14

The Tophis Under Threat

In the two weeks that followed Dazhyen’s encounter (Maryam used the word advisedly and never around Dazhyen), Maryam’s lessons had taken a dramatic shift in tone. No longer was she working on the complexities of her repressed emotions and their odd relationship with her connection to the meya. Instead, Raidas had decided to teach her directly offensive skills and leave the resolution of her repressed emotions to her. This, at least, had come with the benefit of allowing her to practice – under Raidas’s watchful eye – her manipulations of water.

The first thing she learned was how to boil water and hurl it at enemies. This was easiest, Raidas explained, because it took less energy and less focus to boil water than it did to freeze it. Maryam quickly found this to be true, when her attempts to freeze pitchers of water caused her to pass out from exhaustion on three separate occasions.

She also learned the basics of manipulating fire beyond the kindling of candle-flames – something neither Raidas nor the Grand Circle College had taught her yet. The reason behind this was self-evident to Maryam, for fire is an infinitely unpredictable thing, and its control boiled down to two opposing methods: increasing the flame, or reducing it. She was first taught to reduce magically induced flames and this she found exceptionally easy. That was, until on the Wednesday of the second week, when Maryam entered her basement class-room, and found Raidas – quite literally – aflame.

“Put me out,” he instructed, calmly, his clothes on fire.

“WHAT?” Maryam’s reaction had not been loud or surprised enough in her opinion.

“Put me out,” he repeated himself as if Maryam’s question had been raised by an inability to hear him.

“Master, why are you on fire?”

“It is a test. Put me out. Focus, see the flames, and extinguish them.”

So, she did as was bade. She closed her eyes and reached out to the millions of flames that danced over the mortal (she hoped) body of her teacher, and began to tug and push on them. In the physical world, flames were incorporeal but – like everything else – in the meya, they had a physicality to them that could be pushed and tugged.

But, try as she might, the flames fought back. Their vibrations in the meya were too much for Maryam, who collapsed without much drama or even without her realising it. When she came to, Raidas was staring down at her, and was now extinguished.

“You still have some way to go,” he said coolly as he extended an arm to help her up.

“How are you… still alive?” she asked, rubbing the back of her head which she realised she’d hit on the hard, flagstone floor. Raidas laughed with humour for the first time.

“I have my ways,” he replied.

“Master…” Maryam sat down for a second, trying to rebalance herself. “Are you immortal?”

Raidas laughed again, clearly amused. “Not quite,” he said. This answer did not comfort Maryam – not quite, she felt, was not a good enough answer to that question. “But I know how to make fire bend to my will. That is what I am hoping to teach you.”

“How? How did you extinguish yourself?”

“When a fire burns, it must burn something. In my case, it was burning away the fibres of my tunic.” His tunic looked absolutely unblemished. “Instead of willing each individual flame to cease, as you tried, I simply cut off their access to the material they were feeding on. Think of it like a knife slicing through the meya.”

“But then why are your clothes still… unburnt?”

“Just because something was turned to ash doesn’t mean it was destroyed. With sufficient practice, a pur raktali can recreate a thing from its ashes. But no, this is just a change of clothes,” he said with a twinkle. “My old ones were burnt to nothing and I hadn’t the time to reconstruct them.”

“So, you would have let me seen you naked?” Why did you ask that? Impulsive idiot!

“Oh, lord no,” Raidas dismissed the thought. “But I couldn’t very well light someone else on fire, could I?”

That, again, wasn’t answer. How was Raidas going to protect… Maryam decided to leave the question be. Her evening had begun oddly enough. Such incidents were common throughout those two weeks – with Raidas coming up with inventive, often outlandish, methods of testing what he had been teaching Maryam. On the Sunday of the second week, however, Raidas sent a message to her chambers saying that she was to drop all she was doing at once and make her way to Gunada’s study.

“What an odd man he is,” she groaned as Mae delivered the news. “I’ve just gotten up! I can’t drop having a bath and changing,” she complained. “Very well, Mae. Just do my hair and lay out my clothes. I’ll-”

“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” Mae interrupted her, her eyebrows knotted in worry. “The soldier who came to get you,” a soldier? Again? In the ladies’ chambers? “said that the matter cannot keep. Nothing is as important as this.”

“Alright!” Maryam yelled not out of exasperation or frustration, but because she had a sinking feeling. Nothing good, she knew, would come of this meeting. Nothing good, she guessed, could come of this meeting. “Lay out my clothes, then. I can’t go up to them in my nightgown, can I?” Mae, she realised, had set about her duty before Maryam had issued the order.

In about 20 minutes, which, Maryam thought, was the fastest she’d ever gotten ready, she was ascending the long staircase to Gunada’s study. When she finally crested the landing-less stairs, she saw gathered in front of her Cermak, Eliza, and Dazhyen.

“It must be bad,” she breathlessly noted, “for all of us to be called her so early. Has anyone had breakfast?” All three of them shook their heads. Dazhyen, she noticed, was in his uniform, as was Cermak; this, she assumed, was the outcome of military culture. All meetings with those higher than you must be attended while sharply dressed, no matter the time of day. Eliza, by comparison, had shown up in trousers into which her nightgown was tucked, resulting in her lower half looking frumpy with the folds of the fabric creasing her trousers. Dazhyen and Cermak were looking anywhere except at her, though she didn’t seem to care.

“It is bad, Your Majesty,” Cermak’s terse response put an end to Maryam’s secret hopes of good news. “A message arrived, and it’s not good. But I’ll let His Majesty and Sir Raidas explain.”

Flashing him a polite look of thanks, Maryam turned to look at Eliza. “Do you know what’s going on?” Eliza shook her head. “I know as much as you do, I suspect, save for this: it was a secret message that arrived. It came by pigeon, yesterday night. It went straight to the Palace dovecote. That dovecote is reserved for only a select few uses.”

“The transmission of secret information is but one of them,” Cermak continued, “the kind of information gathered by Sir Raidas’s and my men.”

“Your men?” Eliza was surprised; so was Dazhyen, Maryam saw a flicker in his eyes, but he hid it well.

Cermak’s rough, scarred face had a rare grin on it. “Yes, Ma’am. I am Second in Command of both the Lifeguards and Sir Raidas’s spies.”

“Why didn’t I know?” Eliza demanded.

“You were not meant to, Ma’am. But now, Sir Raidas has permitted me to reveal it to you.” Before Eliza could respond, the door to the study swung open and Gunada’s voice boomed low, “Come in. Time is short.”

The briefing began, this time, the moment the last among their party had entered the room. The door slammed itself shut behind them, the bolt locking it into place, and Gunada set off. “We received word from our woman in Priestfall late yesterday. It takes about 3 days for a pigeon to fly from Priestfall to Afor, so let me be frank: about an hour ago, the Fair Maiden has cast off from Priestfall. In a week’s time, she will tie up not at Afor as was originally planned, but at Samudabad.”

Maryam’s heart stopped beating, she was certain of it.

“Aboard her are, as I’m sure you all know by now, are the Azdavyery assassins. They belong, Raidas has recently learnt, to a secretive Maran sect called Isumvalay. It is an Uttaric word,” he translated for Cermak who spoke only broken Uttari, “meaning Those who Follow St. Isum. It is an ancient sect, and it is known for its lethal assassins.” Gunada turned first to Dazhyen. “Do you know of this cult? We have reason to believe that Dmitur was, beyond being an Atashga, a senior member of it.” Dazhyen fervently shook his head. “Very well,” he turned his attention to Eliza.

“They are trained, as was my daughter,” Eliza tensed in her seat, “from birth to be killers. These assassins are not to be underestimated. We believe,” he now turned to look at Maryam, who had broken out in sweats, “that they are in Samudabad because they intend to carry out something of a practice run.”

“Sorry?” Maryam’s mouth was dry.

“I shall not attempt to couch this news,” the flatness of Raidas’s delivery nearly sunk Maryam. “They are to attempt to assassinate your family.” Maryam’s sturdy chair seemed to be replaced by a raging, maddened bull, forcing her to hold on to the armrests tightly. “And,” Raidas continued, “to get the Captain-General of the Regiments of Foot to take power. We believe the Captain-General, an Isenni elf by the name of-” Maryam interjected “Rudolf Fahnhert, yes. My family has known him for some years,” she said hoping that it would preclude Raidas from revealing what she feared he might. But no such luck.

“Yes, Captain-General Fahnhert,” he nodded in acknowledgement, “is an Isumvala himself.” Maryam stopped breathing, her face straining against a storm of tears.

“Yes, it was rather a shock to us, too. He was among the Siege’s greatest heroes, wasn’t he?” Gunada did not seem shocked, but Maryam was past caring.

Fahnhert had taken charge of the defence of the east of the city, yes, and had held off great waves of Damadhi soldiers. He’d fought alongside Ghelail Tophi, her brother, in defence of those positions and had seen him die, had held him in his arms as he bled out from a musket wound. What if… Maryam stopped herself. Whether he’d killed her brother or not was not immediately relevant.

“The three of you will leave in three days,” Raidas took over the briefing. “The Heiress is making ready for your departure. The two of you,” he looked at Dazhyen and Eliza, “will be given the location of a secure house. It is owned by us and its location is known only to the King and myself. You will also be issued disguises and weapons. You must find and kill these assassins.”

“Maryam, student mine,” he now turned to a Maryam that was frozen in fear. “You will be with your family. You must protect them and you must keep a watchful eye on Fahnhert. There is no reason for him to believe you are working with us.”

“How can I protect them?” she was near weeping. “I can’t even…”

“You can protect them,” Raidas looked her dead in the eyes and she could feel herself calming down slowly, “because you must. You know enough to save their lives.”

She nodded, wiping away the first tears.

“I will be setting off for Samudabad tonight,” he announced, turning to the rest of the group. “My task is the hardest – I will kill Fahnhert. I need the extra time in the city to conduct a reconnaissance. When you arrive in the city, come and find me – I will be in the secure house.”

Gunada nodded solemnly and spoke, with a deep and assertive voice, leaving little room for doubt or misunderstanding. “And remember – secrecy is of the utmost importance. Hopefully, Maryam you will never need to defend your family, because Raidas, Eliza, and Dazhyen will have dispatched the threat before it can materialise.”

Eliza and Cermak nodded, as Gunada continued. “No killings in public places, no bodies can be discovered, and, most importantly, no one must ever be able to identify either of you,” he waved a finger at Eliza and Dazhyen. “While you are in the city, you will use only fake names and will always wear disguises. Even then, you must wear a hood at all times.”

He then paused a moment. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but this is your first real assignment,” as he spoke he looked at Dazhyen and Maryam. Beside her, Eliza’s bitter expression betrayed that she knew what Gunada was going to say.

“It is unlikely that you will be captured, but if you are,” his eyes were heavy with dread, “you must kill yourself before they have the chance to interrogate you.” Maryam wanted to weep and throw a fit, but the meeting was dismissed and she found herself walking to her room, unable to think.

15

Waiting

The mismatched songs of orioles and sparrows signalled the coming of dawn on that unusually grey morning. Eliza, having had little to no sleep, climbed out of bed and stared out the window. From her chambers, she could see the Heiress – her dual standards unmistakable – and the events of the previous two weeks had confirmed something to her; life would never again be simple. In some naïve part of herself, she’d hoped against hope that the Maran Conspiracy had been a storm in a tea-cup, that nothing would come of it. She wanted, in that naïve part of herself, to live the life of a normal princess.

She’d not chosen to be born pur raktali, she thought to herself. But, she had chosen the life of an assassin, came the logical response. In the grand scheme of things, what she wanted did not matter – by the fortune of her birth, she had been charged with a moral duty and she intended to carry out that duty no matter the cost. Only, until now, the cost had seemed abstract. Still, she suspected the part of her that wanted to lead a normal life would never, ever, be silenced. In that moment, on that cloudy day, however, she felt her shoulder sag under the weight of responsibility.

There was a job to be done.

Raidas had left quietly late in the night. He said no goodbyes, he made no speeches – all that needed to be said had been said. There was a job to be done, after all. In all of this, what bothered her the most and what occupied her most obviously as she got ready that morning, was the Gaunt.

Raidas had been searching, she was led to understand, for any facts, any stories, anything about this damnable disease and he had unearthed nothing. Short of travelling into the heart of the Uttar Raegis and consulting the Prafi Council in their Great Tower, he had tried everything. Even then, the only factor that precluded his visiting the Great Tower was that matters with the conspiracy had evolved too quickly for him to be able to spare the year of travel. Therefore, it came to be that in the nearly 6 months since Eliza had learnt of the Gaunt, their understanding of the disease had not been expanded upon.

Pushing aside her seemingly ceaseless fascination with and anxiety surrounding the disease, Eliza turned her thoughts towards Gunada’s newest summons. She was to meet him, alone, under the dovecote at midnight. There he and Cermak would speak to her of a secret matter. Her first thought upon hearing of these summons was to wonder why Maryam and Dazhyen had been excluded. She resolved to ask it of Gunada that night – she was sick and tired of not asking questions and not expecting answers. Gunada and Raidas knew far more than they were choosing to let on, and it was about time, Eliza figured, that they take and answer some questions. Pity Raidas could not be there for her to interrogate him.

She left her chambers, wearing a simple blue cotton dress for it was humid that day, and made her way downstairs, only to see Dazhyen – in his smart soldier’s uniform – waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His back was turned to her and he was studying some artwork that adorned the walls of the hallway when she tapped him on the shoulder.

She could feel her cheeks flush as he turned around and moved forward, awkwardly, to hug her. She pulled him in tight and his arms around her tightened too. She could feel his heart beat through his chest; and she was certain he could feel hers too. It was not the first tight and over-long hug they’d shared since Mert’s passing, but Eliza did not know what to make of it or where it would lead. For now, all that mattered was that when she was with him, her muscles would loosen themselves.

When, finally, their solitary moment was ended as Dazhyen pulled away, he smiled at her and she smiled back. “I hope you’ve not had breakfast,” he couldn’t stop smiling, “as I’ve received word that Maryam has invited us for coffee. Outside, near the Cantonment.”

“Oh?” Eliza felt an odd warmth in her chest. In two days, they were to depart and their return was anything but certain – but that did not matter. Nothing mattered. “And you came to get me? The Palace is a long walk from the Cantonment.”

“Yes, Eliza,” he laughed, Eliza suspected, out of nerves. “You came to get me that day, remember? A few weeks ago? Before…” his voice trailed off and his smile faltered.

“I remember, Daisy,” she pulled him in close and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Very kind of you to come and get me. Lead the way,” she took his hand and he squeezed it. Inside her, all of Eliza’s organs were doing a variety of acrobatics.

Neither the sweetness of the milky coffee which Dazhyen had come to love, nor the stolen glances with Eliza had shaken Dazhyen from the grip of grief and the weight of anticipation for long. Yet, for but a precious few hours, he had not felt the icy fingers of those dark emotions around his heart for they’d been replaced with the warm tendrils of what Cermak had called “young, foolish, love”. He had little idea of what those words meant in any practical sense and was certain beyond doubt that Eliza did not, and certainly, could not, feel the same – but he enjoyed feeling safe, feeling himself when he was around Eliza.

That evening though, as he got ready for what he knew would be a difficult couple of hours of training with Cermak, his thoughts were filled with the images of the colourful streets of the city of Samudabad. When he first entered that city a half a year ago, he had not expected to return – much less return as a killer, an assassin. But is that what he was?

That evening, his question would be answered when Cermak began the lesson without mincing his words. “You have learnt all the basics of combat, Daisy. In doing so, I will admit, you have outstripped my expectations. You shoot as well as my best men and can hold your own in a brawl, or a duel, or a boxing bout with near enough every one of them.”

Dazhyen, who was stood at attention, had to fight his face which strained against his will to become slack in surprise. Never before had Cermak been so approving.

“While there is no teacher as good as experience, you have done as well as can be expected of you in the absence of her harsh lessons. But now, we must move on. From now until the minute you depart, I will teach you the very fundamentals of ‘gutter fighting’.”

Dazhyen’s heart sank a little – he was under the impression Eliza would be teaching him.

“If you do return from Samudabad,” why did he have to be so direct? “then Her Majesty will take over the lessons – but for now, I shall teach you the bloody basics.”

Dazhyen fought back a smile.

“Pick up a dagger and heed my words well.”

Since the morning prior, Maryam’s chief foe had not been the Isumvalay or the Marans or assassins or murderers – her chief foe had been solitude. Up until now, the threat that she had signed up to face had been… off in the distance. Always some ways down the road, somewhere beyond the horizon, sometimes faintly silhouetted in the setting sun.

Now, it was at her door. Quite literally.

The breakfast then, which ran long as she’d planned, had helped her maintain her sanity. Eliza, being the preceptive person she was, had stayed with Maryam for the rest of the day and they spoke about nothing of any weight. Empty words were exchanged, and neither of them addressed the loudly trumpeting elephant in the room.

Their determined ignoring of it was, however, an acknowledgement in and of itself. Maryam had reached a conclusion by the end of the evening, when Eliza finally excused herself and as Mae prepared Maryam for dinner and bed. She did not know how or why she came to be on this path – plenty like her simply studied their magic and sold their services, or became scholars or warlords. But she had become, inadvertently or not, a soldier – she saw no other way of putting it – and in her hands, and in the hands of her companions, rested the fates of… too many.

And so, the conclusion she reached was simple: she would do the best she can, and she would do and learn all she can to become worthy of the responsibility that suddenly perched on her shoulders. She would be of service, as her father had told her she must be. With a shudder, she remembered those conversations with her father. “There is no nobler life than a life of service – and as Grand Princess, you will serve our people, as I have,” he had said to her on the day they’d learnt of the passing of her brother. Sacrifice, was what was demanded of her – demanded not only by Gunada or Raidas or her father, but by herself.

She was under no great illusions. She was not a soldier by training or capability. She was not a Paladin or Knight of old. She was feeble and barely capable, and yet she knew, suddenly, her place in the grander scheme of things. She must live in service of a cause greater than herself. If needed, she felt, she will die in its service. But that was the grander scheme of things.

In that moment, as she pulled the thin sheet over herself and the roaring rain of a summer storm pelted her window, she knew what she must do: she must be an impenetrable shield for her family. No shot, no blade, no arrow must pass through her. She closed her eyes, then, her brows knotted tight. On her window, the droplets of rain turned to shards of ice as sleep finally came to her.

Eliza pushed open the heavy door to the roof and nearly all her senses were overwhelmed by the storm. The rain clattered on the lead roof like musket fire and her coat proved itself to be too easily overcome by this assault. Under fire from the line-infantry in the sky, she sought shelter immediately under the dovecote and waited for Gunada and Cermak. The doves and pigeons shuffled about, cooing in the comfort of their insulated homes, safe from the driving rain under hay and wood. Remet, I offer you my soul! Just end this bloody storm! She thought to herself, wondering how it might feel to be a pigeon or a dove in that moment; warmed by hay and sheltered from this driving torrent.

Ahead of her, the door opened with a creaking loud enough to be heard over the pelting rain and warm lamplight spilled out as Gunada stepped out onto the roof. Joining her under the dovecote, he smiled wryly; his straight face lit up by the protected flames of the oil lamp.

“I’ve already given Cermak his instructions,” he shouted. “He’s to conduct an investigation into our Army and Navy – make sure none of the commanders or officers are Isumvalay.”

“What if some are?” was Eliza’s inevitable question.

“With sufficient evidence, he has execute authority. If simply under suspicion, he is to bring them to me.”

“What if he is an Isumvala?” another inevitable question.

“I am investigating him,” he smiled dryly. “No one is above judgment. He’s even looking into Dazhyen and Maryam.”

Eliza hated it but she knew it had to be done. No one was above suspicion.

“What about me?” she asked.

“What a bleak world we live in,” Gunada mused, “that I must suspect my own daughter of evil. No, I trust you and Raidas completely. That is all I can trust.” For a moment they were silent, blanketed by the weight of their shared misery. It was a misery – this life of mistrust and half-truth – and neither of them made any pretence otherwise.

“But that is not why I called you here. What I need tell you is far graver than that – and demands the utmost secrecy.” Hence the dovecote, Eliza surmised. It was the most remote place in the palace and eavesdropping was impossible.

Gunada spoke without much drama, his tone heavy and his volume so low Eliza had to lean in to hear him. “The Isumvalay are not just an order of loyal warriors, or determined assassins, Eliza. They are led by a council of powerful pur raktali, and it is with some of them that your path will cross in Samudabad.”

16

New Threats

There was no sound in Eliza’s world, except the now dull rain as Gunada’s words echoed in her head. The three seconds between his revelation and the questions she asked seemed, to her, to be an eternity. Pur raktali enemies was not something she’d considered to be even a remote possibility. Was that arrogance? Did she believe no one else, least of all her foes, could be as special or as lucky as her? She grit her teeth before she spoke.

“Will any be in Samudabad?” her question was near-immediate, though her mind seemed to be racing through time and space. Slowly, she succeeded in reining her thoughts in as she was trained to.

“One, for certain. Maybe more, but I doubt it. His name is Gutam Thor, he’s an Uttaric man. He’s from Odea, as a matter of fact.” This seemed, to Eliza, to be a personal affront by the universe or some god, for Odea was the city of her birth too. “As for the rest, we don’t know their names or how well they’re trained – but we shouldn’t take this lightly.”

“How did we miss this?” Eliza’s tone bubbled with barely hidden anger and trepidation. She had been treated unfairly and now she would demand to know why.

“For nearly a millennium now, we thought the Isumvalay Order to be extinct, as I explained earlier,” Gunada spoke with an edge to his voice. Anxiety, perhaps? Eliza wasn’t sure. “But their council, the Eman Vale, or Those Most Faithul in Uttaric, we thought to have died out much before even that. I shan’t go into the history, for it is not relevant, but their stronghold – a city in Dunwenn called Torbridge – was burnt to the ground in the middle of the 12th Century of the 2nd Age.” Over 1200 years ago, Eliza calculated. “Here is what does matter; the original Eman Vale, formed in the years before history in the 1st Age, were fallen Prafi, who were twisted into serving the Married Saints by poisoned words, and promises of power.”

The rain was the only sound in the world again as Gunada went silent, and the air was thick with his frustration.

“The Prafi of the past… it was in the final years of the 2nd Age that the Jabal Invasions were put down by the Prafi, you understand, and their defeat was thought to be so final that the Prafi of the past consigned the Isumvalay to the mists of history. The Eman Vale had been forgotten long before even then,” he spoke with anger, Eliza realised. Anger not at the situation, but at the decisions of the past. “Not long ago, I told Dazhyen to not be angry – that I would have the done the same as had they… but not about this. This merited constant vigil!” every muscle in his body had tensed. “The Council… they are wise beyond years, and yet that wisdom brings them a kind of arrogance I have not seen elsewhere.”

Immediately, he stared at Eliza. “Forget that I said that,” he instructed.

“I understand,” Eliza said and Gunada’s clenched jaw softened. “But we cannot repeat the mistakes of the Prafi of the past. We cannot allow this rot to spread,” she spoke with iron, and Gunada looked upon her with great pride.

“Is it possible,” a new fear had gripped Eliza’s mind, “that these new Eman Vale are also fallen Prafi?”

“Well,” Gunada’s face became still in thought. “Certainly no one in the Council has fallen. A break in the ranks of the Council is impossible to go unnoticed. I shan’t trouble you with how, but if a seat in the Council stands empty, all the senior Prafi in the world are made aware. Still… it does not mean that the Council remains uncompromised. I do not rule out the possibility of traitors, of turncoats, who sit in those high chairs, in that Great Tower,” he grit his teeth as he spoke.

“Even then, it is certainly possible, and far too probable, that the new Eman Vale may contain in their ranks members of the Prafi that are not on the Council – people in ranks such as mine, or Raidas’s. This would make them dangerous beyond anything even Raidas and I have faced.”

“Do you know of any fallen Prafi?”

Gunada shook his head. “Not, at least, any in the past few centuries.”

Eliza was perturbed, without thinking she spoke. “Is our house rotten, Gunada? Or built on foundations of sand?”

Gunada looked pained – it was evident that he, too, had been wondering the same thing. “I do not know, Eliza, but we must have faith in ourselves and our cause. We must have faith in, if nothing else, in the fact that we, you and I and Raidas and hopefully your friends, will do the right thing – no matter what. There is no god, should one exist, nor any mortal man that can help us now.”

Eliza was stunned. “So, you do not trust the Prafi either? Or the Council?”

“They have been passive and maybe they have forgotten that the world is cruel and needs those willing to sacrifice themselves upon the altar of justice to keep it safe. But no, I do not yet mistrust them,” he sighed. His anger of earlier had dissipated. “They failed in the past, and maybe they have failed again – but a failing is hardly reason enough to abandon hope.” Gunada sounded unconvinced – like his speech now was more an attempt to soothe himself than anything else. Eliza wondered if she should worry but realised that all that mattered, at least for now, was Samudabad. There was a job to be done, after all.

“Right now, Eliza,” Gunada’s voice bled with fatalism, “you are all that stands against them – make no mistake. Right now, it is you and you alone. It is a burden I wish you did not have to carry, but it is yours and you must become worthy of that heavy responsibility.”

“But what about you and Raidas? What about the Council, the-” Eliza was almost pleading as her spine began to yell in a sudden, sharp pain. She couldn’t do it – she couldn’t be the lone bulwark against a foe older than most history she knew!

“Forget what I said,” Gunada smiled. “I spoke with haste. There is still much to be done and many futures must come to pass before I can make such proclamations. For now, you must focus solely on your task in Samudabad.” He then, surprisingly, pulled Eliza in for a hug before he departed the rooftop. Eliza stood there, watching him disappear into the dry warmth of the Palace, and in her head there echoed a cacophony of thoughts, anxieties, fears, and uncertainties, each trying to shout over the other and be heard by an Eliza that was now fighting back tears.

Eliza did not sleep that night, and that was little wonder. Throughout the night, which seemed to be the longest she’d known, and throughout the day that followed, the storm did not let up. From her room, when she again climbed restlessly out of bed in the morning, she saw the Heiress bobbing up and down gently. Beyond the breakwater, the waves were the size of hills. She could not say with any certainty of fact, but she guessed this was the worst summer storm – indeed the worst storm – that Afor had ever seen. She was not too surprised, as the preceding weeks had been exceptionally hot.

The old tales said that Remet would take mercy on mortal kind, who toiled and died in the shimmering heat of the burning sun, and would send forth storm clouds to alleviate their burdens. There was some scientific explanation, Eliza knew, that had to do with the heat of the ground and the coolness of the water-carrying clouds – but, on that grey day, Eliza cared little for the weather. She went about her morning with little thought – wore the clothes her maid had laid out for her, ate the breakfast prepared for her, and approved the plans for the day’s meals (a duty that had regrettably become hers since her Grandmother the Queen had passed).

But never was she truly present, for in her mind she was still on that cold, soggy roof and in her ears, Gunada’s parting words echoed endlessly. There is still much to be done and many futures must come to pass before I can make such proclamations.

There is still much to be done and many futures must come to pass before I can make such proclamations.

So, there was a future, she’d quickly realised, where the fate much more than Afor and her friends rested on the consequences of her actions, where on her shoulders she carried the responsibility for untold millions of lives. There was a future where she would be alone against… against indescribable odds.

You can’t do that! Her fear screamed. There is much yet to be done for us to be afraid! Her reason retorted. It was in this dialogue, though some would prefer the term argument, that she spent her morning until, finally, her reason won the day.

It was about an hour or so before lunch that Eliza returned to her senses, her mind feeling much lighter than it had the night before. Her spine, the pain in which had caused her to nearly double over at points, was no longer on fire, and her shoulders had relaxed. Whether that future existed was not her headache at the moment – it was getting back alive from Samudabad. This was not a daunting prospect, when compared to the one she’d spent her morning contemplating. Having returned to her senses, however, she realised that this was to be the last lunch she would have in Afor – for a while, if not for good – as they were due to leave come dawn.

So, she decided to take a page from the Lifeguards’ book, and call Dazhyen to join her lunch with Maryam. A feast before battle was the oldest Lifeguard tradition – not unlike, for many, a last meal.

As had fast become tradition, she decided – despite the rain and the muddy streets that accompanied it – to travel down to the Cantonment to summon Dazhyen herself. When first she told her maid of this plan, she protested and insisted that Eliza must travel by carriage; escalating to the point where she said she would get Madame Dubois involved. What Madame Dubois could do Eliza had no idea, as she’d not spoken to the woman in some years but, for the sake of her kindly old maid, she agreed to take the carriage.

When her ornate carriage, which flew the Mawer Dynasty standard, pulled up to the gates of the Cantonment, it was stopped. Almost immediately, an officer called the gate guards idiots and was about to order the carriage through (“Do you not recognise the Royal Standard!” he was yelling at them), when Eliza poked her head out of the carriage window.

“Hello Lt. Lichisk!” she smiled at the officer on duty, whom she’d come to know well from her many visits to the Cantonment. “Is it okay if I walk the rest of the way? I’m only here to see Dazhyen!”

Lt. Lichisk’s face went from angry to confused to polite in a matter of seconds, and he responded, “Yes, of course, Your Majesty! He’s just at the track – Lt. Col. Cermak was giving him his first instructions in riding!” She thanked him as she hopped out of the carriage and walked past him. Ahead of her, some ways down the road, Dazhyen was having an extremely unpleasant time.

“Blasted thing, be still in one place!” Dazhyen yelped as his horse – which was brown and was, evidently, a boy – seemed to be doing anything but standing still. Cermak was astride his own horse, a white-haired girl called Primrose, with both rider and steed standing proud in the pouring rain. Cermak was tutting. It was the first time he’d tutted Dazhyen.

“Be thankful this isn’t the Household Cavalry, boy,” he chided as Dazhyen gently but firmly (what the hell ever that meant) pulled on the reins to stop the devil creature from meandering about.

“Sir, is this strictly speaking necessary? Can’t I just learn when I return from Samudabad?” Between him starting the sentence and him ending the sentence, Dazhyen’s horse – who he’d come to call Baphit, after the mythological ruler of hell – had travelled nearly 15 feet. Dazhyen’s inner thighs had been on fire for most of the day, though by now he was sure they’d fallen off.

“Better to know how to ride a horse and not need it, than to need to ride a horse and not know how!” Cermak responded.

“Sir, not to speak out of turn, Sir,” Dazhyen was twisting around in his seat – saddle – now because Baphit had decided to face the complete opposite direction from Cermak. Even Primrose looked disappointed. “But I don’t think I’ve learned how to ride a horse, Sir.”

Though a thick sheet of rain separated him from his teacher, he saw Cermak crack a smile. “You’re right. But if you come back from Samudabad, I’ll make a decent rider out of you. It’s a skill every gentleman should have. Dismount, son,” he ordered and Dazhyen gladly dismounted. Or tried to, at least, for – like the other three times that day – his feet got tangled in the stirrups and he fell. At least this time he fell on his back and the mud didn’t get in his nose and eyes.

He got to his feet and took Baphit’s reins in hand. “Sir, why would I need gentlemanly skills?” Behind Cermak, he saw Eliza walking down the road towards the track, wearing a plain blue dress that had now become drenched.

“Hello, Daisy!” she shouted over the rain.

“Trust me, boy,” Cermak grinned though Dazhyen couldn’t see it. “You’ll need every gentlemanly skill you can learn. That’s enough for today, soldier.” He said as Eliza drew closer. “Dismissed!” Dazhyen saluted his Commanding Officer who relieved him and rode off as Dazhyen tied up Baphit.

“Fancy some lunch?” Eliza was now standing just a few feet from him.

“I would love some, Eliza,” he looked down, immediately as he spoke, but not out of any embarrassment or anxiety. “But I don’t know that I’m quite ready to luncheon at the Palace. I’m bloody filthy and my thighs feel like they’ve been dissolved in acid. I don’t know that I can make the walk to the Palace without collapsing.” He blinked as Eliza smiled. “Again,” he added, and they both laughed.

“Well I’ve brought a carriage, so that should save you the walk. And you can bathe and change – we’ve got the time,” she turned around briefly to glance at the Cantonment’s clock-tower.

“So,” her eyes flicked towards Baphit, whose idiot face had disappeared into his blasted trough, “Cermak’s got you on a gelding. He must really hate you,” she grinned.

“A gelding?”

“Oh dear,” she laughed again. Oh Luminil! I love her laugh! He thought to himself. “You didn’t pay attention, I’ll bet. A boy horse, Daisy. Geldings and stallions are boy horses. Mares are girl horses.”

“They’re all devils,” he frowned, which only fuelled Eliza’s laughter.

“Come on,” she grabbed him by the arm – his muddy, filthy arm – and began to lead him towards the barracks. “Bathe and change, I’ll wait for you in the Officers’ Mess.”

Maryam’s night had been fretful and full of nightmares. She did not remember those nightmares, though she woke often drenched in sweat, gripped by fear or dread or some horrid combination of the two. At least, she told herself, at least it was raining. She had always loved the rain – the mundanity of it, the dreary skies with golden cracks, the rainbow that shimmered in the air, and, of course, the wet earth. Rain, she’d found, was particularly special when it came in the form of a sudden summer downpour and washed away the sticky sweat of the days before.

So, having been immobilised by fear during the night, she found the peace she needed outside her window as she spent the early noon – for she had woken late – gazing at the drenched city. Beyond the breakwater, across the Sunrise Strait, there sat a quiet city on the White Coast. Soon, she would be back home. She just wished it weren’t under these circumstances.

At this point, lost in her ruminations, she was interrupted by Mae who brought with her an invitation. There was a grand luncheon being planned by Eliza and she had but an hour to get ready for it. Her spirits were immediately buoyed at the thought; the Palace cooks were among the most talented she’d ever seen, but she knew, deep down, that this meal was symbolic. She buried the realisation under the inanities of routine until, finally, she strolled into the dining room.

There, despite having arrived at the specified time of 12, she was alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. This was most unlike both Dazhyen and Eliza, and, for a brief moment, Maryam had begun to worry for their safety. Her thoughts turned quickly from annoyance to a fear of them having been assassinated by the… Isumvel? Isumvalay? Ismuli?

It was precisely as she deliberated over the exact name for the sect, that the door swung open to reveal Dazhyen and Eliza walking in together, laughing. Their clothes were wet, though not very, and Dazhyen, she noticed, was once again in a freshly pressed uniform. It took them a moment to notice Maryam, so lost were they in their shared laughter, and Maryam couldn’t help but smile at them. Maryam, having loved and lost, knew very well what they felt. They suited each other well, she thought. So infectious was their happiness that Maryam forgot all about her dread and her fear and her trepidation in that moment. In that moment, too, she found an answer to a question she had been asking herself in the quieter moments.

Why must she fight? Because there is beauty in this world and someone must stand for it.

“Hello, Maryam!” Eliza was beaming as she took her place at the table.

“Good afternoon, Mar,” Dazhyen greeted her, stressing her nickname as if to make a point of showing how comfortable he was with not addressing her formally.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Farmi to do a rather large spread,” Eliza began speaking as the footmen surged forward with great platefuls of food.

“The joys of having an Uttari cook!” Maryam accepted a serving of spicy lamb curry.

“Not quite,” Eliza opted for the dry tandoor chicken with a spicy mint chutney, “She’s from Afsos, on the southern reaches of the Uttar Raegis. So, she’s Ghaerian, not Uttari.”

“Is there much difference?” Dazhyen had accepted both the chicken and the lamb, and was now looking hungrily at the rice and rotis which were being brought forward.

“As far as I know, they’re the same people,” Maryam said, waiting for everyone to be served as was custom.

“True, the difference is largely political and societal. The Ghaerians are a people tied to their river – for which they’re named – and the Uttari are born of the desert – for which they are also named!” Eliza politely declined any accompaniments with her chicken, for she preferred the flavour of the tandoor unsullied.

“Fascinating,” Dazhyen’s eyes followed the footmen intently as he now accepted both roti and rice. “I should like to visit these cities once. When everything is said and done.”

“Hopefully we will,” Maryam said as, finally, the meal began.

Eliza spoke now, with warmth and heart.

“A great journey lies ahead of us, with many challenges to overcome. I know little of the future but I know this – whatever storm rises, we will weather it. Now, there is only one thing to do: eat well, friends.”

Silently and gracefully, the Heiress sliced through a nw-calm sea. Dazhyen was glad for the calm weather. But nothing, not even the bright blue waters of the Sunrise Strait or his beloved sea breezes, could turn his mind away from Mert’s bunk, now occupied by a new landsman. “Daisy, we’re here,” Harishki’s voice sliced through Dazhyen’s despair.

“Right you are,” he stared over the railing, at the water below. Somewhere under them, many thousands of feet under them, Mert’s body was entombed. By now, it had likely been picked clean by bottom feeders.

Dazhyen removed his hat – a tricorn that he had bought for himself when he’d first returned to Afor nearly 7 months ago – and tossed it overboard. It floated, feather-like, on the winds for some time before it landed on the water where it quickly disappeared behind gentle waves and wash. “Chin up, Daisy. Can’t mourn the man forever. The world awaits,” Harishki slapped his back as he walked away.

He was right. The world did await. By this time tomorrow, they would be in Samudabad. Dazhyen’s jaw clenched as his hand rested on the hilt of his sabre; a weapon which now never left his side. Failure was not an option.