The Tears of Kas̆dael

A knock thudded against his office door, and Eligon gave a distracted grunt, his head buried in the dozens of petitions waiting for him after the expedition to Kār-Arḫu. Interpreting that as permission to enter, the door creaked open as Naklāti slipped inside.

She’d abandoned the gleaming armor she’d worn on their campaign for an outfit more suitable for court, a slim, sapphire dress that hugged her curves a bit too tightly - for her campaign to catch Eligon’s attention was still in full force.

Stifling a sigh, he gave her a more proper greeting. “What is it, Naklāti?”

“My lord, a messenger from the Zalancthians is waiting outside the walls. Do you wish to allow him to enter?”

“Since you’ve failed to say why he’s here, I assume that means he refused to tell you.”

His aide nodded. “The messenger claims he can only reveal his message to you.”

“He’s claiming he’s been sealed,” he clarified.

“Yes.”

Eligon leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and weighed his options. There was a reasonable chance the messenger was an assassination attempt. Over the last few decades, the Zalancthians’ unity had splintered, and many enterprising young commanders had sent assassins after him. They knew the chances of succeeding were unlikely, but the rewards, if they were the one to fell the dreaded emperor, were too tempting for one to pass up.

But not all messengers were a trap and, truthfully, Eligon didn’t fear any assassins the Zalancthians could send. Their armies were certainly fearsome, but he had yet to meet a Zalancthian who was powerful enough to outmatch the Burden of the Peoples. And, as much as he found that particular brand of magic distasteful, he knew the Zalancthian shamans did indeed have the power to place a magical compulsion on their people and prevent them from speaking.

“Fine, let him in,” he huffed, “but don’t bring him here. If he tries something, I don’t want to get blood all over my study.”

“Where shall I take him, my lord?”

His gaze drifted to the window, where a crack of sunlight peaked through the gathered shades. He’d shut the shades to rid himself of the torment of seeing the beautiful day he couldn’t enjoy, but the messenger provided a good excuse to escape. “Send him to the Pavilion of St. Martin,” he decided.

He finished reading the paper he’d been working on, one of the many reports generated by the investigation he’d demanded into the empire’s ambassador system after discovering the ambassador to the Strythani’s failures, before departing. This noble, at least, had bothered to make a few trips to the country he was assigned, and Eligon was relieved not to have to find a replacement.

As he left his chamber, his guards fell into step around him, with their captain hurrying to take point in front of him. Eligon took a meandering route through the palace, glad of the chance to stretch his legs, for he knew there was little rush. Even if the messenger refused to explain his mission, the guards would certainly insist on thoroughly searching him before allowing him in the emperor's presence.

The day was every bit as beautiful as it had looked through the window, and the Pavilion of St. Martin was the perfect place to enjoy it. A gift from the enigmatic Fey faction, the Pavilion sat outside the palace proper, on a high bank that overlooked Dur-Ṣadê’s mighty moat. The winter rains were finally beginning to taper off, and the water today was clear and blue. The first flowers of spring had already begun to pop their head above Ummadammah’s surface, ringing the pavilion in orderly rows of red and blue.

The Pavilion itself was a marvel. Not wanting to reveal their secrets, the Fey had opted to teleport it into place fully formed rather than build it where the Corsyths could observe. Large enough to fit a hundred men beneath its roof, the wondrous building seemed to be carved from a solid piece of jade that glowed a deep, rich green next to which all other jades paled in comparison. Even the furniture was seamlessly integrated into the building; dozens of chairs, benches, and tables covered the interior of the pavilion, their design delicate and dainty despite being made of solid stone.

But there was only one seat for the emperor - a glistening emerald-colored throne that was the crowning gem of the pavilion. The pleasant coolness of the stone greeted him as he slipped into the throne, and rested his elbows on the finely-sculpted cypresses that served as its armrests.

The cool shade of the pavilion and the warm breeze blowing off the moat had nearly lulled him into slumber when the Naklāti finally arrived with the messenger in tow.

His mood slipped as he scanned the obviously nervous Zalancthian. Physically, there was very little about the stoneflesh’s appearance that made them stand out. They looked much like the humans the Corsythians had descended from, minus the various physical attributes that some carried - lengthened ears, emerald eyes, or several feet of extra height - that millennia of intermingling with Fey and Elves had brought. What distinguished them from Corsyths was less visible - a severely stunted talent for magic that was combined with a drastically enhanced protection against magic.

But the Zalancthian that stood before him had piercing green eyes and, though it was so slight he almost missed it, Eligon detected a touch of Vāya’s blessing upon him. So he’s a half-blood. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the young men, his very soul offended at the thought of a Corsyth intermingling with their invaders. To his mind, it was an act barely distinguishable from treason, but Eligon was careful to school his expression for he could tell that the man’s nervousness was not entirely fueled by fear. There were traces of excitement in his gaze as he bent his head to the left in the Corsyth gesture of respect, rather than kneeling as was the Zalancthians’ custom. Does he see himself as one of us?

“I should you warn,” Eligon began, “if you came to assassinate me, it is best to turn aside now. Lay down whatever weapons you managed to ferry in, and I will let you leave unharmed.”

“No, my lord,” the man protested immediately, “I mean you no harm. How could I mean you harm when I come bearing an offer of alliance from the Lord Protector of Agamīn.”

Eligon went still. Of all the things he thought the messenger might have wanted, this would never have made the list. “You claim to bring an offer of alliance from General Menos? And who are you, that I should believe such an outrageous claim.”

The man’s brown, curly locks fell loosely around his face as he bowed his head. “I am his eldest son, Lord Naslam Menos.”

Eligon blinked at the use of a clearly Corsythian name. True, Menos was still of their tongue, but Naslam was a proper Agamīnian name. “You expect me to believe your name is ‘peace’?” The messenger started to speak, but he cut him off, “And besides, I have never heard of a son of General Menos.”

“And yet I am,” the man replied boldly. “Send for one of your seers - they will see I speak the truth. Or,” he lifted the letter he’d been holding the entire time, “you may read the message my father has sent.”

Eligon gestured for Naklāti to bring the letter forward, but he did not open it immediately. Though the emperor could not simply accept the man’s claim without any proof, his instincts told him it was true, for it meshed well with what he knew of the conflict between Menos and Kurus. While war was rarely waged for a single reason, he knew one of the inciting factors had been Menos’ to spurn his betrothal with Kurus’ sister for a Corsyth bride, one that had by all accounts been his concubine for many. He’d never heard any children named, but unless the man was after all, it was likely he’d had a few bastards. And now he’s raised one of them to be his heir - no wonder Kurus is furious.

Instead, the emperor leaned forward on his throne and fixed his gaze on the messenger. “Tell me, Lord Naslam, what house did your mother belong to?”

“She is of House Narāmīl.”

That too synced with what he knew. There had been thirty-seven Lord Naslams in the House of Narāmil before its destruction by the Zalancthians. “And did she willingly marry General Menos,” he continued.

Indignation flashed through the envoy’s eyes. “My mother loves my father greatly, and he loves her even more. Surely you know, my lord, that he has gone to war against Kurus solely on her behalf.”

Then he is a fool. Eligon kept the thought to himself, but it lowered his opinion of the general. A man who would wager the lives of thousands simply to satisfy his own selfish loves was not fit to be a ruler; he was no better than Vayyābī. The name of his former friend slipped into his thoughts with unexpected vehemence, and the emperor quickly cut off his train of thought, not wishing to be compromised by his own emotions.

Not deigning to respond, he opened the letter and perused it. It was everything Naslam had promised. Though Menos tried to hide it, it was clear the war was not going well for him. Eligon wasn’t surprised - Kurus was one of the youngest generals amongst the stoneflesh, a supposed genius whose meteoric rise had given his troops no end of grief. But that didn’t mean that what Menos offered was worthless.

The general still had an iron grip over the former province of Agamīn and more than fifty thousand veteran troops to his name. With the aid of the empire’s army, Kurus would be powerless to remove him. There was one small problem with the offer though.

Crumpling the letter with a simple squeeze of his hand, Eligon tossed the paper to the ground. “Your father’s offer is a bold one. Tell me, Lord Naslam, do you think he is my equal?”

The man’s nervousness returned, this time rooted in fear, but he found the moxie to meet the emperor’s gaze. “I think my father holds that land and you do not. You are free to take it from him, if you can.”

The emperor snorted. “It is not my army you should be concerned about. Your father knows my eyes turn to the north, to restoring my people to our ancient capital. I could take Agamīn easily, but I do not desire it enough to pay the cost in blood its acquisition would require.”

“So you reject our offer,” the messenger demanded with a scowl.

“I reject this offer,” Eligon replied, “but I will make one of my own. I will not ally myself with a Zalancthian playing lord in lands that are rightfully mine, but I am a pragmatic man. I see the benefits of aiding your father, and if he truly has, as you claim, treated our people well, perhaps another deal can be worked out.”

“If your father bends the knee to me, I will allow him to keep Agamīn - him and his successors - and I will send troops to push back Kurus’ forces.”

An uncertain look played across Naslam’s face. “I do not know if my father will agree to this,” he replied slowly. “I was given limited authority to negotiate, but…”

“Have no fear,” Eligon interrupted him. “Menos will not hesitate to accept. Without aid, he knows he will eventually lose the war against Kurus.”

“Then I will…conditionally accept,” Naslam finally replied, “but is ultimately up to my father.”

“Good.” Eligon rose from the throne and turned to Naklāti. “Have guest chambers prepared for Lord Naslam and make sure he sees the seers. Oh, and one more thing-”

The emperor pivoted to face the envoy. “If your family is to rule Agamīn, they must do so as House Narāmīl.”