The Story So Far: Sole survivor of the destruction of Shadi, the world's oldest city, the priestess and daughter of King Amar-Sin, Ilati, seeks to avenge her people and end the rule of Nysra and his dark gods. Abandoned by her goddess, she sought out a new deity in the desert and connected with K'adau, the Mother of Demons. After traveling months with the Sut Resi, nomadic horse warriors, a one-eyed sorcerer named Eigou, and a charioteer of Magan named Menes, she fought and bested a demon at Sa Dul. Now they are traveling to seek allies in the Kingdom of Sarru, but that task will not be easy even with the possible help of Kulziya, Captain of the Royal Guard in Ulmanna. To make matters worse, one of the men responsible for Shadi's destruction will be present as a protected diplomat: Commander Sarhad of Nadar. In a failed attempt to discern more of Ilati's nature, Roshanak accidentally encountered the spirits of the dead, who called her out of her body. Eigou has used his magic to send Ilati into the spirit world after the girl. Ilati saved Roshanak, but at the cost of experiencing the suffering of the unburied dead, including her mother.

***

Grief stayed with Ilati like a ball of thorns in her chest, every movement sending a new lancing thought of pain through her being. Eigou’s bandage over the burned writing on her arm did nothing to salve her heart. She’d even tried leaving the bed for the sunlit gardens attached to the visitor’s quarters in the hopes that golden light would ease the shadows, but they followed her wherever she went, growing as the shade of the setting sun spread. Her eyes burned every time she thought of her mother’s tortured spirit, unshed tears building without falling.

What daughter is so cruel that she could do such a thing to her mother?

Ilati sat curled on one of the benches under a citron tree, its straggling branches and evergreen leaves offering shade even as its almost-ripe green-to-yellow fruits weighed it down. She remembered a tree like it in Shadi’s famed hanging gardens and the way servants would take leaf and fruit alike to put among her family’s clothes to keep away moths. As a little girl, she loved the scent and would bury her nose in her mother’s dresses just for the smell. The fruit was bitter, but a powerful antidote for poison, as it would make someone retch miserably and bring up any toxin swallowed.

The priestess rose unsteadily and plucked a single leaf from the tree, crushing it in her hand to release the smell: sharp and citrus, fragrant and clean. So many joys of that old life were gone forever and even this haunted her with the reminder. Yet, how could she let go as the lone survivor?

Soon all that Shadi was would disappear in the minds of the world until it was nothing but a fable. The idea hurt Ilati more than she could possibly put into words. But what could she do? Weeping was beyond her. She cleared her throat slightly, the smell of the citron leaves stirring something in her. For the first time since Shadi’s destruction, Ilati felt words rising in her heart. If she could not weep, she could sing her grief. The notes came spilling out like liquid gold, hanging suspended in the air like a spirit of sorrow itself. She needed no instrument, pure and as perfect in her pitch as she had ever been.

“You fade like amaranth severed from its stem,
more beautiful than any jeweled gem,
yet your daughter recalls as if yesterday
the gleam of gold across your doorway.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember.

You fade like scent of frankincense burned out,
like copper dreams of chained men lost in doubt,
yet your daughter recalls as if she just departed
emerald green of sweet barley freshly started.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember.

You fade like petals cast into sacred river
at merciless whims of current running silver,
yet your daughter recalls your beloved faces
and endlessness of your garden graces.

You fade, you fade, you fade.
Yet I remember, I remember, I remember…”

She sang of the broad avenues and countless joys she knew so well, the temple festivities, the vibrant life of her home: the potter’s wheels, the forge hammers, the women singing to their children and lovers as they washed their laundry, the cries of merchants hawking wares, the delicate chimes and gongs of the priestesses as they honored their patron. This time, she did not linger in her bitterness towards Zu: she neglected the goddess altogether, because this was for her sisters, not the one who had abandoned them.

Ilati caught a soft sound from a side entrance to the garden and turned, her breath seizing in her chest as she ended the last note abruptly. She was no longer alone in the garden and it was not one of her companions intruding.

A man in gleaming bronze armor stood in the archway, his tunic a rich purple that left no doubt as to his status. His dark beard was carefully cut and oiled into a point, a simple band of gold holding it in its place. The tracks of tears left the kohl beneath his eyes smudged. Ilati’s eyes darted to the bronze sickle-sword through his belt, then looked up at his scarred face as he dabbed at his cheeks with a square of cloth, trying to clean himself up. She wasn’t certain how long he had been standing there in her all consuming grief. All of the evil intent and piercing coldness she had expected from this one was nowhere to be seen. He said nothing, clearly struggling.

“Prince Zidanta,” she said quietly, bowing her head in the most polite greeting she could offer while seated. “I hope I did not offend.”

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Such beauty, even sorrowful as it was, is never an offense. My heart grieves your loss.”

Ilati hesitated. The man she saw standing before her, clearly profoundly moved, resembled nothing of the stories she had heard Eigou tell of him. Was this an act or was the old sorcerer mistaken? “Thank you for your sympathy."

He pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and then wiped away the last evidence of his tears. “Would that I could undo your suffering. Shadi was a beautiful city beyond compare, and undeserving of its fate.”

The priestess hesitated, knowing she was in danger. She had been careful not to name the city in her song, but clearly he knew it well enough to recognize it from description. “You knew it?”

“When I was a boy, my father sent me to the court of King Amar-Sin, to learn the art of writing and much of war. I have fond memories of playing amongst the rushes with his sons,” Zidanta said with a warmth that seemed only genuine, approaching slowly. “They treated me with a kindness I have not known even here, but nothing lasts forever. Too I remember their daughter, a soul of rare beauty seen only ever from a distance.”

“The Nadaren destroyed every beautiful thing in Shadi. Even her.”

Zidanta knelt down in front of the priestess, looking up at her with dark, hawkish eyes. It was a position no high born prince she had known would take with a wild stranger. “I disagree, o lotus of Shadi. I would know your voice anywhere, as perfect as last I heard it amongst the rushes.”

Ilati felt her eyes well with unshed tears again. “You mock me if you think to call me beautiful.”

He shook his head. “I would never mock you, daughter of Amar-Sin,” he said, offering her a small smile. There was a tightness to it, not insincerity, but as if the expression was not one he made often. “Never.”

“You speak so kindly, yet are a man famous for his malice. I do not know what to believe.”

A bitterness twisted at Zidanta’s lips, his smile vanishing. “I am tasked with all my father does not wish to sully his firstborn with. Hattusa is of the King’s open hand, while I am of his closed fist. He would have his heir be beloved, but a kingdom cannot stand on a foundation of benevolence alone, especially not when it is surrounded by its foes. Yes, bitter war has been my life for many years, and yes, in it I excel.” His hawkish eyes sought her gaze. “Perhaps the boy who played amongst the rushes is no more. Yet when you sang, you stirred him from his oblivion.”

Ilati had so many more questions than answers now. “You know Sarhad,” she said, this time gauging very carefully for a reaction. “You must know what he has done, then.”

“I know that he was part of the destruction of Shadi,” Zidanta said quietly, not looking away from her eyes. He stayed open, inviting her wordlessly to judge him. “He boasts of it whenever talk turns to war.”

The priestess felt her own bitterness well. “He was the worst of my tormentors. I suffered at his hands for days.”

Zidanta let out a hiss of breath, eyes widening slightly. “You were in that city, o lotus? We were told that none who were there survived. I had thought…” He took a deep breath, hand moving to his sword and gripping tightly. “He has been very careful here, insinuating himself as the emissary of Nysra. Even I cannot simply strike the head off that snake, whatever my desire.”

“Help me stop him before he sinks his fangs into Ulmanna’s heart. You will not survive his venom any more than we did.”

The prince smiled again, this time humorlessly. “I have sought to do so since he arrived. It is clear to me now that his motives are to agitate things and divide the Kingdom of Sarru against itself. Unfortunately, my father does not seem to understand our unenviable position, and worse, Hattusa swallows the serpent’s false sweetness at every meeting. Hence why I seek to keep Sarhad out of the city at every opportunity.”

“That is why you hunt with him?”

Zidanta nodded, then pulled in a deep breath as he looked up at her. “It seems both our fortunes have changed much since last I saw you, flower of the Esharra.”

“More than you can know.” Ilati sighed, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. “You are gentler than I expected.”

He smiled faintly, sadly. “A luxury I can afford only for a few. Perhaps the one my father would deny me most.”

“Most generous of you to extend it to me.” She hesitated for a moment when she realized the second-born prince of Sarru was still kneeling in front of her. “Please sit. This is not proper. If someone sees, it will cause remark.”

Zidanta bowed his head. “I care nothing of their remark, but as you wish.” He rose to his feet and then settled himself on the bench next to her, unbelting his sword and placing it at his feet. Ilati’s anxiety eased a little more at the gesture. “When Hattusa mentioned visitors, he mentioned a granddaughter of Eigou, not Ilishu.”

“My name is Hedu while I am here,” the priestess said quietly. “Better that Sarhad does not recognize me.”

The prince’s hawkish eyes flicked their gaze across her scarred face, then down to her bare shoulder and the marks of the seven claws. “Are these his doing?” Zidanta’s question was sharp and serious, but Ilati had a feeling his displeasure was not with her. “I would know how many blows into his skull my blade should strike when his moment comes.”

Ilati shook her head. “The scars he left cannot be seen. These are…reminders.”

“May I?” Zidanta said, gesturing to Ilati’s shoulder.

Ilati extended her arm, displaying the vivid, dark scars from the demon’s claws. Zidanta’s fingertips touched lightly on the knotted, imperfect flesh, almost as if he was afraid of hurting her even with a healed wound. “There was a demon in Sa Dul, and this its mark."

“You slew a demon.” Awe infused Zidanta’s voice without a hint of questioning disbelief. “You have become quite the fine warrior, then.”

“Shir Del is a finer teacher.” Ilati held still as he traced the lines of the seven claws down her arm. She couldn’t really feel his touch against the scar tissue, other than as a gentle pressure.

Zidanta chuckled at that. “The Sut Resi warrior woman? I have had the pleasure of meeting her at the stables, tending to your horses. She keeps a tongue like a blade. Kulziya was rather bristling about it.” He moved his hand away from her arm. “If you are willing, o lotus of Shadi, I invite you to a hunt.”

“Will Sarhad be there?”

The prince shook his head. “I think your companions will keep an ample eye on Sarhad. After the feast, on the morrow, I would hear the story of your deeds beyond Ulmanna’s walls and see what game we come across.”

Ilati smiled faintly. “Do women hunt in Ulmanna’s courts?”

“It is not customary, but you are the wild Hedu of the Desert of Kings, granddaughter of a sorcerer. I have a feeling you will be able to keep up.”

“And that is all that I am, if anyone asks,” the priestess said firmly, keeping eye contact with Zidanta. “The viper will have spies.”

Zidanta held her gaze, no sign of deception in his dark eyes. “I would not expose you to the viper or the power he represents. You are under my protection and my secrecy while you are in Ulmanna, lotus. I remember well the great debt I owe to the kindnesses of the family that took me in when my own sent me to be a stranger in a strange land.” A door opened to the left again and Zidanta’s entire expression hardened. He kicked his blade up to his hand and rose to his feet, belting on his sword again. Ilati felt a sharp pang of sorrow, seeing all that openness and gentleness dying abruptly, like a flame snuffed out. “What do you desire, Hattusa?”

Hattusa seemed startled to see his brother in these quarters, a hint of guardedness flashing across his face. “I see you have met Eigou’s granddaughter now,” the Crown Prince said cautiously. “Shall I take it you are on Father’s business?”

Even Zidanta’s voice was harsher as he answered his brother. “I serve always at the pleasure of the great King.” There was no familial warmth to the mention of his own father and the use of a formal title seemed very intentional.

“The feast is prepared,” Hattusa said. “Father expects you and all of our guests in attendance.”

“You could have sent a servant.” Zidanta spoke brusquely even as he strode straight past his brother towards the door. It was not until he was past Hattusa that he looked back, a regretful expression on his face. Ilati felt the apology in it, even unspoken.

Hattusa bristled. “I wished to see that our guest well. Surely such courtesies do not escape even one as cold as you.”

The younger prince exited the garden space without deigning to respond, one hand on his sword’s hilt as he stepped through the door. Ilati understood all too well: Zidanta too was playing a role, one assigned to him at birth, and it was crushing the man he was at heart.

“I am sorry if he offended you,” Hattusa said as he approached her. “You are seated beside him at the feast, but if you wish, I can make arrangements–”

Ilati shook her head. “He gave no insult. I have no objection to sitting beside him.”

“You are a generous woman,” Hattusa said with a hint of relief, offering her a smile. “His bitterness is a thing legendary in its proportion, at least here in Ulmanna. It is normally only those of a similar disposition who can stomach him.”

“I can be patient,” Ilati said mildly, a hint of anger towards Hattusa bubbling underneath her calm demeanor. Your brother needs you. Can you not see how he is hurting? “The King expects us now?”

Hattusa nodded. “The feast is laid out and will commence with the setting of the sun, but my father has questions and your grandfather is being very obtuse in answering them. No doubt he will have questions for you as well, given…well…the baths.”

The priestess thought again of Shadi, devoured by the sands, and her forearm burned beneath its bandages. She rose to her feet and tried to rally her courage. “Lead on. Are the others already there?”

“Yes. You will be the last to arrive. Eigou wanted us to let you rest.” Hattusa gestured for her to follow him and strode out into the halls of the palace with Ilati at his heels. “Be careful, Hedu. Ulmanna’s court is not as…peaceable…as it once was.”