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Chapter One
Any other person in his situation might have wept to see it. A creeping, fiery glow touched all parts of the city, tinting the clouds, streets, and buildings in warming hues. The view of Sab-riyat only promised more rain later, but for the day, at least, if only hours, there would be dry, fresh sunshine.
Traveling from Galsanu to Sabiril along the mountain pass road had been nothing but a long trek through mud. Mesar wondered if the new warlord of his homeland had known that the beginning of spring in Sabiril came in the form of black thunderclouds and drenching rain. Mesar had learned it soon enough. After nearly a week of traveling by foot along Sapori Gahd, camping in a cold tent and only meeting two post towns with inns to shelter him, it was more than a relief to see the myriad of solid roofs before him.
Exhaling, Mesar mu’Rehan continued westward along the road, the sun at his back slinging a long, early shadow ahead. The start of this mission had annoyed him, and annoyed him still, but thinking of its outcome and opportunities had kept him through the gray, storming nights. He was accustomed to such weather, but his travels had often been short and unencumbered by the climate that plagued his journey. He did not like to be mocked, and that was exactly what the clouds had seemed to do those days.
Opportunity. The thought was comforting. Sab-riyat was the capital city of this land and he knew much about it, even though this was his first visit. A city of roads in a country of farmers and militiamen, the peasants and their fields covered the land in front of him. Where Mesar walked, he could not see the city wall, but knew from his studies that it was further in, past an open plain that held purpose between the city and the farmers. It was not the most intelligent design, but accommodated for its growing population. Even the war, it seemed, had not excessively dwindled their numbers.
This was precisely why Mesar was visiting.
He walked through the outskirts of the farming village, edged in furrowed land that sprouted a few eager crops. The damp folds of his travel clothes allowed a breeze to sigh through the fabric, warming with the sunlight on his shoulders and back. Small noises of early-rising farmers and traveling merchants at inns surrounded him, people only giving him one look before attending the rest of their duties. Their reactions to Mesar’s simple clothing was a relief to his mission, that they could not detect even a hint of why he was here. Personally, however, it only brought back his previous annoyance.
In his mountainous homeland of Galsanu, the citizens had whispered Desemmiet when they saw him, spying the red sash tied on his arm and all that it meant. At the moment, the crimson swatch was stuffed into his pack, but Mesar doubted that these peasants would know its meaning even if he did wear it.
Nearer and nearer he came to the city, and when the road he had traveled through rain and thunder split into to curved paths, he saw how much more compact the southern area of the outskirts was. This made sense, as the main road from Sab-riyat, Deasoden’s Way, led south to Firas, the country of commerce and water. The two neighboring countries had fought little in the last many years, and rumors of an alliance were spreading through the land. With Sabir Sehaden, ruler of this country, stable on his throne as he had been for decades throughout the Fivefold War, the pirate nation of Pravyn had grown irritable, and as a result, so had the Desemmiet.
Because of the greed and nature of Mesar’s ancestor’s, he was in Sab-riyat for all his caste, completing a mission many of them would, and had, killed to attain. Mesar was to kill the king of Sabiril.
Making his way on the wide, dirt path toward the city brought thoughts of Galsanu and his Desemmiet. In a way, it was comforting to think of those that were loyal with him to the same cause of murderous intent. Desemirä was the group of mercenaries, legal, hired, trained, and raised in Galsanu since before the Fivefold War had begun. Now, they were the country’s soldiers, sneaking through the mountains, trained in foreign tongues and culture in order to slip in through communities and kill their target. Mesar was a Desemmiet, and he was skilled in what he did. Even before he began his life as one, though, he had hungered for a power he still had not reached, or even touched. It was frustrating to be a soldier in his country, to simply follow orders. True enough, when it came between him and the target, Mesar’s hands held the deadly power. It was still... not enough. He did not feel guilt, but only… dissatisfaction.
Mesar did not care much for cities, nor did he mind them, really, but it was the opportunity that waited here, the opportunity for power. His orders were to kill Sabir Sehaden…but he would do more than that. The Fivefold War had begun because of Magick, with leaders all scrapping to retain a hold of it. As such, it was required that a ruler possessed it, and the stronger the Magick, the more stable the man’s position in the realm. This did not accommodate Mesar, and so he planned to change this.
In a way, he hated Magick. It was inherited, most of the time, and when it wasn’t, became a near impossibility to obtain. Setting the standard of a caste system upon blood bonds were just as faulty a trap for greed and deceit as monarchy was, but such were the ways of this frivolous nation. Magick was power, and that was all they cared for.
Mesar was a Desemmiet; he knew power. It was why he played this game. He wanted more. He wanted the most.
Closer now to the city as he crossed the open road, he could look up to see the imposing height of the brick walls and thick gate. A breeze struck his face and his gaze turned again towards the larger district in the south. Squinting, he spotted a large cloud of smoke creeping into the air far off in the distance. Perhaps all was not well after all between Sabiril and Firas, for the dark dust rising in the air looked like that of a battlefield. While journeying the mountain pass road, Mesar had seen one and skirted it wisely. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time after a battle until the Basrani appeared.
Mesar crossed the distance at last and stood before a dozen or so men, half with gleaming armor stained with the warm light of the morning sun. They guarded the sole gate to Sab-riyat in strict formation, and the Desemmiet guessed that there were plenty more like them within.
“You,” one said simply in Sabri, the native tongue that Mesar had only used twice in this journey. “What business do you have here?”
Hoping his nationality was not too obvious, Mesar replied, “I seek employment in Sab-riyat.” The tall, helmeted man looked over the foreigner’s features suspiciously, and then nodded.
“What is your name?”
“Mesar mu’Rehan,” the Desemmiet answered honestly. “And yours?”
“Curious foreigner,” he acknowledged without emotion. “I am Riya Toline-Ahn. If you seek employment, you should go to the barracks. We could use more men built like you.” Riya, he remembered, was this nation’s term for a captain, just as Sabir was their term for king. It was reassuring that his studies had not faded from mind.
“I shall consider it, Riya,” Mesar said, and the guards parted way for him, seemingly a poor man with nothing but a sturdy pack and wrinkled clothes to his name. In a time of war, it was deadly to be so blind, and this proved advantageous to him.
Sab-riyat. Mesar was where he wanted to be and he wished to run towards the palace and cut the throat of the king at that very moment. The yearning for power was this strong in him. In time, he would kill the king. For now, however, the Desemmiet would make his way through these streets and find accommodations for his stay.
Then, he would find the palace.
His words echoed around the chamber and were joined by another man with a large gut beside him. “I say we shoot the pest right betwixt the eyes with an arrow flaming in manure,” he said, the extended wrinkles of his cheeks and chin wobbling as he spoke.
“Yes! Why not?” some other hotheaded patriot demanded.
“Because,” an older man of strong frame began, his voice tired but assertive, “this war has gone on too long.”
Lenota had always admired Sabir Sehaden as a ruler of both kingdom and words, able to turn even the most short-tempered man to his side with ease. They all listened, and who wouldn’t?
She sighed, looking down at her palms. If it were not for such a wise ruler, she would not have even been sitting in the meeting of Counsel. Anyone else would have felt it either an honor or a disgrace that the Sabir valued her, a woman, wisdom and presence. Lenota could not help but think all the others were simply too arrogant to think otherwise.
“Sabir Sehaden is right,” said the most arrogant and most skilled at hiding it. Eravid. Lenota repressed a shudder when his eyes held hers from his place beside their ruler. He was, after all, next in line to be Sabir… though not by any right or worth of his own.
“But what can Pravyn possibly have to say that is good?” the fair-haired noblemen questioned. Hirond Veahnii always had something to say.
And so did all the others. The men of high standing argued back and forth on whether to listen to Pravyn, whether to send a navy fleet out to confront their rocky shores, or even to send their own assassins to attack Galsanu, the hired killers that had begun this war’s bloodshed. Firas was debated as well, and whether they could truly be trusted or whether they were in alliance with Pravyn as sea-faring neighbors. Even the mysterious people of Enre’agid were discussed, a nation shrouded in forests known mostly as myth to Sabiril.
“Why do we not simply refuse to trade with Firas until they agree to a treaty with Sabiril?” the only other woman in the room suggested, a crone of a noble with pursed lips and a tight face.
“We depend upon them for too many goods to do that successfully,” Eravid replied with a soft voice meant to quell old Dala’afi.
“Oh nonsense! Do you know how many fields of…”
“And do you know how many of those fields have been ravaged by battle?”
“He’s right, not to mention the Basrani that make it impossible to immediately repair the damage…”
On and on they talked, and Sehaden simply sat back and observed most of the time. This was politics, and Lenota both hated and loved it. At the moment, all she wanted was peace.
She stood up, the russet gown shifting with her body as she did so. “We have been in here for more than two hours, my noblemen and lady. I suggest we adjourn for the day to reflect on these thoughts and reconvene at a later date to discuss them.”
For a moment, the court seemed to listen, seemed to heed her. Then their voices buzzed in protest, claiming she was weak or stupid for mentioning a break from their incessant arguing, criticizing her for trying to end their child’s game of political push-and-shove. Lenota did not hear a word any of them said, but gazed upward instead, taking in the thick beams of the rafters and considering the age of the wood. Fifty-eight years of war was not going to end that night, nor would it ever on their terms unless they could all land on a decision properly.
“Enough.”
Lenota had thought that Sabir Sehaden would have been the one to end their noise, as he usually did. It wasn’t. Eravid had stood as she had, his dark blue eyes scanning the noblemen from a frame of golden blonde hair. “Do not sling your war hatred at my betrothed simply because you cannot take action tonight. Lenota is right. We gain no foothold over barbaric enemies by acting like beasts ourselves!”
Betrothed. She heard his other words, but that was the one that echoed again and again in her mind. Some small part of her wished the war would never end, so that the day she would wed Eravid could never come. Lenota had acceded to marry him only on the condition that they would do so when a time of peace came about. Their betrothal had been over a year ago, though, and she did not think his patience would last overlong. Any other man’s would not.
“Very well, then,” the Sabir said, standing in front of the table to dismiss any further objections. “Thank you all very much for your input and I will inform you when I make an important decision.” His hidden humor put Lenota at ease slightly, and she bowed her head as the grizzled man left the room. Eravid followed obediently after him.
Thankful that her betrothed’s attention was not fixated on her, she chatted with a few of the attendees in the courtroom politely before leaving as well. Lenota’s thoughts lingered on the meeting. No real decision had been reached, yet, but that was not entirely the reason that she left. Sabir Sehaden was old, and though her own parents were alive and well, the master of her people seemed to hold a place in his heart for her, too. She was, after all, one of the only few people who knew of his habits outside the palace. But deeper than that, Lenota knew how strongly he felt for his people, and whether he cared for her as the granddaughter of Arotaja ga’Nara or as a citizen of Sabiril, she felt a duty to him that was truer than any political goal the others shared.
And she was related to him by blood. Even so, the throne was not to be hers.
Lenota shook those thoughts off, knowing they would lead to bitterness that served her no good and turned left into a corridor of gleaming, tiled floor. Her brother never would care for the games of power that she and the nobles played. She would not visit him to talk of the meeting. A smile curved on her face as she thought of him, Sev’beolani, who mussed his room up daily, much to the chagrin of the servants, because he could not stand the stuffy order his parents preferred. At times, Lenota wondered if her mother had ever rolled in the hay with some rebellious hostler. She knew not where else his rebelliousness could come from.
At the end of the hall, she opened a door and began to step inside the room. For a moment, it puzzled her how dark the room was. No… no, he would not have…
A soft glow emanated from somewhere within the room and she quickly shut the door behind her. Immediately, the flame that had sat alight within the palm of a young boy’s hand was extinguished.
“Sev!” she whispered harshly, the muted light from behind the curtains allowing her to see the him sitting on the floor. Lenota rushed to him, kneeling and taking his face in her hands. “Sev, how many times must I tell you not to practice that here? You know what would happen if-”
“If anyone found out I have more power than they have?” he said mockingly. He looked like a child whose toy had been taken away, but it touched an emotion somewhere deeper than heated anger. The same wheat colored hair that she owned fell into his scowling face. In the thirteen years that she had watched over him, the number of freckles dotting his face had not lessened one bit, and this simple observation made her sigh.
“You know what people do when they are afraid or when they have competition,” Lenota said, touching his elbow lightly and bidding him to stand with her. He did, slowly. It seemed like he grew more and more each day as the top of his head reached the bottom of her nose in height. Then she opened the curtains wide to let the sunlight into the room as he spoke to her.
“When can we go to the shrine again?”
She paused with her hand trembling in suppressed emotions on the last velvet shade, looking down. Sev did not understand. “Not anytime soon.” She flung the curtains wide to the north and south, feeling sunlight glow warmly on her face. Lenota and her brother were the children of two normal nobles, free of the power of Magick. As such, no one had ever thought that she and Sev would have such a gift. But what no one knew was that the Magick…had somehow…skipped a generation.
“Grandmother would be disappointed, you know.”
Turning, Lenota gaped at him. “She died before you were born!” Arotaja ga’Nara was the sister to the third Sarib to have been killed in the war, and consequently the sister to Sehaden. Her Magick prowess was legendary. Because Lenota’s mother possessed no Magick, however, and Lenota was a female, the line to Sabir went to her brother. And because Sev was too young, by law, to rule, the line passed over them both, directly to Eravid.
For this reason, and many others, Lenota held a secret repulsion to Magick, especially her own. She disliked it even more because when she suppressed it, it fought back.
“You know she would be, though,” he said anyway.
Sev, on the other hand, loved his talent. Lenota knew her brother. If he could, he would probably live out his days in Olos’ran, the shrine in the far north of Sabiril, where priests retain judgment and secrets better than all else.
“Come,” she said, sitting on his unmade bed and patting the sheets beside her. “Let us talk of other things.”
All Magick and webs of the court could wait in this time. Lenota loved her brother dearly. Nilisabae and Tevo’prei were appropriate parents, but had always been too concerned with the dealings of politics and wealth to spend an abundance of time with her or Sev. Naturally, after a childhood of forced maturity and playing on her own, a younger brother had been a blessing to her.
The hours passed too quickly, and Sev complained of hunger as they parted ways in the hall. Smiling softly, Lenota walked the corridors for a time, not overly eager to encounter anything that could upset the calm she now possessed. Sev was always able to put a smile on her face, whether he tried or not.
As she neared the open doors to a terrace, Lenota looked to see if anyone was present. Empty. Stepping out into the open, air rustled the gown around her body as she grasped the top of the balustrade. She closed her eyes, feeling her hair whip around her face in the wind. No one could learn of her Magick. No one could learn of Sev’s. There were numerous ways for the people of Tusor to use them. The mere thought of those many ways chilled her to the bone. She had been raised in war. She had heard the cruelties possible in such times.
Minutes passed as the wind gave Lenota a sense of tranquility. This was her calling, her element, and though she hated it…she took relief in it too. Like a windstorm swirling at sea, such was the battle she had always fought within herself, unseen by the world.
All her life, Lenota had only ever wanted peace.
The inn he had chosen to board in was pleasant and simple. Gridaiya, it was called, named after the mythical home of a divine nobleman in Sabiri legend. There were basic necessities but no decorations, and even this luxury of cleanliness had cost a generous amount, thanks to the war. Located in the district near the merchants’ shops and homes, Gridaiya was a safe inn well worth the coin. In the lower class bars and slums of a city, rumor spread like spider webs, and new patrons were noted immediately. Mesar wanted as little attention as he could get.
Well…that was half of the truth.
Outside a small, open window, Mesar could see sunset tinting dark clouds a fiery haze. Soon, rain would come again. He had passed the day navigating and observing the city. Maps were expensive and only vague details had been given to him from Galsanu, so surveying the city was his responsibility, lest the mission fail. There was one thing he had not yet seen, however, and that was the palace – his destination.
In short order, he left Gridaiya, out into the darkening streets of Sab-riyat. Earlier in the day, he had traveled through the city to the noble district, where residential and visiting people of the higher class and wealth made their homes. They owned a good view of the moat, a canal made of diverted river water, which, in addition to a stone and metal fence, separated the royal palace from the rest of the city. There was no obvious way to get across and within the grounds of royalty without being spotted by soldiers.
It had vexed him, but then, if the job were meant to be easy, Mesar would not have been the one chosen to do this. The pay, he knew, would be grand if he succeeded, though he had never done this for the money.
The Desemmiet had it in mind to seek employment with a noble or merchant in order to gain relation to the palace, despite how he despised servitude. First, however, he needed to obtain information, and the easiest way to do this was in the vicinity of ale.
Turning right as the light of the sun disappeared from the city, Mesar grabbed the tarnished door handle at the entrance to a large tavern in the merchant’s district. As he opened the door and stepped in, the loud noise of chatter, laughter, drink, and song reached his ears. No matter the nation, a big building with ale was always bound to be like this.
Mesar took a seat at the bar, requesting whatever food was available from the strong-looking owner. While waiting, he looked at his hands, listening keenly to the conversations around him.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Weighty prices, pretty buildings, good products, and girls that are too thin for marrying,” one man was saying. Perhaps he was speaking of a visit to Firas. In Sabiril, bodily ideals of beauty were larger and more…rounded, while those of the water-faring kingdom were willowy.
“It was the worst one I’ve ever been in,” a soldier in the center of the room explained. Mesar could hear his armor clanking as he took a drink. “Kirtai doesn’t have pirates. It has murderers who care nothing about gold or riches.” Kirtai. It was a large island just off Sabiril’s coast, but belonged to Pravyn’s king. “They just cut and kill anything they meet not on Pravwisat soil!” The man paused, and Mesar paid the barkeep as he accepted an earthenware bowl of soup, still too hot to eat from. Unfamiliar herbs wafted warm scents up from the liquid while he moved the spoon, spotting native greens with chunks of goat’s meat.
Then, a different conversation caught his attention.
“I wonder what the old Sab’ is up to right now,” an old but strong voice further down the bar spoke.
“You know better than I do,” the barkeep said to him, handing over a large tankard of ale. “You’re the one who used to work in the palace.”
“Bas!” the old man cursed and waved his hand, loudly sipping his drink. “That was decades ago, before Sabir Rehmor was killed.”
“Different times,” the barkeeper agreed.
Taking a bite of his soup, Mesar thought of how he could seamlessly enter the conversation to gain what he needed to know. The man used to hold a position in the palace, or so he claimed. He knew how to get in.
“Much different from when I was there.” This was where Mesar saw an opportunity.
“You worked at the palace?” he said, raising his eyebrows and turning his body. The two men noticed him casually.
“Sure did. I used to be a kitchen helper, and then I moved up to being a chef. Bas, I could probably teach Tolliem here a thing or two about preparing food!”
“Really?” Mesar pressed, taking another bite of his soup and inwardly questioning whether this old man could make it taste better as it was. “And how does one get a position like that, in the palace? I imagine it would be more than a bit tricky.” The Desemmiet hoped that the Sabri he spoke sounded natural while he waited for an answer.
Before replying, the old man slid his tankard over as he moved to sit beside Mesar. “Believe me, it was tricky. It’s all about knowing the right people,” he said as Tolliem the barkeep wiped some spilt ale from the countertop. “You see, my mother had caught the eye of more than a few soldiers, even though she was only the daughter of a farmer outside the city walls. Well… she chose one to marry, birthed me, and I had no interest in fighting. Instead, I snuck into the castle as a little boy, thinking I could somehow convince the Sabir to let me just work with my mother in the fields. Of course, I was caught, and in defense, I told him my father’s name. He was a well-known soldier at the time…” Mesar felt like taking the man’s tankard and hitting him over the head with it. A simple question deserved a simple answer, even though that was rarely how it ever went. “…And so, because he was truly amused by me and the palace was short-handed as it was, I was allowed to work in the kitchens for food and shelter rather than go into war.”
“So,” Mesar began slowly, his frustration repressed, “you gained a job by being the son of a reputable soldier?”
“Absolutely!”
“A lot of good that does me,” he murmured purposefully, finishing his soup with a dejected look.
“Oh, lad, you’re in need of some money aren’t you?” the old man said, draining the last of his tankard. “Well, to tell you the truth, I could use some chores taken care of at my home, things that these old bones can’t handle. Walk with me and I’ll see what I can do.”
The man rose awkwardly, moving with a swerve in his step as he waved at Tolliem and the other inhabitants of the tavern’s common room. Mesar was hesitant to follow, but knew he needed to build relations within this city in any way possible.
Outside, the man also waved at the upstairs windows of the tavern where patrons were likely not yet asleep. Then, he began an unsteady gait up the main street of Sab-riyat.
“You never did tell me your name, sir,” Mesar mentioned, keeping his distance in case this man was hiding something. A knife could be pulled easily when one was disguised as something else. Perhaps this man was not drunk at all. One could never be too safe.
“Too right you are!” the man announced, stopping and looking at the Desemmiet. “But before I tell you that, I think you should-”
“Get down!” Mesar hissed, grabbing hold of the man’s loose shirt and lowering quickly with him. The air above their heads shifted and a thudding noise came soon after. Mesar stood, extracting his own knife as he saw a figure running toward them, a flashing weapon drawn. Closer and closer the person came and Mesar prepared to duck down and parry their blade with his long-knife. Then he saw it. The blade was just like his.
The assassin’s face was covered by the dark cloth of a cowl, but the body was thin and lean. Female. Or possibly a thin male. Was it Desemmiet? He had little time to determine more as she swung her blade high, arching it down and swatting his out of the way as she charged towards the old man. Why was she trying to kill…?
“Stop!” Mesar shouted in Galsani. He couldn’t help it, and knew that if she understood it, his suspicions were confirmed. She stopped, knife poised above the seemingly helpless old man on the ground, her head whipping back to look at him. She stared between the two men, backing slowly away. Mesar wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stay or go. Sabiril. He was in Sabiril now and he had to think as one of its citizens.
The assassin turned to flee, her feet light on the cobbled street as she ran. “Stop!” Mesar repeated, this time in Sabri. She continued running and he ran after her, raising his blade by the point and throwing it with the accuracy ingrained in his hands since childhood. As always, it struck the target, landing deep within her upper arm. Screaming shortly, she revealed her gender, but, as a Desemmiet, simply ran on, ducking into a side alley and then another long after he had stopped caring. She was marked, and he was clean. Had he truly wished to bring her down, Mesar would have thrown it at her leg. Making his way back to the old man, though, he silently praised himself of putting up a show of Sabiri nationality.
“Are you all right?” he asked the man, extending a hand and helping him up. Mesar couldn’t help but remain tense. This man was more than he led on. A Desemmiet was not likely to hire a drunken, former employee of the royal Sabiri household.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Good try, boy, but you didn’t quite get her.” Her. The man had noticed as well that through the layers of thick garb, the assassin was a woman. Who was he?
“Do you think we should report it?” he feigned.
The man chuckled, patting the Desemmiet’s back. “No, no,” he said. “I think I know just what to do about this…” With the last contact of the old man’s hand, Mesar felt a moment of sharp pain in his spine before his limbs went rigid and darkness clouded his sight.
Also, any suggestions on a better title? Game of Power is only a temporary title, mainly because I like its abbreviation (GOP Grand’Ole Party, aka Republican party Game of Power TRULY) and it reminds me of the theme and traits I want this story to have. Any ideas?
Thanks goes hugely out to anyone who even reads this, and doubly so to anyone who comments.
