Nakhata palace was much larger than what Siacus was used to. He looked out the balcony attached to his room. The desert air was surprisingly crisp at night. The moment he sat on the soft bed his eyes fixated on a mirror across from him. He was cleaner than he expected, especially after falling off a ship. His hair was swept in all different directions. He didn’t look like a lord; he looked like a drunkard who had been fished from the bay. His clothes reeked of the sea. He dragged a large pack towards him, shuffling around for clean clothes. All he had was a modest tunic and trousers. He looked at the still-soaked boots his wife bought for him. The smell would probably never wash out.

  Siacus longed for the end of his journey. It had been many months since he last saw his betrothed, but he couldn’t risk his trail going cold. He stared at the massive scar covering the left half of his body. It scorched his skin, branching out like an oak in winter.

  …

  Silk curtains danced in the winds between large sandstone pillars. Most of the palace was exposed to the elements except for bedrooms or bathing areas. Siacus stepped along, admiring the art on the walls. Statues had been carved and painted, immortalizing past nobility in stone. They wore beautiful handmade robes and intricate headdresses bearing the serpentine form of Zemerra. Siacus noticed how prominent the living god was in everyday life here. Nakhata’s dedication to a particular god was similar to the village Siacus grew up in. Instead of an axe-wielding hero of old, however, the folk of Khadina venerated a beast of unimaginable power.

  Siacus turned the corner, spotting the veiled visage of a woman in the distance. Every inch of her body was concealed in thick brown satin. She wore sandals that concealed her toes, and long sleeves obscured her hands. Her attendant wore far less. A shawl draped her head, but did not conceal her natural beauty. She was adorned in golden jewelry that shimmered in her dark hair. As Siacus closed the gap, the veiled woman looked at him. Her eyes were but tiny white beads behind a thin veneer of fabric.

  “You must be Pharaoh’s wife.” Siacus smiled, “I am Siacus. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  The woman didn’t respond. Siacus’ greeting hung in the air like smoke. His jovial expression fell away into an awkward impasse.

  “The consort is not ready for visitors.” The attendant swatted Siacus’ propriety away, “Good evening.”

  “I’m sorry, I-” Siacus was interrupted by the consort walking past him. She smelled of myrrh and cinnamon. The attendant hovered behind her. Siacus was left in a quiet corridor. He didn’t understand; his tunic was clean, his trousers free of dirt. His boots no longer reeked of the ocean. There was no odor coming off of him. He huffed, blowing off the interaction as he headed for the dining hall.

  …

  “The temple has graciously accepted your offering. You have been exceedingly generous this year.” A nameless priest spoke to Amanei in high regard across the table. Amanei sat patiently, waiting for his meal to be served for him. Khafra sat beside him, drawing on paper with a stick of beeswax dyed with saffron. The prince looked up at Siacus as he entered the room.

  “Ah, you’ve arrived.” Amanei nodded. He held a hand out to the last empty chair in a room full of local dignitaries and rich supporters.

  “The man has a weapon.” Said a wealthy merchant, pointing at the axe on Siacus’ hip. The lord hesitated as Amanei’s guards looked at their Pharaoh, expecting orders.

  “My guards can handle him.” Amanei gestured to Siacus reassuringly, “Sit, Siacus.”

  Siacus couldn’t help but glimpse at the art Khafra was making. It was mostly incoherent scribbling, but there was the sense that it had some unseen meaning.

  “Please, Zuberi, continue.” Amanei said.

  “I simply wished to ask what made you increase your offering this year?” Zuberi asked. Amanei took a sip from his cup as the servants began placing food on the table.

  “Zemerra has gifted my family with an oracle.” Amanei looked to his son with adoration, “For that, they have my wealth as well as my eternal servitude.”

  “I see.” The priest nodded, “You have been met with great fortune.”

  Siacus caught a murmur from Khafra. He turned his attention to the boy.

  “What?” He asked, his attention pulled away from the adults at the table.

  “What are those?” Khafra pointed at the branch-burned skin peeking out from Siacus’ sleeve.

  “Scars.” Siacus said. It wasn’t unusual for a child his age to ask questions. Amanei continued to speak as though the conversation next to him was an illusion.

  “Yes, and no amount of wealth in the world will equal my gratitude.” Amanei smiled. The table didn’t notice the small conversation Siacus was making with the young prodigy.

  Khafra flipped his paper over and started to draw the shape of Siacus’s scar upside down.

  “Does it hurt?” Khafra whispered. Siacus shook his head. Khafra drew a line across the page. It tapered downwards towards the end.

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  “Did you cry?” Khafra asked, “Did it bleed?”

  “I don’t remember.” Siacus said, “It was a very long time ago.”

  “You remember.”

  Amanei’s conversation melted away. Siacus sat at the table, watching Khafra as he drew quietly. The boy spoke up again.

  “You did cry.” He started drawing a small tree.

  Khafra watched Siacus swallow from the corner of his eye. His left hand clenched, and his bicep bulged as he tried to remain stoic.

  Amanei reached for his fork, glimpsing at the drawings in front of Khafra. The boy didn’t eat. He stared at Siacus. His eyes narrowed, his face scowling. Amanei looked at the rest of the table, hoping they would begin to eat as he did.

  Memories started to flood back into Siacus. He tried to build a dam before they spilled over. The boy’s questions and accusations managed to get under Siacus’ skin with little effort. He didn’t know why they were so potent. Khafra drew a crude figure on the right side, just where the line dropped off the page.

  “You cry.” He said.

  Amanei called the boy’s name as his attendants ate. The boy folded the paper and shoved it into his robes, pulling his dinner close as though nothing happened. Siacus sat quietly, staring at his meal. The soup smelled heavenly, garnished with onion and roast duck. The bread was still warm from the oven. Siacus looked over his shoulder as a servant lowered a platter of sweet cakes onto the center of the table.

  Khafra frowned. He looked at the ring on Siacus’ finger.

  “I noticed the consort is not here. Will she be joining us tonight?” Priest Zuberi asked. Amanei shook his head.

  “Oh, no.” Amanei smiled, “She eats her meals in the garden. She has been doing much better. She shows little sign of illness.”

  “That is wonderful news. Khafra’s blessing was a welcome one, indeed.”

  “Khafra is a healer?” Siacus asked.

  “Yes, a fantastic one, at that.” Amanei answered.

  Siacus took a sip of the broth before him just as it began to cool. An aromatic scent permeated the meal. The broth had hints of onion and a spice Siacus hadn’t tasted before. It smelled earthy, the taste spread warmly through his mouth. A note of citrus brought memories of home.

  “I read about your journeys in Gairm.” Amanei said, “How did you end up leading the Dragonguard? It seems quite the accomplishment for a man of your standing.”

  “I was apprentice to the Knight commander at the battle of Die Wirbels?ule. It’s a large canyon in Gairm, your people would call it ‘The Spine.’

  “We were fighting the king’s forces. We were winning until another army came through with a dragon. He wiped out entire battalions with a single breath. A pyromancer managed to will the flames away from us while the others burned alive. Without her, we would’ve lost not just the battle, but the entirety of the Dragonguard’s forces.

  “By tradition, the longest-standing member of the Dragonguard becomes the next knight commander. It was me.”

  “I assume it would’ve been the oldest member.” Amanei blinked, “You look very young.”

  “Well, our most experienced warriors all died with Luhan.” Siacus said, “I had twelve years with the Dragonguard. Most of the survivors had a fraction of that. I was eighteen when I took the oath.”

  “Being with them for so long, you had to have seen some conflict.” The priest said, “Even as a child.”

  “Luhan kept me away from the battlefields when he could. The bloodshed I saw happened… before.” Siacus held the lip of the bowl to his mouth, drinking the broth like beer. The elite at the table looked at one another, then to the prince. Amanei looked at him, perplexed. The Bjornborn appeared unaware of noble etiquette. Siacus put the bowl down and nodded as though he were saying a quiet prayer. He looked around at the men staring at him. He patted his chin as though something had stuck to it.

  “What?” Siacus asked, but the men continued the conversation.

  “You have piqued my interest, Siacus.” Amanei said, “I would like to share stories before you leave for Zemerra’s domain.”

  “You seek Zemerra?” Zuberi’s eyes lightened, “My brothers and I are heading there to pray upon his shrine. Perhaps you could join them? The Sea of Glass is unkind to lone travelers.”

  “Can I go?” A small voice asked. Khafra tugged at his father’s robes, “I want to go.”

  “To the shrine?” Amanei leaned towards his child. Khafra’s voice was small and sweet, unlike the words he spoke earlier, “When you are older.”

  “When do your brothers leave?” Siacus asked.

  “A storm is making its way across the desert. We plan on leaving in the morning.” Zuberi said, “The journey is not long, we should be back before nightfall.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’d be honored to join you.” Siacus said, looking at the empty bowl before him, “Is there any more of this?”

  Amenai raised a hand, summoning one of his attendants. Siacus smiled at the new bowl as it was slowly lowered before him. As he ate he answered many questions and told many tales. Khafra stared at the man as he spoke, showing neither interest nor derision.

  Khafra studied him as he studied every stranger that came. He had seen craftsmen from Metis, the gold-clad knights of Nizini, even scholars from lands where sugi trees outgrew the mountains. Men with hearts of steel who faced immeasurable foes, and felled them without a second thought.

  But Siacus was different.

  Siacus cries.