Witch of Ambition

She spent a turn in comfort, Gunnez warming her skin as she took long breaths of fragrant air. The silvertails, pretty birds imported by the Ruby’s previous owner as additions to the garden, emerged from their manmade nests and sang to one another. Each one had a unique voice that trilled out long notes, creating a chorus. A perfect moment.

But perfect is fleeting and no royal knew peace for long.

A presence disrupted Zara’s comfort. Not with words, but by tickling ancient instincts that associated a strong gaze with danger. The rinza didn’t need to open her eyes to know who stood beside her. She didn’t bother to acknowledge them either.

As a royal daughter, none could make demands of her aside from the khan and her father, two identities that had merged. No doors were barred to her, no voice would dare interrupt her words. She could walk the streets of the city slitting the throats of whoever she fancied and the kopei, the peacekeepers of the lesser castes, could not raise a hand against her without paying for the crime with their lives.

Despite that power, and her power over all that dwelled within her spire, she remained human and to be human was to be bound by karma. The weight of a relationship pushed against her until her tranquility couldn’t stand the pressure. The perfect moment passed and Zara’s eyes opened a fraction.

A young woman stood beside her, head bowed in deference and her hands resting over the blue ribbon that kept her white robe closed. Her radiant skin was the same shade as Savath’s sands, without blemish or callous. Her dark hair was cut short up top, but the lower half fell to her mid-back in a long braid, the end tied around a golden hoop.

Zara eyed the ribbon with a critical eye, wondering if she should change it. Blue had been her preference for many years, but as the owner of the Ruby, red would define her and she had no intention of relinquishing her home for as long as she lived. A message that might get lost if her personal servant wore the wrong colors. A small detail but everything she did, or didn’t do, would be noticed. The more she stared at the bright blue, the more she thought a change was necessary.

She took her time with her examination and the woman bore her attention in silence. Zara soon got tired of it. “You’re quiet this morning, Sere.”

Sere raised her head, her hazel eyes stopping at Zara’s chin. To gaze at a royal’s face without permission was a sin. Zara had long ago given her permission to forget the extreme formality, but Sere was eshkel, born of a family that had served the al-Khazars for generations. Tradition wasn’t something they practiced. It was something she lived, as much a part of her as the hands she used to serve or her beautiful gaze.

Those eyes are what drew Zara to the girl when she accompanied her mother to choose her closest companion for the rest of her life from amongst a group of a dozen girls around her age. They were jewels in a mediocre shell. When the light struck them just right, they shone like polished gold. Sometimes, Zara swore she could see sand magic in them, the shifting illusions that plagued those that wandered the Dune Sea.

When she was young, she thought Sere was blessed by Gunnez. She could spend hours staring into that gaze, watching them change with the light. Beautiful, magical, and a little strange. Zara had a weakness for all three. Thankfully, for her handmaiden, she learned restraint.

“Merely practicing for tonight, rinza. It nears the time of the serpent. If you do not begin soon, you will be late.”

“Tonight,” Zara muttered without bothering to hide her annoyance. It was a special day, the only true holiday in the Celestial Calendar. All who walked the sands celebrated the Night of Falling Stars, but no settlement could rival the festivities of the Celestial City. They began preparations a month in advance and the celebrations lasted a full week.

The city overflowed with prosperity, but someone had to do the undesirable jobs. The vaklei were slaves, but they were slaves of the city and treated far better than the blood slaves of warbands. They lived in good homes and ate two hearty meals cooked with fresh vegetables. They worked for the city five days but were free to pursue other work on the sixth day and weren’t taxed for any of their earnings.

The largest difference between the vaklei and those of similar status throughout Savath was that their caste was not hereditary. The child of a vaklei pair had the opportunity to rise to a higher caste, either through schooling or an apprenticeship. Thousands flocked to the walls of the city every season for the opportunity, so many that the slums filled with the rejected had grown large enough to be a settlement of its own.

They lacked wealth but they made up for it with their efforts. In the month leading up to the festival, they painted the wealthier districts of the city but there was always surplus. The extra was brought back and used to decorate their own homes, along with string and flags. The Celestial City was always resplendent but their efforts transformed its usual stately opulence into a warmer, brighter beauty.

Above them were the vakkiri, the artisans whose reputation had spread to every corner of the continent. They would stake the reputations of their families and their shops displaying their mastery. No simple work would do. Officials would walk the roads of the market with critical eyes. If they judged a piece to be unworthy, the creator could be banished from the city for insulting the royal family.

The vakloo, the rich traders whose caravans took the treasures of the desert to the northern kingdoms, took a less direct role. Their gold sponsored the festival, to providing the paints used by the vaklei to commissioning projects from the vakkiri. The excessive displays of wealth were their only chance to increase their reputations, so they held nothing back. Their contest would culminate in presenting tributes to the khan. A royal endorsement was the ultimate prize, the key that opened doors barred to even their fortunes.

Though they were the focus of the celebrations, none contributed more to the festival than the al-Khazars. Many lesser-known vakkiri would be sponsored by the Throne. Tables of fine cuisine would be set out in the open spaces of the wealthier districts and fresh meat would be given to every vaklei family. Musicians would stand on every corner, all playing the same scores, blending into a beautiful chorus whose song reached far beyond the walls of the city.

Even the vaknul, the unfortunates within the slum, felt the khan’s generosity. During the day, healing salves and tonics were given to the sick. At night, casks of wine were delivered, cups given to the adults so they could offer a toast to the Throne.

The greatest party of the year would be held in the Throne Room. The most important personages in the country would gather to indulge in expensive delicacies as they competed for the khan’s favor. Great tributes would be offered alongside vows of fealty. In turn, the khan would name three individuals and one house that had done the most for Savath that year, gifting them a royal favor.

They would toast to the khan’s health and enjoy the revelry until that magic moment when the air thrummed with the connection between the Star and the Throne. That connection would surge and then, for one glorious moment, all would feel it and the people, no matter their grudges or debates, would be united in their awe of the man above all others.

Zara didn’t care for the holiday. As a child, she was forced to spend the night in her rooms with Sere and a grown attendant, her small heart bitter as the faintest traces of the lively music seeped through her walls. As a young woman, the festival, especially the party, represented obligation. Every moment was spent networking, securing extra funding for her projects or gathering information on her cousins, who were supporting their own fathers.

This year would be the first where she didn’t have any ulterior motive in making an appearance. She was allowed to enjoy herself. Zara smirked at the thought, wondering if she remembered how.

“Rinza,” Sere called, her expression calm but her tone carrying an edge of reproach.

Sighing, Zara rose from her chair, stealing a few more precious moments as she stretched. She exhaled a long breath, and the veneer of a lazy princess disappeared as her mind sharpened. She headed for the stairs and Sere easily fell in-step behind her. “How many?”

“Three more invitations to spend the day together, another eight offering to escort you to the party. One second-grade official, six first-grades, two ministers, and one senior scholar from the College.”

“A mere second-grade dared?” she asked, her tone a mix of disdain and curiosity.

“He is the disciple of Wiseman Tamil and is a second-grade at the age of twenty-two.”

Zara would never do something as juvenile and uncultured as rolling her eyes, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel the urge. The biggest threat to the powerful was themselves. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard tales of a genius being blinded by his own ability. Or the number of times old men had tried to drag her into their delusions of grandeur. “From whose residence did the invitation come?”

“Tamil’s.”

She clicked her tongue. Youthful ignorance was something she could forgive; spirits knew she bore the same burden. The young official’s betters would chastise him without her paying it much mind. If he was smart, he’d be bettered for it, some of the impatience dragging him down stripped away.

The invitation coming from the wiseman told her that it wasn’t the overzealousness of an ambitious young man, but a heavy-handed request of an old monster. Perhaps they thought she would be more open to romance now that her campaign had reached a successful conclusion. Perhaps they thought she was weak, vulnerable now that her father no longer needed her. Either way, she had no interest in the shrewd invitation.

“Prepare the appropriate rejections and send a letter to Ba’kin. I expect him to be at the gates of my spire when the jackal runs.”

“The ministers won’t be happy. Nor your escort.”

“I imagine they won’t.”

“…may I speak?”

“Did something happen to your tongue in the last breath?” Zara waved off the humor, knowing Sere wouldn’t laugh. “You know you don’t need my permission for something like this.”

“Your father’s favor does not make you invulnerable. I suggest that you are in more danger than ever. You are a threat, having already proved your abilities. There are those within the Assembly that are waiting for an opportunity to target you.”

“They wait in vain.”

“My apologies, rinza. I forgot an al-Khazar daughter is above the notion of fallibility.”

Zara huffed. The sarcasm was as close as Sere would dare come to outright rebuking her. It was too bad that Zara found the dry tone amusing. “My sisters certainly would have no reason to be confident, but I am different. More than the Throne protects me. Worry not if I will make a mistake. Of course I will, only the khan is a divine being. Worry who amongst my enemies is both daring and capable enough to use such a mistake against me. None possess both qualities.” She’d long ridden herself of the true nuisances. “Relax. We’ve won. I would enjoy the spoils of victory, at least for a time.”

“…your will be done, highness.”