Paul Kearney: Kings of Morning

‘Don’t thank me just yet. And make sure you piss before you go up. It’s going to be a long night.’

The pulleys turned noiselessly, lubricated by fine oil that would command an absurd price in the Lower City. Kurun felt himself rising, leaving behind the world he knew, the steaming, sweaty, expanse of the kitchens, the firelight, the black cauldrons and long hardwood tables with slaves bent over them. Auroc caught his eye and nodded, and then was gone. Kurun was in a darkened shaft, the platform quivering under his scrubbed toes, a vast array of covered dishes and platters all about him. He rose higher, the smooth stone passing his nose. Looking up, he saw light above, the gold of the evening sun.

He stared at it for a long moment as it grew above him. Then, deliberately, he bent and lifted the heavy silver cover from one of the dishes beside him. From the fragrant, steaming interior he drew forth a black olive, dripping with a sweet red sauce. He ate it, chewing thoughtfully, tasting food fit for a King.

Then the light grew around him, the brightness of the sun flooding his eyes, and he could hear the sound of wind passing through the limbs of great trees, the trill of birds, and the silver music of many fountains.

‘Such a drab little bird,’ Roshana said. ‘And yet he sings as though he were the lord of all winged things.’

‘In Artan’s day they had them gilded while still alive,’ Rakhsar said. ‘Few survived the process, and those that did never sang again. The King was so angry that he strangled the survivors with his bare hands, and then poured molten gold down the throat of the man who had promised him he could make nightingales look as beautiful as their song.’

Roshana turned away from the cage and stared at her companion. ‘I believe you make up these stories to vex me, brother.’

Rakhsar laughed. ‘Not me! If you want stories of the excesses of kings, then there is no need to make them up — just go down to the Court Records and take out a scroll. Our family has a history of excess. We are the lords of Kuf, Roshana. We define excess. If you think that was interesting, let me tell you — ’

‘No more. We will be eating soon.’

‘You eat like a bird anyway.’ Rakhsar tapped the cage, a beautiful, golden-wrought affair that was chased with enamels and inlays of lapis lazuli, bloodstone, ruby. The little brown bird inside went silent, and cocked its head to look at him.

‘I think he likes me,’ Rakhsar said with a grin.

‘Leave him be. I’d rather listen to him sing than hear more of your stories.’

Rakhsar leaned back from the cage and reclined on the silk-cushioned couch that they shared. The sun fell on his face, and as the wind moved in the branches of the tall trees above so the shadows came and went, back and forth across his features. His skin answered the passing sunlight, a pale gold, almost translucent, and blue as a bruise in the hollows of his temples and nostrils. His eyes, bright and violet, seemed to catch the waning light and reflect it back at the evening. His long, rufous hair was tied back from his face in a topknot fastened by a silver ring. Gold thread was woven through his robes, and his slippers hung swinging from his toes as he lay back, studying the patterns the cedars made against the sky.

His sister was his twin, as long-limbed and golden-skinned, but more delicate, with darker eyes. And there was less of a hawkish cast to her face, for all that it was the mirror of his. In Rakhsar’s face there was wit, humour, a flashing intelligence and curiosity. In Roshana’s there was a gentleness entirely lacking in her sibling. And she did not have the hint of cruelty that dwelled in her brother’s bright eyes.

‘Cages,’ Rakhsar said. ‘Some are bigger than others, but in the end they all fulfil the same function. At least the bird can expect a long life, so long as he remembers how to sing. You and I, Roshana, our lives hinge on the whims of an old man. At any moment, the Honai could come for us. For me they will come, one day. I know that. I have known it since I was a child and saw the way our father looked upon my brother.’

Roshana said nothing. The truth could not be argued away.

‘In the meantime we spin out our little lives here, like your bird, passing the time as pleasantly as we can, indulging in our petty little intrigues, hoping to catch his favour. Our father.’ He raised a hand and grasped at the air. ‘We might as well reach for the shadows in the sky. He has settled upon Kouros, my reliable elder brother. And even before Kouros is King, I will die, and you — if you are lucky — will be married to some functionary who is owed a favour.’

‘Our father is a good man,’ Roshana said quietly.

‘Yes. He is that most dangerous of things, a good man who is doing what he sees as right. He indulged his own brother, and look what it cost him — Jutha gone, Artaka in endless rebellions, the monsters from across the sea marching towards the Middle Empire under the usurper’s banner. Kouros will not make the same mistake. Father will not let him.’

Rakhsar sat up in a rush of movement, scanning the bushes around them. ‘Did you hear that?’

Roshana sighed. ‘There is no-one here but us, brother. Unless the birds can eavesdrop, we are safe.’

‘Kouros has his spies too, you know. He has begun recruiting a new corps.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘From a spy of my own.’ Rakhsar grinned.

‘You are impossible today, Rakhsar. I will go in. It will be time for the dinner soon, and I should change. There are guests from the west.’

‘Yes, but I doubt they’ll have much of an appetite once father gets through with them.’

‘Why? Rakhsar, what have you heard?

‘What do you care? You have your nightingale to listen to.’

‘Brother, I swear — ’

Rakhsar stood up. He paced about the little manicured clearing as the shadows went back and forth across his face, the ancient trees above him creaking in the breeze.

‘What have I heard? I hear everything, Roshana.

‘I have heard that all is not well in the west. The enemy were given battle at the Haneikos river, and our troops were routed. The satrapies of Gansakr and Askanon are wide open to the invaders — all the land between the Haneikos and the Sardask is theirs now, right up to the city of Ashdod.’

Rakhsar paused, eyes gleaming, as bright and hard as shards of glass. ‘There will have to be another levy — a real one this time. And if I know anything, I believe the Great King himself will lead it.’

‘Our father, off to war? But he’s an old man, Rakhsar.’

Rakhsar smiled sourly. ‘He has my brother’s broad shoulders to carry some of the load for him. In any case, the preparations have already begun. They’re moving cattle west to Hamadan. It’s my guess he’ll take the Honai, too. And if they want to cross the Magron before the first snows, then the thing must be got under way very soon.’

Roshana shook her head in disbelief. ‘How many years has it been?’

‘Since Kunaksa? Thirty. A generation, since Ashurnan the Great won his empire and killed his brother. Now he must do it again.’

‘And what of us?’ Roshana’s dark eyes widened. ‘Are we simply to be left here?’

‘That is my point, sister. The Great King leaves his capital. He takes with him his eldest son and heir. Do you really think he will leave me behind? He would be a fool to even consider it. No.’ Rakhsar looked down at his slender fingers. His hands began to clench in and out of one another, as if he were washing them. It was as though he could not bid them to be still.

‘No. This is my time. Kouros will have me killed before they leave for Hamadan, and our father will not interfere. That is the way it will be.’