart skipped a beat, and, suddenly, her knees buckled.
Elia fumbled and veered Isabelle's fall towards the bench. "Goodness, calm yourself. Your husband and Luthiel are not harmed. They're retreating, and Jason said we should prepare for their arrival in the coming month. Are you alright Izzy?"
The bench was cold on Isabelle's skin. A prickling chill touched her as the wetness seeped through her garments. It was uncomfortable, but she couldn't find the strength to stand, only nod. "Y-yes" She spoke after a long, drawn-out heave.
“Izzy, don’t let your family be the death of you. My son is still too young for warfare thank the gods, but have you ever considered what you'd do if Ferzidand and Luthiel died?” Elia said with genuine concern in her voice.
The silence told her no. The commotion had caught the attention of the kingsguards who stormed towards their queen. Isabelle and Elia finished their walk around the garden prattling like normal, but, although Isabelle seemed well, Elia could sense the sudden distance between them.
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Isabelle fixed the choker around her neck. It was ostentatious, a clear display of her stature. The symmetric lining of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds dazzled light coming from the chandelier above. A gift from Elia for her name day, Isabelle didn’t want to accept it back then. Old Nan indoctrinated that a lady should not show her vanity and slapped her when she asked permission to keep the present, but Elia thought otherwise. A lady has a duty to herself as much as her family, Elia said when she brought the necklace back. Isabelle didn’t say respond, she couldn't, and she kept the necklace anyways.
Slender and beautiful, Isabelle was all a lady would hope to be: her posture disciplined, her commands soft, and her steps angelic. As the only daughter of House Norum, these were her duties since birth, and she was unmatched in them. However, tonight, she eagerly decided, she would forget her duties. Months of war had left her bedside lonely, and it made her yearn for affection, to be touched, to make love, more than anything in the world.
She picked out her most lascivious dress for tonight's reunion. A relic of a time when her status wasn’t secured through matrimony, it was made of glimmering olive satin. It's deep neckline showed the parting of her breasts, and her shoulders were bare, allowing her fair skin to kiss the warm air inside the palace. Fastened by a flower brooch on her collar, drapes of organza wrapped around her neck, flowed onto her shoulders, and downwards onto her back like a waterfall. Her hair had been brushed until it gleaned light, and she wore it sophisticated, with small braids that ran down the top and converged into a ponytail at the end. A silver pin crafted into the shape of a mockingbird, the Tyrell's sigil, was fastened on her head, yet another gift from Elia.
The nine branched tree of her house was embroidered onto her right breast. Each branch represented a god that was family to her. She prayed to Ygritte the Mother for the safety of her brothers and father who were far away and her mother who died the night she was born. Ornn the Smith was more handy. She prayed to him whenever she lost her favorite necklace, and she swore it worked. By far her favorite was the Maiden Aerial who she talked to daily about no particular thing, but it's good to have a friend after a day of spankings and lessons.
She stood besides her daughter and a servant inside the throne room, standing on steps leading up to the throne. "Podrick, is it right to serve the king Irithylli wine after battle? Maybe a lighter red would go down easier," Isabelle asked the servant. She began to roll a goblet between her fingers to preoccupy herself.
Podrick was a tall man wearing a doublet over a woolen tunic with the king's color. His face was gaunt and pockmarked. A line of dead flesh showed the remnants of a cut from the right side of his forehead down to his chin. Compounded by the thick clothing that Isabelle instructed him to wear, the summer air stifled him, and he sweat profusely. His hair was saturated with sweat, and itchy beads rolled down his cheeks. He held a flagon on top of the palm of one hand, and his other hand held the handle.
At the age of five, Podrick was given to Isabelle as a wedding gift by a slave trader from the far east. She was only fourteen at the time, and he remembered the exotic blue of the trader's forked beard, the aisles of tables lined with pitchers, roasted pig, bread, and wheels of cheese, the brawls between the northmen (usually the Norums) and the other houses, and princess Isabelle who, until she was sent away to the bedding ceremony, spent the entire evening staring at her half eaten drumstick timorously. Isabelle had been a compassionate owner, and he couldn't wish for any better, but she had certain tendencies that made life more difficult. Her pickiness was one of them.
Prodrick rolled his eyes and spoke dryly, "No, your grace. The Irithyllians are the finest at their craft. The king and prince will drink it all without problem." It was the fifth time the queen had brought up the question, each time with a different wine, and, each time he had to pour out a flagon.
Isabelle waited, then started again. "How old is the wine?"
"I bought it yesterday, your grace."
Isabelle turned to face Podrick and shook her head. "Even the Irithyllians can not make wine that sweetens without age." She put the goblet infront of him, "Podrick, please pour just a little."
Podrick poured, hiding a look of impatience.
Isabelle sipped from the goblet, ruminated, then shook her head. "No,no. This isn't sweet enough. Podrick, you must empty this and fill it with the wine from Cape Kurd instead. Hurry, the king will be here any minute now and will be thirsty." She turned him around and sent him towards the entrance of the throne room.
"Yes, your grace". Podrick groaned underneath his breath before walking at a pace barely slow enough to not spill wine onto the carpet. Abruptly, the twin doors opened, and his eyes widened. He bowed, splashing wine on his tunic. “I welcome you home my king and prince Luthiel.”
Isabelle's heart swelled. She walked to the king, starting with her those floaty footsteps that she was so good at but ended up in a sprint. Tears wetting her eyes, her arms reached up to wrap itself behind the king's head, and she showered him with kisses. “Welcome home my love”.
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The war room buzzed with chatter. Sultan Ashoka sat against the front wall, facing the entrance, leaning against a large wooden map of the continent. A girthy man, he had slanted eyes, a diamond shaped face, and sun-kissed skin that looked like dull copper. The long twin braids of his forked beard, decorated with numerous golden rings etched with vinyl patterns and embedded with rubies, ran along the surface of his white robe and curled onto his lap. It was tradition for Sultans to only cut their beards during defeat and oil them only in victory, and he had not lost a battle in seven years, so the dark strands of his chin shined as bright as gold.
Two rows of generals sat in front of him. Three lewdly dressed servant girls walked around to refill empty cups out of silver pitchers, but, although that was their duty, the men scarcely finished their liquor and would mainly call a girl over to sit her on his lap and grope them.
"The Northern king showed his true colors. He's a coward, too fat to fight. I say we send three hundred thousand riders north and burn the cities in the name of Luvian," said a voice in the background.
"Ay and send the bastard back with no eyes," another chimed in and soon a few dozen spoke up in agreement.
Sultan Ashoka sat with arms crossed and eyes closed as if he was displeased with the conversations amongst his generals. A breeze entered through a single opened window, and he felt the chill of wind cut his sweaty cheek. It was his nineteenth year on the frontline, his sixth defending against the imperialism of the North, and yet the reality of war still made him shiver. Finally, he had forced the north onto the other side of the Narrow River, but that did not guarantee victory, and the coming months would decide the fate of his people. "One victory does not make us conquerors," he said with a frown. "No Triste has ever marched past the Narrow River. The Northerners know their lands better than we do and have just as many able men. We could be walking into a trap."
"Your majesty, we must not waste this opportunity. How many times have they sent their armies south? How many women and children have they killed? As long as their king is alive we can not live in peace. The war won't end unless we end it ourselves." Again, the room flooded with voices of agreement.
Sultan Ashoka stroked his beard in thought until he heard a muffled thump and a loud slap. His eyes opened to find one of his generals standing with an arm raised as if he had just struck the servant girl in front of him. Wine stained the fabric of his light blue robe and created a dark blotch that dripped onto his feet. In tears, the girl stood silent with both hands on her swelling cheek. Sultan Ashoka recognized him as General Gadafi. A large man with a pugnacious attitude, Gadafi was given command of the eastern cavalry and had a reputation for cruelty. He had a compact body, graying hair, a well shaved face, and the physique of a warlord. Against Ashoka’s wishes, he led the campaign towards Northern extermination and had his men execute every Northerner in the southern hemisphere. A mad dog, Ashoka called him, but he could scarcely find anyone more suited for warfare.
"Look what you've done to my robe. You're too dumb to even pour me wine you bitch," he cursed and flung a half empty goblet at her. His face was flushed red from intoxication.
The girl took the punishment. She knelt to soak the puddle underneath Gadafi's feet with a dirty rag. Sultan Ashoka could see her back trembling and heaving as she held back her sobs. "Forgive me your excellency," she said, low and weak.
A silence befell the room. The generals watched indifferently while the other servant girls stared with pitying eyes.
The puddle underneath Gadafi's feet was gone, and the girl reached for the empty goblet. Gadafi kicked it away. The girl stood up, picked it up, and walked over to hand it to him. She kept her head down, but Sultan Ashoka saw her timorous expression. A dark circle about the size of a knuckle bruised her right cheekbone.
Gadafi stared down at her vivacious figure. His eyes scanned her supple frame starting at the thin brown curls on her head, onto her bare shoulders, then to the glimmering velvet scales of the bra around her large breasts, then to the fair skin of her exposed midriff, and finally at the slits on her skirt from which her leg stuck out. She must have been no older than thirteen but was starting to develop womanly features, and Gadafi saw an opportunity. His lips curled into a grin. "Take her to my chambers and lock her up. You can’t serve wine, so I'll let you be my whore instead." He clapped and two guards walked up behind him.
Guards gripped the girl's arms on each side. She squirmed for freedom. "Your excellency please it was an accident. I promise it will never happen again. Please. I beg you," her voice finally cracked, and she sobbed. Her words were forced out in between hiccups.
Sultan Ashoka could hear the cadence in her voice. "Stop." His voice was brusque and echoed inside the room. "Bring the girl here."
The guards did as they were told. Gadafi watched sourly and bristled forward with words of retaliation prepared. Sultan Ashoka stopped him with a palm.
Up close, Sultan Ashoka could see the girl's, green eyes, sharp chin, and high cheekbones, a conventional beauty. A film of sticky wine covered her chest and midriff. "Where are you from girl?" He said.
“Qaaryat, your majesty,” she said, forgetting an accent in the name. Her fingers pushed away tears.
“It's a sin to lie to the sultan. You’re a northerner aren't you? Again, where are you from?” His words sliced through her like cold steel. The room hummed with chatter again, but the atmosphere was hostile.
Gaddafi rose with a smirk and pointed his unsheathed dagger at her. “A Northern witch. Give me the names of the slave trader that brought her here. I’ll make sure they burn in the same pyre,” he roared and the others followed.
“Guards, the next time he interrupts me, take him away,” said Ashoka, not moving his gaze away from the girl. “Now where are you from girl?”
"A northern village called Kiev, your majesty," she frayed with quivering lips and again on the verge of tears. She swept a glance at the crowd. All eyes were on her, and the million daggers she got from their looks made it hard to breathe.
"Can you read?"
"I can read your majesty. And sow a little and cook and clean," she said, afraid she might've talked too much.
Sultan Ashoka pulled out a square parchment from his breast pocket, opened it, and laid it spread on the table in front of him. "Then what does this say?" A finger jabbed at a passage written in black ink. In red, little notes were written along the edges of the sheet from when the sultan's attempt to decypher the message.
"It says. House Walder will send five hundred men by the end of the month. Send some men to wait for them along the Trident. Signed Norman Walder....Your majesty."
Sultan Ashoka shot an icy glare at Gadafi. "Maybe if you didn't spend so much time raping and slaughtering our prisoners, we'd have enough information to plan a proper siege north,” he berated. Gaddafi heard the derision in his voice and withdrew sullenly. Sultan Ashoka turned to the girl. "Girl, you will serve and teach my daughter how to read and speak the tongue of the Northerners. If you fail to do so, you will go back to serving wine instead. Do you understand?"
The words were cold, but there was a comfort. She nodded.
"Escort her to my palace. Tell nobody where she is from, have her bathed, dressed in new silks, and prepare a bed for her. Anybody who her touchers her on the way will be going against my word and executed," said Ashoka as he gestured at the two guards and returned the letter to his breast pocket.
The generals watched as they made their leave. A guard opened the mahogany door of the palace and allowed the girl to walk ahead.
"And girl, Qaaryat," said Ashoka as he rolled his tongue in an exaggerated pronunciation.
The girl turned with a puzzled expression.
"It's pronounced Qaaryat. If you're going to pretend to be one of us, you'd better speak our language correctly."
Her eyes widened, and she bowed before making her exit.
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The courtyard rang to the song of swords. Sparring sessions were held daily before noon at the Elsayad orphanage, and Ashara stood to spectate a pair of boys. The taller one stood guard. His sweaty hands tightened its bony fingers around the hilt of his wooden sword as he reestablished his grip. Underneath boiled leather and a sweat soaked burlap tunic, his chest heaved from intense battle, and Ashara could tell he was losing. The short boy read the signals and pressed the attack. He held his blade with one hand and swung overhead. His emaciated body sat on the strike. The taller boy blocked, pushed forward, and leaned down on his sword as they wrestled for control. Suddenly, the shorter boy charged a kick. His foot landed between the taller one's legs, and his opponent fell down with a loud oof. The taller boy laid on his side with both hands cradling his crotch.
"You cheated you bastard," said the taller boy, grunting from the pain and short of breath.
"No, I won." The shorter one replied between heavy panting. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheeks, and he rubbed his face against the roughness of his burlaps to scratch the itch.
Ashara sniggered and couldn’t resist a smile. Words to live by, she thought, and nodded in approval.
With their gazes locked on one another, the boys didn't see Ashara's gesture. The taller one bared his teeth, and, just as he was about to utter a curse, a voice broke the tension.
"Enough," said a gruff man approaching from the distance. Abdel Elsayad stopped besides Ashara, barely strained by his run across the yard. "How many times do I have to tell you. If you can't fight properly, don't fight at all," he said as he folded his arms over his yellow silks. He had an imposing stare, beady, almond eyes, and an impressive physique that made him tower over Ashara by over a foot. The mass and size of his muscles showed through contours on his clothing. "Give me twenty laps. You will have no dinner tonight if I see you slowing," he said. He pointed a finger towards the opposite side of the courtyard where a group of similarly dressed boys were jogging.
The short boy frowned. His body sagged downwards from the burning acid that was pumping through his arms and feet, but, after a brief moment, he found the strength to drop his sword and run.
"And you. Find another partner to spar with. Your height didn't make you any less weak"
The taller one nodded and scurried away with his remaining dignity.
Abdel combed his bushy gray beard with a finger and contemplated. "Lot trouble these lots are. My wife always complains about the girls but atleast girls listen. Teaching them to fight is like teaching a cow to fly."
"You should know. You were a boy too." Ashara quipped.
Abdel raised a brow. "Aye and I fought better than any of them," he retaliated.
"They’ve never picked up a sword before. The Elsayad family owns three hundred acres of land, twenty thousand slaves, and I believe holds nineteen seats in court? Surely you could've afford a master-at-arms. Forgive me your excellency, but I expect you wouldn't be half the swordsman you are without his lessons," she said, hoping that would be the end of it. No one knew Ashara's lineage. The archives said she and her twin brother were born from a tavern whore and adopted by a farmer in the edge of Kairo, but, although she had no name and no status, she was respected as if she was the sultan's daughter herself. She had a talent for knowing things and arming them like weapons. The rich feared her the most.
Abdel stared at her coldly then guffawed. "No wonder you can't find a husband. That sharp tongue would make any man run away."
Ashara smiled and reached inside her leather tunic to pull out a brown sack tied at the top by thin ligatures. She tossed it up with one hand and caught it. The ringing of coins followed the impact. "Anyways, I think you know why I'm here. How much for the boy?" She eagerly changed the subject and pointed at the short boy on the verge of collapse from exhaustion.
"Omar? A little young no?" Abdel asked, bemused. "You'll have a hard time teaching him. It took me a whole month just to teach him how to swing. Besides, you saw what he did, your assassins will have their groans pulverized before they know it. You should wait until he's of age."
"I think otherwise, your excellency. Teach him how to kill now and that's all he'll ever know," she replied as she pulled the knot open. "Will twenty gold dinars be enough?"
Abdel nodded. He hated when Ashara called him that. It made her seem innocuous, but he knew she was a dagger of cold blackmail, coated with the poison of her research, always pressed against the skin of those she hated. "Aye that'll do."
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Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
Familiarity sometimes was there to bring forth an evocative feeling of security.
Every tapestry, every hanging ornament was polished and shone with a striking illustrious edge. Carved out in a home that was supposed to cut through the harsh winds of pain and let there come a beautiful kiss of the morning sun which would drive away the cold. The old grey stone had withstood stronger winds than those of war. The cracks told stories and whispered the histories of every King that had stepped foot on the dais of the throne room. To sit upon the wood-carved throne was an honor bestowed on only the best of men, and Ferzidand had been just that. His father before him, King Alfred the Great, had taken it from the heathen cousins that desecrated the very ideology they stood for, denying their Gods and instead brandishing himself as the revival of Ysil himself in his maddened delusion.
It was Ferzidand who had been there, stood beneath his father's heavy crown, and taken it in strong hands. A new age descending upon them. A new chance to drive the heretics out of their land.
Yneas stood straight-backed and still. A deep azure dress wrapped about her limber form. Pale and fair as her mother was with clear blue eyes staring out from beneath auburn lashes, she was a beauty, a jewel on the court. Golden hair was swept back and kept in a golden band decorated with shining red rubies. Decorative braids twisted about her scalp. Her face was pale and slim, cheekbones high and sharp and a long pale neck decorated with an emerald necklace of great expense, the necklace dipping just low enough to rest between the tops of her exposed breasts.
Young and fresh, she had not yet been married and stood a maiden among them. Lady's in Waiting had been twittering about her the entire day, brushing her hair and carefully washing her, ensuring she was smooth and hairless. Rouge stained her lips and cheeks, livening up her appearance which could appear sickly on a bad day. Her lashes were darkened, slightly, and her feet clad in silken slippers. Despite the pinch of her shoes, she stood serenely, offering a fair amused smile at her mother's inability to keep a decision. The poor servant was at his wits' end, she was sure, attempting to accommodate her ever-changing desires.
Then her father returned, large and rotund, his hair greying, but changed into a fresh tunic and cleaned of the dirt which had accumulated during the ride.
"His Majesty the King!" the herald cried out. Servants quickly bowed. Yneas barely remembered her own manners, seemingly forgetting the proper way to greet her father the King, her knees bending and her skirts spreading in a curtsy.
The bitter taste of defeat was something that would never leave their bones even as the wounds healed and began to turn to scars. Bitter ugly scars which would simply be there to stand as a reminder of the battle which should have been their victory, pushing the Southern Brutes back to where they belonged and then some.
King Ferzidand wavered for only a moment before his wife, his hand rising to rest lasciviously on her lower back, his head tilting to catch her lips once, though it was stiff, only surface-level as though he did it for presentation alone. But he stood beneath his wife's ministrations even as he let his gaze linger across the way, seemingly detesting the very nature of his existence.
Luthiel trailed in after his father, the crown prince in all his handsome glory. Yneas stepped forward, spreading her skirts again and letting herself fall into a deep curtsy, coming back up to face her brother. Luthiel took her hand as was custom and kissed it. Then he kissed her cheek.
"Brother..." she said lowly. For a moment, his dark eyes met her pale ones. Then all at once he looked away once again, lips curled in a frown. A soft, near imperceptible tremble ran through him. Then, as though a mask had been painted on to his face he smiled widely.
"Sister, how I missed you so." Luthiel stepped back from her and turned. "Oh, father, do let me greet my own mother myself, eh? It is a shame to be without her blessing for so long."
As though those words had broken King Ferzidand from his trance, he stepped back and nodded. "Of course." he said curtly. "She waits for us all. Yneas, my daughter, come and greet your father properly. Then let us feast, it has been a long and hard day, dear wife, I do hope you have planned something decadent for our return."
"Of course, I am sure you have, mother," Luthiel said lowly as he came to lay a kiss on her cheek and take her small pale hands into his own. "I have no doubt you have the best prepared for us." Calm and gentle, Luthiel did not believe he took after his mother in the slightest. Nevertheless, he always found her as a woman to be admired. Perhaps she would warm both him and his father from their frigid demeanor. However, as Luthiel casted another glance to his father, watching him bear another greeting from his own daughter this time, he felt a certain doubt begin to worry at his inner thoughts.
They would speak of it later.
For now, he greeted his mother. He did miss her, truly.
~*~
It was said every babe born into the family of Al-Maluk was blessed.
Every one was chosen by the Gods to present themselves and lead the mortal men into a new age of piety. It was up to them to claim the lands as holy and convert the heretics to what was good and right. Upon the very pedestal they were placed, the heathens wished to topple it, cheat their way to a top they could never reach for the Al-Maluk's were always and forever. Even when envious cousins would come to strike them from the throne, like the ever-living snake hidden beneath the sands and earth, they would return to life and take back what theirs. Even when the end time comes, it was a simple concept really, the throne belonged to the Al-Maluk, the South belonged to the Al-Maluk. And as far as the Gods were concerned, the North belonged to the Al-Maluk as well.
'What does not belong to the Al-Maluk then?' Feruza had once questioned her mentor, sleepily resting her head against her hand, not even more than six.
He had smiled wanly. 'Look out the window. Do you see where the horizon ends and the sky begins? Never believe you can conquer the heavens, that is for the rule of Gods and Gods alone. Do not lose yourself in hubris. But know that it is our right, nay, our duty to ensure the rights of this land are brought upon the Al-Maluk's, they are Gods' chosen.'
Perhaps that would not be enough for most. The impious cared not what the Gods believed, and there were many who were likely too steeped in religion that believed the thought of any ruling family being Gods' chosen to be nothing more than propaganda.
However, Feruza knew it was imperative no matter what she herself chose to believe, she would always hold herself as though she was God's chosen. Even Feruza, though, sometimes had trouble keeping her temper checked when in the face of insolence.
It was not yet time for her to take such a bold step as to join him in a war meeting. No, the men were high on victory, but they would mock her behind her back.
'Princess or a pugnacious whore.' they would ask, watching the way she glittered as she glided past them. An unmarried sixteen-year-old woman was bound to be underestimated and mocked among generals and warmongers in a place where the only women allowed to enter were the general whores so the men could be distracted by their illustrious bodies. It was disgusting how easily a man drooled if you waved a half naked woman before his face. It was what she respected most about her own father. He was not as easily entranced, not as quickly cast as inept.
"It is my father's own chambers and I wish to wait for him there." Her voice was crisp and demanding. They would need to discuss the moment he returned. What? Did anyone truly suspect he would speak with her brother of all people about what needed to be done? Feruza tilted her head back and placed her hands on her hips.
The guard cast his gaze down. She did realize she had not truly demanded entrance before without her father there. There was usually nothing of such impertinence. But now a war was being cast and every moment they could have to scheme they should keep for themselves. Then she backed away and smiled rather serenely.
"Fine then. Take me to my brother and tell him he shall see me today." At least one man in her family needed to know her plans and know them they would. He would be ecstatic to see her, she was certain.
~*~
The final light of the sun cast its blade upon the dusty desk. Papers were strewn about and a cloak laid heavily across the back of the chair behind it. Dust floated across the shadowed room, bleak and cold it was sparsely decorated. Only a half-made bed and burning hearth provided any sort of comfort. Yet even then, it held with it all the comfort of a cell. A torch was suspended over a simple blade, deceptively plain it held on to it a certain elegance as it reflected the light of the fire that flickered to and fro about the room casting long shadows that swirled and curved with each blow of the wind that came through the opened window.
Hidden deep within the recesses of a keep there was Galien, standing over his gleaming sword with certain dismay bordering on disturbed. The etchings on the blade were unfamiliar to him, a language long forgotten to the time that had taken them all. Time had moved him forward, caused him to grow into this young man he was now with his sister at his side. Dark shaggy hair fell to his shoulders, brushed and tied back to keep from getting in his eyes, it still managed to look messy with the odd pieces refusing to stay down and falling to frame his face. Hard and chiseled, his square chin and strong jaw proved to make him popular among women, the bright piercing green eyes that danced beneath dark lashes only seemed to add to the allure.
"I still do not understand your obsession with it," a woman laid languidly on the bed, fully clothed, though decidedly did not need to remove any article to seduce a man to fall astride with her. She was a bit thin, but her soft dark hair cascaded about her body, framing her tanned face. A singular piece of jewelry adorned her in the form of twin diamonds hanging from each ear. They had been a gift. Likely from a male benefactor that she would be happy to tell Galien of should he ask. But he did not care to know.
It was something which no one would understand, always they looked at him, silent and brooding as he walked through the halls in his dark leathers, seemingly contained to the shadows and the way of the guild. Always on the tips of everyone's tongues whenever he would take the sword out and languish over it they would wonder what it was that caused him such strife with what could be said to be a hunk of metal and nothing more.
"I believe Yvonis the Terrible held this very sword." he murmured, letting his hand trace across the edge and for umpteenth time slicing it. Minerva raised her head, plump lips stretching into a sly smirk.
"Is that how you got your scars?"
He led out a rather hard laugh. "Yes, yes, let us go with that, eh?"
Minerva slipped off the bed, her hair falling to the middle of her back as she stood. In the light, he noticed a red tinge. She must have decided to dye it. It was not uncommon for her, though he did enjoy the sight of her virgin hair as much as any. The baggy silk sleeves fell from her slender arms, long fingers danced in the air as she gracefully took his hand into hers. "Do you have bandages here?" he shook his head. She clicked her tongue. "Silly, silly men..." she murmured. "How does Ashara deal with you?"
"You may ask her when she returns."
Her eyes seemed to swallow every bit of light that flickered within them. He could see her dilated pupils clearly now, her scent was all around him. A valley of wrinkles appeared beneath those dark eyes, lips quirked up in a smile. "Perhaps I will. I will fetch you bandages."
"I can do it, I am capable."
"Wearing that?" her brows raised, disappearing behind the fray of hair that fell over her forehead. As though checking himself, he looked down to see his shabby clothing, a frayed tunic and stained trousers. A sheepish smile came to his lips as she clicked her tongue again. It was no outfit fit for a man leading an assassins guild. Was he leading it? At times it was hard to know. It seemed to be Ashara's passion more than his own. His eyes moved to the sword once again.
Yvonis the Terrible. Such a pugnacious woman. Fair and tricky, she had led her father by the collar round and round until he fell upon her blade. With one swoop she had denied an entire kingdom of their king and swept the Adonian Empire from existence. Of course, that was an exaggeration. As was the very idea she played her harp as she watched the city of Grevial descend into riots and warfare. There was no doubt she was likely involved in the mysterious death of Artenian the Unbleeding, but even she was likely incapable of destroying the economic system of an entire empire and setting aflame to its cities singlehandedly. Not to mention she would likely not want to such a thing as she was said to be raped and promptly drawn and quartered soon after.
It was certain, she was blamed.
"By the way... What of the war?" Galien felt the hair upon the back of his neck prickle, his eyes were cast downwards.
What of the war... The Al-Maluk's took disloyalty as an offense beyond capital punishment. To side with their enemy meant to side against them, even when he was to be only a third party. Even if the Al-Maluk's declared them neutral and ignored them, their court would rally, those who knew of their guild wishing to see it smolder and burn in the pyre of the North.
"What shall you do about it, big man?" Minerva thrust a hip out, laying her hand delicately on it. A wide smile crossed her lips. Galien felt his lips twitch. "King of the North is in shambles, I heard. Fat and old, he is going home shamed after yet another defeat in the South. Such a shame... I heard he was so handsome in his prime."
"All men are, aren't they?" her eyes rolled over him teasingly.
"Not all." Her smile fell. "Though most aren't on a leash." he bristled.
"I am on no leash."
Minerva tapped her fingers against her chin, then shrugged. "Of course, Master, let me get you your bandages."
Then she was gone, only her scent remained.
Galien turned to stare at the inky black sky that had come, and the rising moon.
He would have to speak to Ashara soon.
Every tapestry, every hanging ornament was polished and shone with a striking illustrious edge. Carved out in a home that was supposed to cut through the harsh winds of pain and let there come a beautiful kiss of the morning sun which would drive away the cold. The old grey stone had withstood stronger winds than those of war. The cracks told stories and whispered the histories of every King that had stepped foot on the dais of the throne room. To sit upon the wood-carved throne was an honor bestowed on only the best of men, and Ferzidand had been just that. His father before him, King Alfred the Great, had taken it from the heathen cousins that desecrated the very ideology they stood for, denying their Gods and instead brandishing himself as the revival of Ysil himself in his maddened delusion.
It was Ferzidand who had been there, stood beneath his father's heavy crown, and taken it in strong hands. A new age descending upon them. A new chance to drive the heretics out of their land.
Yneas stood straight-backed and still. A deep azure dress wrapped about her limber form. Pale and fair as her mother was with clear blue eyes staring out from beneath auburn lashes, she was a beauty, a jewel on the court. Golden hair was swept back and kept in a golden band decorated with shining red rubies. Decorative braids twisted about her scalp. Her face was pale and slim, cheekbones high and sharp and a long pale neck decorated with an emerald necklace of great expense, the necklace dipping just low enough to rest between the tops of her exposed breasts.
Young and fresh, she had not yet been married and stood a maiden among them. Lady's in Waiting had been twittering about her the entire day, brushing her hair and carefully washing her, ensuring she was smooth and hairless. Rouge stained her lips and cheeks, livening up her appearance which could appear sickly on a bad day. Her lashes were darkened, slightly, and her feet clad in silken slippers. Despite the pinch of her shoes, she stood serenely, offering a fair amused smile at her mother's inability to keep a decision. The poor servant was at his wits' end, she was sure, attempting to accommodate her ever-changing desires.
Then her father returned, large and rotund, his hair greying, but changed into a fresh tunic and cleaned of the dirt which had accumulated during the ride.
"His Majesty the King!" the herald cried out. Servants quickly bowed. Yneas barely remembered her own manners, seemingly forgetting the proper way to greet her father the King, her knees bending and her skirts spreading in a curtsy.
The bitter taste of defeat was something that would never leave their bones even as the wounds healed and began to turn to scars. Bitter ugly scars which would simply be there to stand as a reminder of the battle which should have been their victory, pushing the Southern Brutes back to where they belonged and then some.
King Ferzidand wavered for only a moment before his wife, his hand rising to rest lasciviously on her lower back, his head tilting to catch her lips once, though it was stiff, only surface-level as though he did it for presentation alone. But he stood beneath his wife's ministrations even as he let his gaze linger across the way, seemingly detesting the very nature of his existence.
Luthiel trailed in after his father, the crown prince in all his handsome glory. Yneas stepped forward, spreading her skirts again and letting herself fall into a deep curtsy, coming back up to face her brother. Luthiel took her hand as was custom and kissed it. Then he kissed her cheek.
"Brother..." she said lowly. For a moment, his dark eyes met her pale ones. Then all at once he looked away once again, lips curled in a frown. A soft, near imperceptible tremble ran through him. Then, as though a mask had been painted on to his face he smiled widely.
"Sister, how I missed you so." Luthiel stepped back from her and turned. "Oh, father, do let me greet my own mother myself, eh? It is a shame to be without her blessing for so long."
As though those words had broken King Ferzidand from his trance, he stepped back and nodded. "Of course." he said curtly. "She waits for us all. Yneas, my daughter, come and greet your father properly. Then let us feast, it has been a long and hard day, dear wife, I do hope you have planned something decadent for our return."
"Of course, I am sure you have, mother," Luthiel said lowly as he came to lay a kiss on her cheek and take her small pale hands into his own. "I have no doubt you have the best prepared for us." Calm and gentle, Luthiel did not believe he took after his mother in the slightest. Nevertheless, he always found her as a woman to be admired. Perhaps she would warm both him and his father from their frigid demeanor. However, as Luthiel casted another glance to his father, watching him bear another greeting from his own daughter this time, he felt a certain doubt begin to worry at his inner thoughts.
They would speak of it later.
For now, he greeted his mother. He did miss her, truly.
~*~
It was said every babe born into the family of Al-Maluk was blessed.
Every one was chosen by the Gods to present themselves and lead the mortal men into a new age of piety. It was up to them to claim the lands as holy and convert the heretics to what was good and right. Upon the very pedestal they were placed, the heathens wished to topple it, cheat their way to a top they could never reach for the Al-Maluk's were always and forever. Even when envious cousins would come to strike them from the throne, like the ever-living snake hidden beneath the sands and earth, they would return to life and take back what theirs. Even when the end time comes, it was a simple concept really, the throne belonged to the Al-Maluk, the South belonged to the Al-Maluk. And as far as the Gods were concerned, the North belonged to the Al-Maluk as well.
'What does not belong to the Al-Maluk then?' Feruza had once questioned her mentor, sleepily resting her head against her hand, not even more than six.
He had smiled wanly. 'Look out the window. Do you see where the horizon ends and the sky begins? Never believe you can conquer the heavens, that is for the rule of Gods and Gods alone. Do not lose yourself in hubris. But know that it is our right, nay, our duty to ensure the rights of this land are brought upon the Al-Maluk's, they are Gods' chosen.'
Perhaps that would not be enough for most. The impious cared not what the Gods believed, and there were many who were likely too steeped in religion that believed the thought of any ruling family being Gods' chosen to be nothing more than propaganda.
However, Feruza knew it was imperative no matter what she herself chose to believe, she would always hold herself as though she was God's chosen. Even Feruza, though, sometimes had trouble keeping her temper checked when in the face of insolence.
It was not yet time for her to take such a bold step as to join him in a war meeting. No, the men were high on victory, but they would mock her behind her back.
'Princess or a pugnacious whore.' they would ask, watching the way she glittered as she glided past them. An unmarried sixteen-year-old woman was bound to be underestimated and mocked among generals and warmongers in a place where the only women allowed to enter were the general whores so the men could be distracted by their illustrious bodies. It was disgusting how easily a man drooled if you waved a half naked woman before his face. It was what she respected most about her own father. He was not as easily entranced, not as quickly cast as inept.
"It is my father's own chambers and I wish to wait for him there." Her voice was crisp and demanding. They would need to discuss the moment he returned. What? Did anyone truly suspect he would speak with her brother of all people about what needed to be done? Feruza tilted her head back and placed her hands on her hips.
The guard cast his gaze down. She did realize she had not truly demanded entrance before without her father there. There was usually nothing of such impertinence. But now a war was being cast and every moment they could have to scheme they should keep for themselves. Then she backed away and smiled rather serenely.
"Fine then. Take me to my brother and tell him he shall see me today." At least one man in her family needed to know her plans and know them they would. He would be ecstatic to see her, she was certain.
~*~
The final light of the sun cast its blade upon the dusty desk. Papers were strewn about and a cloak laid heavily across the back of the chair behind it. Dust floated across the shadowed room, bleak and cold it was sparsely decorated. Only a half-made bed and burning hearth provided any sort of comfort. Yet even then, it held with it all the comfort of a cell. A torch was suspended over a simple blade, deceptively plain it held on to it a certain elegance as it reflected the light of the fire that flickered to and fro about the room casting long shadows that swirled and curved with each blow of the wind that came through the opened window.
Hidden deep within the recesses of a keep there was Galien, standing over his gleaming sword with certain dismay bordering on disturbed. The etchings on the blade were unfamiliar to him, a language long forgotten to the time that had taken them all. Time had moved him forward, caused him to grow into this young man he was now with his sister at his side. Dark shaggy hair fell to his shoulders, brushed and tied back to keep from getting in his eyes, it still managed to look messy with the odd pieces refusing to stay down and falling to frame his face. Hard and chiseled, his square chin and strong jaw proved to make him popular among women, the bright piercing green eyes that danced beneath dark lashes only seemed to add to the allure.
"I still do not understand your obsession with it," a woman laid languidly on the bed, fully clothed, though decidedly did not need to remove any article to seduce a man to fall astride with her. She was a bit thin, but her soft dark hair cascaded about her body, framing her tanned face. A singular piece of jewelry adorned her in the form of twin diamonds hanging from each ear. They had been a gift. Likely from a male benefactor that she would be happy to tell Galien of should he ask. But he did not care to know.
It was something which no one would understand, always they looked at him, silent and brooding as he walked through the halls in his dark leathers, seemingly contained to the shadows and the way of the guild. Always on the tips of everyone's tongues whenever he would take the sword out and languish over it they would wonder what it was that caused him such strife with what could be said to be a hunk of metal and nothing more.
"I believe Yvonis the Terrible held this very sword." he murmured, letting his hand trace across the edge and for umpteenth time slicing it. Minerva raised her head, plump lips stretching into a sly smirk.
"Is that how you got your scars?"
He led out a rather hard laugh. "Yes, yes, let us go with that, eh?"
Minerva slipped off the bed, her hair falling to the middle of her back as she stood. In the light, he noticed a red tinge. She must have decided to dye it. It was not uncommon for her, though he did enjoy the sight of her virgin hair as much as any. The baggy silk sleeves fell from her slender arms, long fingers danced in the air as she gracefully took his hand into hers. "Do you have bandages here?" he shook his head. She clicked her tongue. "Silly, silly men..." she murmured. "How does Ashara deal with you?"
"You may ask her when she returns."
Her eyes seemed to swallow every bit of light that flickered within them. He could see her dilated pupils clearly now, her scent was all around him. A valley of wrinkles appeared beneath those dark eyes, lips quirked up in a smile. "Perhaps I will. I will fetch you bandages."
"I can do it, I am capable."
"Wearing that?" her brows raised, disappearing behind the fray of hair that fell over her forehead. As though checking himself, he looked down to see his shabby clothing, a frayed tunic and stained trousers. A sheepish smile came to his lips as she clicked her tongue again. It was no outfit fit for a man leading an assassins guild. Was he leading it? At times it was hard to know. It seemed to be Ashara's passion more than his own. His eyes moved to the sword once again.
Yvonis the Terrible. Such a pugnacious woman. Fair and tricky, she had led her father by the collar round and round until he fell upon her blade. With one swoop she had denied an entire kingdom of their king and swept the Adonian Empire from existence. Of course, that was an exaggeration. As was the very idea she played her harp as she watched the city of Grevial descend into riots and warfare. There was no doubt she was likely involved in the mysterious death of Artenian the Unbleeding, but even she was likely incapable of destroying the economic system of an entire empire and setting aflame to its cities singlehandedly. Not to mention she would likely not want to such a thing as she was said to be raped and promptly drawn and quartered soon after.
It was certain, she was blamed.
"By the way... What of the war?" Galien felt the hair upon the back of his neck prickle, his eyes were cast downwards.
What of the war... The Al-Maluk's took disloyalty as an offense beyond capital punishment. To side with their enemy meant to side against them, even when he was to be only a third party. Even if the Al-Maluk's declared them neutral and ignored them, their court would rally, those who knew of their guild wishing to see it smolder and burn in the pyre of the North.
"What shall you do about it, big man?" Minerva thrust a hip out, laying her hand delicately on it. A wide smile crossed her lips. Galien felt his lips twitch. "King of the North is in shambles, I heard. Fat and old, he is going home shamed after yet another defeat in the South. Such a shame... I heard he was so handsome in his prime."
"All men are, aren't they?" her eyes rolled over him teasingly.
"Not all." Her smile fell. "Though most aren't on a leash." he bristled.
"I am on no leash."
Minerva tapped her fingers against her chin, then shrugged. "Of course, Master, let me get you your bandages."
Then she was gone, only her scent remained.
Galien turned to stare at the inky black sky that had come, and the rising moon.
He would have to speak to Ashara soon.
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