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“Alone, my lord?” the servant asked when Kherim walked past the circle of date palms, deeper into the oasis.
“Does it bother you to waste the tent space on me?”
The servant just bowed until his hand touched the ground. It was a dirawi custom, one that had saved this town from many insulted royals.
“Not in the least, my lord,” he said. “I was just wondering how large of an escort we should expect to entertain, but my lord’s lonesomeness makes things easier for me.”
The boy had a quick mind, and a knack to avert conflict, which even Kherim admired. Offending an envoy, be it the prince himself or the qrahr, was the last thing Diraw needed.
Kherim just jerked the reins of his horse and single pack mule, leading the animals in a walk between the tents and servants tussling and nearly climbing on top of each other. It was a comic sight to someone who wasn’t used to it.
The town itself was an insignificant settlement on the shores of a lake that had survived the Old Garden’s destruction. The permanent population was small, only a few families, but every fifth year, it swelled roughly tenfold. This was the time for the Council of Princes.
The tiny huts of the locals nearly got lost among the colorful and eye-catching flags, tents and treasures of the eight provinces, just like the dirawi men and women bending to the ground before the princely guards and servants. According to some bad-mouthed gossips, they tried to out-compete each other every time, and no one could bring the same tent twice, as it told of the poverty of the province. Of course, Kahlaran’s qrahr did not care about such externalities, unlike its prince, but luckily Charta wasn’t here.
Centuries ago, the first ruling princes had met each other not far from here. Each prince drew his borders, marked his capitals, and declared his need for a slice of the desert until another prince had turned his eyes on the same slice. When they had shed enough of each other’s blood to realize it was going nowhere, they had made an agreement. Amidst war and blood, the eight provinces were born. Provinces, not countries. The crown of Seiran was still up in the air with too many hands reaching for it.
Kherim had told Salar this many times before the boy could even read, and his son always proclaimed that when he grew up, he would be the one before whom the eight princes would bow, and name him their king. Kherim was proud that his son chased dreams worthy only of the heir to a qrahr, but it was a bold and naïve thought. Since the destruction of the Old Garden, no prince ever bowed to anyone, no ruler allowed a single foot of land to be taken until his blood flowed, and no leader gave up his power to anyone.
That was the reason they had created the Council. A gathering where everyone could speak up and everyone’s word mattered, to talk about matters of the whole country. Or it used to be, because nowadays the princes just met to smoke and eat, brag about their riches and establish their selfish alliances.
Someone bumped shoulders with Kherim while he was lost in thought, but the man quickly backed away. Judging by his colors, he was a court servant from the Steel City of Jabasan.
“I beseech your pardon, my lord,” he said.
“Don’t even mention it, son. Tell me, am I the last to arrive?” Kherim asked, grabbing the servant’s shoulders gently, making sure the man didn’t feel threatened. At least, no more than he should.
“Only their Graces Prince Charta and Prince Idranil keep the council waiting, my lord.”
“In the main tent?”
The servant nodded, so Kherim let him go. The leaders of Diraw always set the main tent up next to the lake, on the most desired place in the whole oasis, especially since the day one of the Jabasani bodyguards and the self-proclaimed king of Shiragha had wanted to duel for the right to camp there, to the death. Even the decoration felt neutral, reminiscent of the Old Garden, so no one felt offended. It was arranged as an even-sided octagon, and each range had its own parcel for the princes to bring their own ornaments. Charta always prepared for such occasions, hired special craftsmen, goldsmiths and jewelers, so he could sit in front of a blinding background that outshone the lords of all other provinces. Kherim didn’t bother. He brought only the crest of the Third Regiment with him.
Four soldiers in dirawi colors stood at the entrance. They were as different as two seirs could be, and only their black and white uniforms and wide-bladed sabers looked the same. Kherim heard stories that the guards watching over the meeting came here from each of the eight provinces as children, without even the germ of patriotism, so they could serve each lord equally. Kherim stopped for a moment and looked up at them from under his headscarf, before they stepped away from the entrance.
“Welcome, Lord Kherim Vivekanda,” the last one shouted as he passed by them to announce his arrival.
Kahlaran’s place this time was between Nirah and Yadina. The man who organized the seats knew how to avoid a scandal. Kherim held an arm across his chest and bowed to both of his neighbors before settling down on his pillow. Priyanka, the princess of Nirah nodded towards him, while his other partner, Prince Rajenda just passed him the mouthpiece of a hookah with a sugary grin. Before Kherim could say anything to either, an all-too-familiar voice struck his ears. “Lord Kherim. Did Prince Charta find it beneath him to honor us with his bright, myrrh-scented presence?’”
On the opposite end of the tent, an aging man sat in a chair with a golden cup in his hand. Kherim knew his face, and knew the symbols on the wall behind him. They belonged to Qajar, the mountainous province to the east whose army had once washed over Kahlaran like a tide.
“Please, Prince Sanju, forgive my brother’s absence,” Kherim said, with more guile than even a wandering actor could have. “Unfortunately, his health restricts him from attending, but I think I can represent him. I think you know me well enough to agree.”
Sanju’s lips trembled and, for a moment, he let his yellowing teeth flash. Neither of them had forgotten the war. The lives lost; the legions of both sides buried in the desert – but they both knew who won that time.
Sanju was about to lash back, when the young prince of Jabasan stood up and bowed to Kherim with the deepest humility on his face, drawing all the attention. “Please forward our good wishes to Prince Charta. We pray to the Great Divine for his timely recovery.”
Kherim tried to catch Sanju’s eyes to see him boil in anger, but the dirawi guard’s voice dragged him back to the present. The man all other rulers were waiting for just arrived.
“Welcome, Prince Idranil Osirei.”
The prince of Shardiz hadn’t humbled in the last five years, given how he entered the tent following his entourage. Five warriors preceded him, one by one more ornamental than some of the princes, behind them three beautiful women, and finally Idranil himself, walking with straight back and hands behind, grinning, bathed in his own glory. He stopped for a moment in the middle of the tent. His chin rose as his dark eyes ran around those present, and raised his arms as a greeting.
“Shardeen’s blessings to you all gathered here today.”
It was obvious Idranil wasn’t used to not being loved by everyone who laid eyes on him. No matter how unbearable he was, Kherim had to admit that his princely dignity wasn’t a matter of opinion.
“Are we waiting for anyone else, my lords?” Kherim asked loudly, prompting the Shardizian delegation to take its place. He looked at the magistrate of Diraw, a grey man with a forgettable face, in the last third of his life. He just as quickly looked around before he shook his head.
“Lords and lady, we hereby open the two hundred and twenty-third seir council!”
Kherim took a deep breath and prepared to bear the brewing storm around him. He could not remember the last time these events ran in any organized and unified way since the open declarations of war had been forbidden by mutual consent. Many a prince had lost his life hours after telling his opponent about an imminent attack in the name of decency and straightness. Among them had been Idranil’s father, after which the new prince quickly withdrew his hostile intention. Since then, all councils have been the same, the future allies pre-arranged and flocked together. Trade alliances were made in whispers, roads and territories changed hands, sometimes before the offering party had authority over them.
Kherim wasn’t involved in any of these alliances. Both his neighbors turned to other delegates to do their separate businesses, but he wasn’t bitter about it. He wasn’t here to make lucrative exchanges or sell his ships’ annual imports. He had a much more important task: to find out which prince danced hand in hand with the Marid.
A ringing of heavy gold ornaments tore Kherim from his thoughts. All eyes turned to the figure that raised his head and tried to catch everyone’s attention.
“Princes. Lords, nobles, and subjects,” Idranil’s voice roared through the tent. “I see you bickering about meaningless things, wasting your precious time. What are we arguing about so intensely? Taxes and borders, gold and caravans? What are those worth in the face of time?”
Princess Priyanka’s eyes narrowed as she watched Idranil walk up and down, and Kherim had a hunch it wasn’t just because of the insult she felt about skipping her title.
“What’s not lost in time, Prince Idranil?” Sanju asked, straightening up in his chair.
“Deeds. Change. Time has no power over the future. The future that we must seize in the present and build from the past.”
“What do you know about the future, Idranil?” said a man, half-reclining next to Rajenda. He was a strange sight, wearing almost no jewels, but covered in a myriad of golden tassels, running around his waist, spiraling down his left leg, and in several layers on his chest, even in front of his right eye. It could have been comical, if Kherim hadn’t known he was the Fringed Prince, the enigmatic leader of An Ramash, a caravan so large it was considered its own, moving province. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t even sit up from his semi-reclining position, yet his words passed through the hall with an edge that surprised even Kherim.
Seiran had some strange princes, that was for sure.
“I know what we all do,” Idranil said. “I know it’s unwritten and uncertain. But I know more about the past, when we were once powerful, enriched with every gift of life and our pastures, our gardens, our forests had no boundaries.”
“We all know the legend of the Old Garden. But the past is gone. The Garden burned and ran dry thousands of years ago,” Kherim said, then clutched the pipe’s mouthpiece from Rajenda’s fingers.
“Lord Kherim Vivekanda,” Idranil said with a smile. “In my cities, they say you’re the avatar of the war god Inra, bringing fire and anger to wherever you walk. Maybe scorching is in your blood, so you can’t see what the past taught us.”
Kherim waited, daring the prince’s gaze before he turned away and once again addressed the entire council.
“The Old Garden teaches us that only unity brings wealth. Unity will bring the New Garden. We will be powerful, rich again, worthy of the love of the Great Divine, but only when we have a king.”
There was a moment of silence, and only the flapping of the wind-torn tent wings broke it until Sanju laughed softly.
“And the new king, of course, would be none less than the mighty Prince Idranil?”
“Who else?” The question was simple, but so provocative it made a lot of brows furrow. “Who among you is more powerful than me? Who is more loved?”
Kherim dropped the mouthpiece next to the hookah and stood up.
“I’ve heard enough of this meeting. We all know what’s coming next, and I will make it easier for Prince Idranil. Kahlaran does not recognize Shardiz as the new capital of the united Seiran, and we reject your claim to the throne. I’ll see you at the banquet, your honors and princess.” He bowed briefly and walked out of the tent.
He had a definite hunch who held the Marid’s hand.
***
Kherim tried to get to the banquet tent first to observe how the others arrived and with whom, but he wasn’t fast enough. He had just stepped out of his own tent, in his most distinguished set of clothing, with a very ornate but blunt shortsword tied with a silk belt on his side, when Yadina’s fur-clothed prince found him. “My lord, may I have a word with you. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to the Kahlarani delegate.”
Kherim didn’t know if it was the lack of jewelry that made Rajenda less detestable than the others, or the honestly profiteering smile he always wore, but for either’s sake he tried to remain polite. He had stirred enough trouble in the tent.
“You may have as many as you wish, Prince Rajenda.” Kherim bowed, while the man caught up with him for a few long steps. “Please talk, I’m listening.”
The prince bent forward to catch his breath, then smoothed down his short circular beard and cleared his throat. Kherim took it as a bad omen, as throat clearing was almost always a sign of long speeches.
“All the seir desert knows about you, Lord Kherim, and how you triumphed over the Qajari armies. I was impressed by these stories. I think maybe Kahlaran and Yadina could benefit from good relations.”
Kherim appreciated Rajenda’s mostly straight, if only a bit too courteous implications with a tired smile. “I take it you already have ideas about what could serve as good relations.”
The prince laughed, with the characteristic cheerfulness of a merchant who wanted to create a light and friendly atmosphere. Kherim never got used to this charade: although he was very good at sorting his words, his tone always gave him away.
“You’re not mistaken. I want to serve my country, and especially the people. Although we are famous as goat herders, the mountains hide unseen treasures, riches no other province may possess.” Rajenda unveiled a small sack he held under his robe, then took out a completely ordinary piece of wood, then another, darker kind and handed both over to the lord. “Cedar. And if we go higher in the mountains, there’s pine. They are light and easy to work with, an excellent raw material for the construction of an entire fleet.”
“Pine, you say?” Kherim took the latter piece in his hands. It was soft but sufficiently elastic, and as he drew it closer to his face, it gave off a pleasant smell. “Kahlaran could use such excellent wood. And Yadina would reap a reward from Kahlaran’s gold and the treasures of foreign lands. Let’s say every sixth ship built from the trees of the mountains offers you the full benefit of its cargo, Prince Rajenda.”
“You are very generous, Lord Kherim, although I hope you understand that I would also like some advances for timber before the fleet is built. I don’t know how much time I have to secure myself,” Rajenda said in a low voice.
Kherim held back a smile. “Who are you afraid of who could threaten our deal?” he said, keeping to the prince’s hushed tone.
“Our deal? Nobody. But after Prince Idranil’s words, I don’t want to wait for an entire fleet to stand ready and head for the islands. It’s just that I can’t spend any resources recklessly right now.”
“Neither can I, Your Majesty,” he said, shaking his head. “But if I knew I could truly consider you an ally... If I could be sure that if any storm swirls the deserts, Yadina is standing by my side, I’d prepare a caravan with the advance as soon as I get home.”
The prince folded his arms and took a step closer. “What could prove such a commitment?”
“A garrison. Not a large one, just enough soldiers to take control of Shish, keeping order in the desert to the south. It could protect the caravans, make sure that those who are not our allies don’t find a way past the village, and warn you when to mobilize your armies. Against the common enemy,” Kherim said, emphasizing the last sentence. An unpleasant grimace ran across Rajenda’s face, as his neatly constructed, advantageous little business slowly became less profitable, asking more of him than he had anticipated.
“You’re asking for much, but you’re probably aware of that. I can’t put a garrison in provinces other than my own.”
Kherim opened his mouth to press on, but the prince quickly followed it up.
“On the other hand, I am well within my rights to protect my trading stations and the precious fabrics I sell, be it in Shish or at the foot of the majestic church of the goddess Shardeen. I hope we understand each other.”
It was a typical case of the unspoken yes, even though Kherim was asking a lot. Shish was an insignificant town on the southern tip of Kahlaran’s province, only providing wine grapes. But in terms of his situation, it had now become particularly important – it was the first stop for an army marching from Shardiz. If Idranil’s soldiers saw Yadina’s colors, there was no courier quick enough who could explain the misunderstanding in time. Rajenda could only send his soldiers there in the full knowledge that in an event of a war, he would be forced to take up arms against the conquerors from the South-East.
“We understand, Prince Rajenda. Come, let’s drink to the friendship and enrichment of Yadina and Kahlaran.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Rajenda grinned, concealing the sour taste gathering on his tongue. Kherim found no joy in splitting their already torn country into two, but he would if he had to. If Idranil wanted a war, he didn’t need to look for a better opponent than the qrahr of Kahlaran.
First, however, he had to get rid of the flea stuck on the hide of his city, trying to suck their blood.
“Tell me, Your Majesty, how are things in your city? Everything’s peaceful?” Kherim asked carefully.
Rajenda nodded. “You know what Yadina is. If there’s something louder than a goat’s bleat, you can hear it from the palace. We’re a peaceful people. Too peaceful, maybe.”
“You’re lucky. You can’t even imagine what kind of figures the sea brings to Kahlaran.”
“You have problems with the Sealords again?”
“If it were that easy.” Kherim shook his head. “Arisians are familiar. I know how to deal with those pirates. But there is now an elusive demon stirring trouble and spitting in my face from the hole he hides in. Some say he’s a blackmailer, and riffraffs call him the Marid. Have you heard of him, Your Majesty?”
Rajenda stroked his beard again.
“I heard some rumors, mostly from my daughter when she came home from Nirah. Maybe you should ask the princess.”
“I might. She’s always a delight, anyway.”
Nirah’s sharp-witted ruler was by no means the kind of woman the qrahr wanted to see on the side of Shardiz, so that conversation was inevitable. The fact that she could help him get rid of a nuisance was a pleasant side effect, as the alchemists say.
“Enjoy the event, Prince Rajenda,” Kherim said when they reached the entrance. “The messenger will arrive in Yadina soon with a list of the caravan shipments.”
“I’ll be waiting, Lord Kherim.” Rajenda nodded, before disappearing between two waiters towards the low-legged tables on the edge of the tent.
Kherim took a deep breath, inhaling the heavy atmosphere of the feast. It was the only occasion when the princes were courteous to each other, out of competitive spirit more than anything else. Diraw wasn’t rich enough to entertain them, so the feast consisted mostly of the accumulated gifts of the provinces, which again was a great opportunity for the wealthier lords to show their own greatness.
The carpet on the floor was without a doubt Rajenda’s gift, and it showed the work of Yadina’s most skillful weavers. Above his head, Nirah’s most beautiful glass lamps and colorful alchemical candles hung from the roof, some in forged bronze sockets, only letting the light sparkle through its gaps. The golden cup of wine given to Kherim was unmistakably Kahlarani. Charta had prepared for this event months ago, and chose the most savory drinks, as well as fruits from overseas, fish and oysters on an ice bed for the lords to enjoy. Stuntmen and fire-spitters from An Ramash, fortune tellers and deacons from Qajar, musicians from Shiraga. Everything here served to entertain the princes.
Kherim took a sip from the wine, looking for Princess Priyanka, but the bustling crowd hid her for now. However, it could not hide the man in surprisingly simple clothes, with coal-like hair gathered into a long pigtail ornamented with tiny gold rings, a mustache, and an incomprehensible half-smile underneath. Prince Idranil didn’t lollygag. He walked straight towards Kherim.
“Don’t you enjoy the feast, Lord Kherim?”
“I have to say, I didn’t expect to hear this from Your Majesty first,” Kherim said bowing his head. The prince just spread his arms and pointed around.
“It is the duty of a host to care for his guests.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What you see here, is all mine. Not directly, of course, but I paid for everything here. I bought Qajar’s stuntmen, Shiraga’s dancers, Yadina’s rugs... and, of course, all the fruits of the Gate of the Sea which the good Prince Charta intended to send here. Then I hosted everyone who came here today myself.”
A crimson haze came over Kherim. He could barely restrain himself from hitting the man.
“My brother didn’t notify me about this kind of business, Your Majesty,” he said, pushing every word through his teeth. “How did you get each province to give up its treasures?”
“It was simple, my lord.” Idranil took a step closer, showing a single, gleaming sungold coin between two fingers. “I paid twice the price.”
The swirl of the room stopped, just like the wind carving into the dunes outside, and Kherim could not hear any music or other noise. Those words were so simple, so clear and yet so painful. It’s as if Idranil had already won, with this one simple sentence.
“I know you think I’m bringing war to the desert.”
“No, Your Majesty.” Kherim shook his head and tried his best to regain his composure. “I know you’re bringing war. A war that’s going to trample the loser and cripple the winner.”
“You think I’m evil, but you’re wrong. I don’t desire war and turmoil, not even triumph. I just wish for a united Seiran, to reclaim the crown, not for myself, but for the nation.”
Kherim’s lips were stiff with a strange, fragmented smile, somewhere between sarcasm and bittersweet acceptance. He knew that Idranil was keen and manipulative, and he couldn’t allow his influence to cloud his judgement. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I can’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to believe, just witness it. Take a look around, Lord Kherim.”
Idranil held out his arms again. It had become clear that the Prince of Shardiz already treated the whole world as his empire. “What you see here is everything we have. All the riches, all the treasures, and all the joy. None of them are complete without the other, and yet, so far, it’s all been hidden, selfishly stuck away from the rest. I took it and gave it all back, without regrets. Do you see an unhappy man in this tent, my lord? Do you see longing? Isn’t it fairer to collect and share everything we have?”
“Your words are pleasing, Your Majesty, but they hide the truth,” Kherim snorted. “This, what I see here, is all yours, as you said. People here have nothing, no property, no inheritance. Everyone lives only off Your Majesty, and if you desire it, we all starve to death. If the cost of unity is to sacrifice everything we have, it’s not unity. It’s slavery.”
“What kind of king would let his people starve? What people would see all this wonder, yet refuse to trust?” Idranil’s face slowly changed, his confidence shifted into disdain. “The evil you see exists because you don’t trust me, Lord Kherim. If you dared to believe I’m a good king, all your fears would be gone.”
“You’re no king, Idranil Osirei,” Kherim replied, leaving off the formal address as his patience reached an end. “Your unity is a dream, demanding more than anyone is willing to pay. Kahlaran doesn’t want your chains, no matter how golden and gleaming they are. That’s the last of it. Enjoy the event, Your Majesty.”
“I see I can’t convince you.” Idranil’s voice was deeper than before, but it didn’t break, although Kherim was sure the prince was furious. “But if you become an enemy of the future and prosperity, if you go against unity... You’re the one bringing war to this desert. You, Inra’s avatar, Kherim Vivekanda. Only you.”
The golden rings in his hair rattled as he turned his back and mingled in the cavalcade of princes, bodyguards, and stuntmen. Kherim drank the rest of his wine in a single gulp, gave the cup back to a servant, and immediately took another one.
The ice cubes hit the edge of the cup with a faint clink, but he heard it louder than the music. Idranil’s ice. Idranil’s wine. The whole damn tent was Idranil’s property, for which his brother, the majestic and wise Prince Charta, received Idranil’s gold.
The qrahr was not aware that he had started walking through the crowd, twisting and shaking the goblet between his fingers. He only came round when a young boy accidentally backed into him with a tray.
“I beg your pardon, milord,” the servant said, bowing. “Would you accept a drink?” he asked, holding out the tray. Kherim absently took a second cup.
Idranil’s servant. Idranil’s dancers, Idanil’s feast. If Kherim didn’t do something soon, it could easily become Idranil’s country.
A strong, familiar female voice pulled him from his gloomy thoughts. His gaze met for a moment with the eyes of the Princess of Nirah, and that immediately washed away the anger.
Idranil wasn’t king yet. And it was time for him to assure it stayed that way.
“Princess Priyanka! Your charm grows stronger every year,” Kherim said, taking firm steps towards her, handing the princess one of the goblets. She took it and gestured towards a servant girl, who immediately took a stance beside her lady. Even the qrahr itself could not catch when and where the servant came from, which could only mean two things: Priyanka’s servants were either yanns or very skillful assassins.
“Lord Kherim. I’m genuinely surprised to see you here on the council,” Priyanka said.
“Unfortunately, my brother’s health won’t allow him to attend, so someone had to take his place,” Kherim said. “There are some unpleasant people in Kahlaran, getting on his nerves, which doesn’t do him any good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I don’t think you’d be less careful in Kahlaran’s interest than the prince himself would be,” Priyanka said, letting a faint smile spread on her lips.
“I do all I am capable of for the sake of my home,” Kherim said, raising his cup to his mouth. Even if it belonged to the Prince of Shardiz, it would have been a shame to waste good wine. “I wonder if we could speak in private, Princess.”
Priyanka’s lips curled into a smile.
“And here I was, thinking nothing interesting would happen this evening. Let’s talk outside.”
The servant girl immediately became tense. “But your majesty–”
“You heard Lord Kherim. I’ll return soon.”
Before anyone else could comment on it, Priyanka walked out the tent into the chilling night and led Kherim towards the lake. There wasn’t a single soul around apart from the patrolling guards in the distance, so they could speak freely.
“Tell me, Lord Kherim, what bothers you.”
“I fear a new villain has made his nest in my home,” Kherim said.
“Don’t tell me it took you by surprise. Such a vast and rich city as Kahlaran has a certain allure for the adventurous and profit-seeking. It would be a miracle if there were no villains among them.”
“I could handle ordinary street rats, princess. But this one... he’s a dangerous man. If he’s a man at all. I’ve heard some interesting rumors about him. On the streets, they call him the Marid.”
The princess gazed at Kherim with her large brown eyes. They seemed unfitting compared to her bony face, which didn’t make her the world’s fairest maiden but she did catch a lot that others didn’t.
“So that’s where the wind blows.” She chuckled. “Was it Rajenda, pointing you to me? Or Hirith? No matter, whoever it was, they are right. A man named the Marid made quite a mess back in the day, in my city, before he vanished. I guess he moved his headquarters.”
“He definitely did,” Kherim said. “Tell me, how did you deal with him? What did you find out about him?”
“What makes you think we’ve dealt with him? Although my men were on his heels, we never caught him. We just didn’t hear from him after a while. We thought he was a spy.”
“I fear the same, although unsure in whose employment. How close did you follow his track, if I may ask?”
The woman held the cup in both hands.
“We made it to his supposed lover, but as soon as he got wind of it, he left her. He didn’t steal anything important, nor did he acquire any significant knowledge in Nirah.”
“I find that hard to believe, Princess. The tiniest shard of Nirah’s knowledge is significant. But please tell me, what happened to his lover?”
“We’ve isolated her. She went mad, so we thought the most humane treatment is to keep her somewhere secure. And by pure coincidence...” Priyanka took a break for the effect, causing Kherim to unconsciously hold his breath. “We sent her to Kahlaran, as she seemed to have an unreasonable attraction towards the sea. Fortunately, the priests of Idar took her in.”
“So, the Marid’s lover was in my hands the whole time. What a coincidence, indeed.” Kherim smiled bitterly as the realization dawned on him.
He had come here for nothing. He wasted time, perhaps gave Idranil a cause for war, while the source and resolution of all his problems hid in plain sight at his home.
“I won’t bother you anymore, Princess. May you find joy in this feast and may your lands grow richer.” He bowed politely and tried to leave, but Priyanka stopped him.
“Stay a minute, Lord Kherim. Now that we’re among ourselves...”
A shiver ran down the qrahr’s spine. “What would you have of me?”
“Your son, Salar... How old is he now?”
Kherim’s gaze darkened and some strange and cold sensation sat in his chest: fear.
“A dozen and two years old, princess. I hope he lives to see fifteen.”
“Just like my youngest daughter, Karuna. Your son has a bright future, Lord Kherim. Don’t worry. It’s an open secret that he shall be Kahlaran’s next prince.”
Priyanka was right. Charta had never married, so he had no sons, not even a bastard. As a direct descendant of Kanda’s bloodline, the prince’s title would be given to his nephew. All of Kahlaran, and even his brother knew and accepted this fact.
“Kahlaran will be lucky if he is, Princess. May the Divine keep your daughter, too. May she be noble as her mother.”
“She is. She’s getting the best education, and who knows... Perhaps the friendship of our children could also promote friendship between our countries.”
Kherim’s face twitched, then a satisfied smile spread over it. This woman was justly famous for her sharp wit, and among her many flowery words, she offered a deal stronger than any other: marriage.
“No doubt, Princess Priyanka. Tell me, as soon as Salar recovers, would you take him for a year and show him the beauty of Nirah?”
“He’d honor us with a visit. If you want, I’ll send doctors and healers to see to his quick recovery.”
“I’d be deeply obliged,” Kherim said, for the first time with sincere gratitude.
That’s how it had to be. Salar healed, Nirah and Kahlaran strengthened their relationships with marriage, the Marid defeated, Idranil bent to dominance and everything going on as it should. That’s what the princes did, and that’s what the council did. Agreements were made to serve the interests of the nation, beyond wars and spies, extortionists and robbers.
For the first time in a while, Kherim felt he had taken a step forward. Maybe this council wasn’t such a waste after all.