The Tears of Kas̆dael

Dear Father,

All is well in Dūr-Ṣadê. The Emperor’s plans for the campaign against the capital have nearly come to fruition. Word has reached us that an army from the King of the Djinn marches to join us, bolstering our ranks, and just this month the Zalancthian lord of Agamīn chose to cast his lot with the Empire. As long as the durgū continue to delay their invasion, I believe the campaign will be successful.

Naklāti’s quill stilled as she pondered how to phrase her next words. She was fairly certain that the Emperor had her mail read, not that she could blame him.

Her father, Lord Ittûl, the Commander of the Northern Armies, was a loyalist of House Nūrilī, and one of the primary supporters of the deposed prince sheltered in Celestia. Her father tended to treat the emperor's commands as requests, and if Eligon had ever attempted to arrest the heir of Nūrilī, Lord Ittûl would no doubt have gone to war against the Empire.

But things had changed recently. While no one knew the exact details of the deal the emperor had struck with the elves of Yammaqom, the northern kingdom had eased up on its support for House Nūrilī, advocating for peace and coexistence rather than rebellion. Without the complete support of Yammaqom, her father had to take a more cautious approach to his bouts of insubordination.

The deal with the elves had been followed by her own appointment as Eligon’s aide, an appointment that had come as a surprise. While she had full faith in her competence, Naklāti was under no illusion that she had been chosen merely for her skill. She recognized it as an olive branch to her father, and if she had her way, that olive branch would soon blossom into a full-fledged tree.

I would ask, Father, that you consider sending troops to aid in their endeavor. From what I’ve heard, even Yammaqom has promised to dispatch a portion of their fleet to block the capital's harbor.

She left unsaid that it would reflect poorly on the northern nobles if the Djinn and elves helped reclaim the capital while they refused to move, but she knew her father could read between the lines. An appeal to honor was likely to sway him.

I was most amused with the falcon you sent me, Father. Whenever possible, I take her out to hunt, and she’s gotten quite good at bringing back her little trophies. There’s one animal in the woods, though, that yet eludes her, a wily old snake that has wriggled out of her grasp on more than one occasion. But the snake has begun to tire, and I have no fear that she shall soon snare him.

She hesitated again, questioning if her words would be too bold, but decided not to change them. It wasn’t as if her intentions were exactly hidden, after all. She was about to continue writing when a knock sounded on her door.

“Lady Naklāti?”

“Come in,” she replied absently, as she folded the letter and set it aside for later. Elision’s faithful lackey, Kīnu, stepped through the door and inclined his head in a token of respect. “The lord of Agamīn has arrived to swear his loyalty - the Emperor has requested your presence.”

She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing and wrinkled her nose. The blue dress she wore may have been Eligon’s favorite color, but it wasn’t fancy enough for a truly formal gathering. “Do I have time to change?”

“Certainly, my lady - Lord Eligon will greet them in two hours.”

“It isn’t like the emperor to wait.”

“I convinced him it was important to give his court time to look their best.”

To give me time, she thought happily. When she’d arrived in Dūr-Ṣâde, she’d fully expected Eligon’s servant to be an obstacle in her pursuit of the emperor, and at, first, she’d been right. But as he’d gotten to know her, Kīnu had slowly but surely evolved into an unexpected ally, believing that it was not good for the emperor, still grieving the death of his wife and best friend, to remain alone. “Thank you, Kīnu. Can you send my maid in?”

“Of course, my lady.” When Kīnu had left, Naklāti rose from her desk and hurried to her armoire, humming happily beneath her breath. Two hours was tight timing, but she needed to find something stunning. Something blue.

Eligon hated his throne room. It was not that it was ugly. No - while his ancestors, the minor lords of Dūr-Ṣâde, had never been one for finery before their unexpected ascension to the throne, they had enough royal blood in them to understand the importance of making an impression.

The throne room of Dūr-Ṣâde - the Sapphire Chamber - was one of the oldest parts of the castle. The hall was a stately basilica, with stout pillars that supported a domed roof that stretched for the sky. The floor was made of the purest white marble, against which the walls and ceiling, painted a deep blue infused with crushed sapphire and adorned with the stars of heaven, stood out in stark contrast. The walls had once been bright, but centuries of candles and incense had darkened the wall's lower portions until they were nearly as dark as dusk, making the whole chamber feel like one had stepped into a realm of perpetual twilight.

The throne, raised on a podium of twelve steps, sat beneath the apse. The ivory throne was the oldest relic of the castle, supposedly rescued from the ruins of the Mwyranni’s empire and transported north. Eligon was unsure if the tales were true, but the throne’s antiquity was obvious, and the unusual style of the carvings etched into its sides did seem to match the style of the fallen empire.

It was a beautiful chamber, one that any lord could be proud of, and yet... Despite the age and beauty of the Sapphire Chamber, it could have sat in a dark, isolated corner of his father’s throne room in the lost capital. Melancholy settled across his chest like a mantle, and though Eligon tried to dismiss the feeling, it was not so easily set aside. Soon, he promised himself. Soon we shall reclaim that which was lost.

The memory put him little in the mood to indulge the Zalancthian traitor, but Eligon steeled his face as the members of his court filtered in to take their positions around the throne. He could not allow his hatred of the stoneflesh to harm the empire’s safety, and the return of a province, not to mention an entire Zalancthian army, was a victory worth celebrating, even if it did drag him into a smaller conflict against the man’s rival.

Lost in his musings, Eligon almost didn’t notice when she entered the room. A flash of blue passed through the grand arch and floated through the gathering crowd like a cloud across the sunny skies. He cursed himself as he watched Lady Naklāti approach, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

She wore a deep blue gown, deep-cut across her chest, and studded with the same stars that lined the chamber’s ceiling. Long, flowing tresses hung loosely around her shoulders, with strings of pearl woven through her flaxen hair. Despite himself, Eligon felt his heart tick up, and he forced away the smile that threatened to break his steely mask.

“Lady Naklāti,” he acknowledged her, with a simple nod. She inclined her head in turn as she took her position at the base of his throne, allowing him a more than generous view down her chest.

Kruvas̆. He forced himself to look away, to count the stars on the ceiling opposite him until his heart slowed down, but it was not an easy endeavor. He knew what she wanted and, unfortunately, some treacherous part of him wanted it to.

I made a mistake bringing her here. When Eligon had appointed the daughter of Ittûl as his aide, he’d hoped it would make the old goat more amenable to his plans for the capital. The possibility that she might seek to pursue him had, of course, occurred to him - the position of empress was open, after all - but he had honestly dismissed it.

Ittûl was no friend of House Gonya and had made it clear that he viewed Eligon and his kin as usurpers. He doubted the man was interested in allying with his house, but he hadn’t counted on Ittûl's daughter having a different opinion. Would he even be willing to allow such a union? Would it improve relations between us better or would he resent me for stealing his daughter?

Eligon realized with a start that he’d allowed himself to think of such a possibility, and his mood worsened. She was slowly but surely worming her way into his heart, and he felt helpless to stop it. She’d fulfilled her duties admirably, succeeding beyond even his own, admittedly high, expectations. Indeed, if he was being honest, she was doing a better job than Vayyābī had, and that was not a slight to Vayyābī’s skill. No, he had no reason to dismiss her from her position, and to remove her without cause would be a grave insult, one he could not risk, even if keeping her close was proving…distracting.

His musings were disturbed as the blare of trumpets filled the hall, announcing the entrance of his newest vassal, the former General Menos. He’d agreed to the emperor’s demands and taken on the name of his wife’s former house, and thus House Narāmīl was reborn, a bastard mix of Corsyth and Zalancthian that churned his stomach. Yet, it is better than that the house perish altogether, he reminded himself, remembering the many southern houses that had been completely extinguished.

The new Lord Narāmīl marched down the hall, flanked by his Corsyth wife and his son Naslam. Behind him trailed his younger children, two daughters and a son a little younger than Eligon’s own. The cloud on his brow lightened as he watched the lad, barely beyond the age of toddling, struggle to keep up with his family, until the youngest daughter paused to grab his hand. True, he was a Zalancthian, but he was also half Corsyth. And he will be raised as one, he reminded himself.

Stopping at the base of the podium, Lord Narāmīl unbuckled his sword and, lifting it above his head, knelt before him. The others followed suit, save for the little boy who looked around curiously until the daughter dragged him down to kneel beside her.

“Bēlī, anaddin patrī u arītī.” Narāmīl spoke the words with a thick accent, struggling over the ancient vow of vassalage. The sword and dagger. Eligon knew which service the general would offer him - strength rather than cunning.

“Sapal inī sebettu, sapal inī s̆ins̆eret, anaddar ana palāḫi mār s̆amīm.” This part of the vow made him uncomfortable. Eligon doubted the stoneflesh before him even worshiped the heptad or the lesser council, but he also felt unworthy of the appellation offered him. He was no son of heaven. Usurper, a small voice taunted him.

“Ina balāti, ina mūti, arradka, bēlī…”

Eligon watched in silence until the vow was finished. Then his turn came. Rising from his seat, he uttered his portion of the vow, his promise to protect and defend his vassals. The words from his lips like spun silver, honed by decades of similar promises, echoing the vaulted walls of the Sapphire Chamber. But he did not speak the words lightly, not even to the stoneflesh kneeling before. “Anaddin andullî s̆a mār s̆amīm, u ina ṣillīya, lislim kimtūnu.”

With the vow completed, Eligon descended the stairs and, taking the offered sword from the Zalancthian’s hand, bound it around his waist. A warm hand touched his arm, and he turned to find Naklāti at his side, offering him the traditional gift. He froze a second, drawn in by the depths of her eyes, before accepting it and offering it to the man. “A token of the empire’s protection,” he intoned.

The newly dubbed Lord Narāmīl tried to refuse the gift. “The only protection I ask, my lord, is for my family.” His wife grabbed his hand, her eyes wide, and he realized his blunder. Bowing his head, he accepted the gift and followed his wife out of the hall before he could make even further faux pas.

Eligon wasn’t offended, though. Despite his dislike of the stoneflesh, he could understand his motivations. His eyes wandered unbidden to Naklāti and he hastily tried to look away, but the faint crease of joy at the edge of her eyes told him he’d been spotted. Kruvas̆.