CHAPTER FOUR | KI?

  13,041 years until Contact, 13,041 years until Convergence

  ‘Marutuk! Marutuk! Greatest of all the gods! Heaven perish at your utterance and birth at your command!’

  – Enūma Eli?, as cited in ‘Prisca Theologia’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  ‘Your Highness, the Lady Zuêna has come seeking an audience.’

  Alim looked up from the table littered with dusty reed scrolls and etched stone tablets. It had been a fortnight since the City of Ki? had fallen to the might of Dilmun, and perhaps to distract his guilty conscience, much of that time had been spent in the palace’s Muniment room, poring over the city’s accounts. After a close examination, Dumuzid’s claims had long been proven true; the poor harvests that had impaired much of the kingdom’s southern fiefdoms had hit the inner territories also, and—unlike other liege lords—Dumuzid had favoured sharing what little remained with his own people than the banqueting halls of the king.

  It was a decision that had branded him a thief and a traitor. Now, the day Alim had been dreading had arrived, the day he would have to look Zuêna in the eye, the woman he had once aspired to marry, as the vanquisher of her birthplace and murderer of her father.

  Chancellor Alalnagal fixed the messenger with an incredulous look. ‘Zuêna? Here?’

  ‘Yes, Your Lordship. She’ll be here within the—’

  ‘Nonsense! The prince would not sully his honour by—’

  ‘I will see her,’ Alim said. ‘Prepare the throne room.’

  Not for the first time, Alim felt the eyes of the city’s nobles upon him. Like his men encamped beyond the walls, they seemed to enjoy the moments when he shot down the king’s chief minister, their continued good humour working well in keeping the peace. So far, they had obeyed the terms of their occupation with humbled deference—to act out against it would’ve brought shame to Dumuzid’s final sacrifice—but Alim was no fool to think the agreement would last forever. The people of Ki? were a proud and noble tribe, and their late master had demonstrated their beliefs loud and clear: better to die free than to suffer as chattel.

  Collecting Imhullu from the end of the table, Alim motioned for the exit, tailed by Halad, then Zikê, a few paces back.

  More than once, Alim had tried to meet the sentinel’s citrine-gold glare, and though the Ki?ian warrior had acquiesced to his new role within the prince’s household without complaint, it was safe to assume that sentiments were more than a little sour. One day, Alim hoped he would be thanked for curtailing his oaths—for saving his life. But judging from Zikê’s near-permanent look of desolation, that day was still a long way off.

  Slithering from a corner of the Muniment room, Alalnagal attempted to block their path. ‘Your Highness, I must object!’

  ‘As is your right, my lord,’ Alim said, pivoting around him.

  Outside, the morning sun was shining brightly over the City of Ki?. In terms of scale, its only rival was the capital of Dilmun to the south, the kingdom’s principal seat of power. Skirting along sun-splashed arcades, Alim looked over the bustling patchwork of white stone amenities, mud-plastered residences and cloth-draped bazaars. The clamour of the daily grain allocation was heavy on the wind, the frustration biting as citizens were handed their daily rations.

  Though the portioning to see them through to next year’s harvest was tight, Alim hoped they had sense enough to appreciate just how lucky they were. Had Alalnagal been permitted to exact the king’s justice, the city’s granaries would’ve long been emptied to satisfy Dumuzid’s missing tribute. Envisaging outright bloodshed in the streets, Alim commanded the chancellor to find some other way to settle the debt, and though many acclaimed him for his mercy, he feared the cost that this would ultimately entail.

  For there was only one thing his father would accept in the place of grain.

  ‘Alalnagal has summoned the high priest,’ Halad informed during the first week of their occupation. ‘Perhaps we should just take the grain.’

  Alim chose his next words as sympathetically as he could. ‘They’d lose more to famine than to some ageing out. They’ll just have to bear it as best they can.’

  Halad gave an affirming nod. ‘A heavy choice, my prince. But the right one.’

  Alim looked to the city’s central mound, to the etemenanki seated upon it. Stepped and tapering—a meeting point betwixt earth and sky—it was only right that the temple had pride of place, higher even than the terraces of the city’s palace, for even those who bowed to no one still bowed to God.

  Since the doom of their homeworld aeons ago, Namtaki—“the Promised Place”—had been their home. A fertile oasis of forests and grasslands, oceans and streams, it was said that when the great hero Marutuk first laid eyes upon it, he thought it to be a mirage of some kind, woven by the vengeful ghost of Tiamat to taunt him from beyond the grave. Only when he had landed his great arkship—a mighty vessel that contained the pitiful remnants of their vagrant species—had he allowed himself to believe.

  Thus, spoke Marutuk: ‘My children. Our wandering is over.’

  It took the Anunnaki many millennia to shape Namtaki to their design; the riches she bore were plentiful but wild, protected by a feral population of bipedal creatures whose blood flowed the colour of fire. But while these dull-eyed primitives, or “Igegi” as they came to be known, outnumbered the Anunnaki a thousand to one, they were nothing compared to the might of Marutuk’s technology. Only when the Igegi were quelled did the Anunnaki uncover the full extent of Namtaki’s blessings.

  Unlike the arid environment of the homeworld they had left behind, Namtaki was brimming with water. Saltwater crowned vast and bountiful oceans, and freshwater flowed from countless rivers and streams. And though these miraculous features had filled the Anunnaki with wonder, it was the planet’s third type of water that they grew to treasure above all else.

  Abzu.

  Welled from the subterranean aquifers that lay deep beneath the ground, one only had to bathe in this water—this “Water of the Deep”—and the ageing of said individual would be halted for a time.

  And so, the Anunnaki bathed—and they prospered.

  Or so the story goes.

  A mere one hundred and twenty-five years old, practically a blink compared to his father’s alleged ten-thousand-year lifespan, Alim could not help but think his people’s dependence on abzu had achieved quite the opposite. Once, Marutuk’s arkship had sailed the stars; now, much of his technology—his knowledge—had been lost to time.

  ‘We bathed,’ said Alim’s mother, ‘and we forgot.’

  Among the Anunnaki, especially within the families of the nobility, old age became an ailment of lesser days. With a steady supply of abzu, an individual could live for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Naturally, as the population grew, so too did competition for access, and those with the power to do so soon began to shield their sacred wellsprings within fortresses and walls.

  It was the rise of these city-states that, according to his mother, heralded the beginning of the end.

  Sequestered behind their walls, the Anunnaki became divided and distrustful, and strength soon became favourable over knowledge. The young were no longer educated in the many wisdoms of Marutuk but solely in his teachings of war. Over time, each noble family waged battle with one another—an ever-increasing rivalry to secure the most potent sources of abzu.

  Alim remembered the sadness in his mother’s eyes whenever she recounted the histories of old. ‘We exchanged the bonds of brotherhood for a power deserved by no one. The loss of our homeworld has taught us nothing.’

  According to the Chronicles, it was Alim’s father, King Alulim, who had brought an end to the disorder. After a wave of mighty conquest, the wayward remnants of Marutuk’s progeny were brought to heel, and peace was known once more. But after countless millennia, the armistice had not come swiftly enough.

  Heartbroken by the barbarism of his own people—degenerate descendants of the sons he had fought so tirelessly to save—the great hero Marutuk had long since abandoned them, forsaking godhood to disappear into the deserts to the west. As history turned to legend, the shame of his disappointment pervaded, suffusing into culture and psyche. Some Anunnaki even began to return to the mortal existences of their forebears, calling for the people to stop bathing in abzu altogether, a process that the nobility fearfully termed tilud, “the final withering” or—in the modern tongue—“ageing out”.

  ‘It is the natural order of things,’ explained the queen when grey had begun to silver her hair. Born and raised within the sheltered confines of the Royal Palace, Alim had never seen a person afflicted with old age before, a condition that, in his innocence, was relegated to Igegi natives and the lower classes of Anunnaki society. ‘The sun must rise and fall, my son. Nothing can live forever.’

  The queen’s decision to endure tilud gave this emerging ideology the influence it needed. Merging with a new wave of thinking demanding the emancipation of the enslaved Igegi indigenous, many Anunnaki began to preach that the abzu was no mere resource to be supped at their leisure. Rumours ran rife, claiming that it had a sentience of its own, that taking from it was akin to sucking the very lifeblood from the planet. And as the movement gathered pace, its convictions becoming more accusatory, it was the queen herself who became their most vocal ambassador.

  ‘Tiamat was not sent to destroy our homeworld. She was sent to cleanse it of a far greater evil.’

  Alim—a seven-year-old princeling not yet mature enough for his first bath of abzu—remembered looking to his father, glowering upon his throne.

  ‘And what, my queen, could be worse than the evil of Tiamat?’

  He remembered the way his mother had stared back, so fearless, so determined.

  ‘The greed of Marutuk.’

  Alim didn’t see much of what happened next. Following the queen’s blasphemy, Halad—a young sentinel fresh from his trials—had wasted no time returning him to his chambers, standing guard as the Royal Palace descended into chaos. Alim remembered hiding under his bed, calling out for the comfort of his mother, whom he never saw again.

  ‘My prince,’ Halad prompted. ‘Are you well?’

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Lost in thought, Alim had not realised he had come to a stop before the giant bronze-plated doors of the palace’s throne room. Despite his initial burst of speed from the Muniment room, his daydreaming had allowed Alalnagal and the city’s noblemen to catch up with him. Clustered behind his two sentinels, they watched him in bated breath.

  ‘I’m all right, Halad.’

  Alalnagal simpered. ‘Your crown prince, my lords. The warrior who had so easily bested your lord, now frozen by the mere approach of a woman.’

  Alim glared at him. Only Alalnagal possessed the determination to insult so many within a single sentence. ‘I see that your dedication to ministerial matters has left you rather innocent, my lord. I say to you: there is no greater adversity than the wrath of a woman.’

  It was not a retort he was particularly proud of—disputing a man’s amatory prowess felt cheap no matter the target. Still, it was enough to cause the surrounding nobles to laugh, the anger stirred up by Alalnagal’s slight against their late master sufficiently diffused. Even Zikê allowed himself a smile, small and wavering though it was.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Alalnagal began, puffing like a marshland frog.

  Halad gave a long, withering sigh. ‘If you’re not prepared to get cut, Your Lordship, perhaps stop brandishing your knife.’

  ‘Is that a threat, sentinel?’

  Alim returned to the throne room doors as the two men fell into the much-familiar sound of bickering. ‘The prince wields his words as well as his sword,’ one of the city’s nobles observed, thinking their sentiments too quiet to be heard.

  ‘Only against those who deserve it,’ a second noble commented. ‘This one knows honour—not at all like his father.’

  When the third nobleman spoke, Alim could feel his analysing gaze. ‘Brave and wise, mild and just. Marutukgedu.’

  Alim recognised the term. Since Marutuk’s departure aeons ago, many a prophecy had been uttered, a sign of the craving people had for the restoration of his grace. Over the millennia, the promise of Marutuk’s return had become by far the most popular. Some foretold that he would reappear from the deserts to the west, emerging from sand and dust to guide them to redemption. Others claimed that the abzu would raise him from death itself, gifting him with divine powers. However, the most widespread belief was that his spirit would come back within the shell of another, a divine reoccurrence to cleanse all that had been made impure.

  Brushing off the third nobleman’s comment as the foolishness of superstition, Alim turned and gestured for the throne room doors to be opened. In his mind, there was only one way out of the mounting disaster, and it didn’t make sense to him to rely upon the same power that had abandoned them long ago.

  Stepping inside the throne room, Alim was unnerved to find it filled with people. Word had clearly gotten out regarding Zuêna’s imminent arrival, and the eagerness of the Ki?ian court to witness their reunion was written upon each attending face. His love for Zuêna had been legendary, and so too had been his century-long tantrum following the rejection of his proposal. Hesitating upon the threshold, Alim felt his cheeks grow hot under their knowing looks. He hoped he had done enough to show them he was no longer the foolish boy from a hundred years ago. Brave and wise, he remembered, moving towards the city’s throne at the end of the hall. Mild and just.

  For the past five years, he had worked tirelessly to earn such commendations from within the Royal Palace, but known for amnesty, King Alulim seemed determined to forever paint his son a disappointment.

  Alim glanced back at the noblemen of Ki?.

  He could not deny that praise... felt good.

  The palace throne room was not as richly furnished as the halls of Dilmun, but for what the room lacked in pomp, it made up for in the refinement of its architecture. Flanked by vaulted archways leading out into open courtyards of palm tree and pond, sunlight spilt across the limestone floors, smoothed down by several millennia of feet. Across the walls, meticulous stone reliefs detailed the many feats of Marutuk. There were ones that Alim had seen many times before—the classic image of his battle with Tiamat being the most recognisable—but others were unfamiliar. One such panel, for example, detailed a hunt of the mighty trunk-tusked beasts that lived in the colder hemispheres beyond the northern territories. It was a tradition now repeated as a coming-of-age ceremony for aspiring Anunnaki warriors. Alim took a moment to think back to his own hunting ceremony. Even the colossal tusks of an eight-tonne bull had not been enough to impress his father.

  When they reached the back of the throne room, Alalnagal gestured for the prince to sit on the empty throne.

  ‘I think not, my lord.’

  ‘Why not?’ the chancellor said. ‘You are the “Conqueror of Ki?”. Is it not your right?’

  ‘I hold this city in the king’s name,’ Alim replied. ‘Until a new lord is declared, this throne belongs to my father.’

  The chancellor opened his mouth to retaliate but soon closed it—a rare moment where even he had found the prince’s reasoning sound. It was a small victory, but not the real reason Alim refused to sit in Dumuzid’s place. After subduing her homeland and slaying her father, Alim was determined to show Zuêna that he had not wished for any of it.

  The court of Ki? did not have to wait long. Heralded by a brief flourish of horns, flanked by an escort bannered in the yellowed tinctures of Sipa, she entered the throne room barefoot, a sign of humility in the face of her father’s defeat.

  Seeing her, Alim could not help himself. ‘Zuêna,’ he called out. Tall, golden-eyed and obsidian-skinned, she was as beautiful as the day he had left her one hundred years ago.

  Dropping to her knees before the throne, Zuêna bowed to him, keeping her gaze averted. ‘Your Highness,’ came her soft reply.

  Despite her attempts to hide it, Alim could see the puffiness surrounding her shining eyes, evidence that she had been crying. The thought of her grief made the weight of Imhullu belted to his side feel onerous. It caused him to hesitate, his chest tightening, giving Alalnagal all the time he needed to step forward and take command of proceedings.

  ‘Why have you come here, Zuêna? You have been a lady of Sipa these one hundred years. Your husband has no business in Ki?.’

  Zuêna gave another bow. ‘Your Lordship. I have come to oversee my father’s funeral.’

  ‘Then your journey has been a wasted one. Dumuzid was a traitor. Had His Highness not ended him with his own hand, he would have faced the Traitor’s Pot, reduced to feeding swill for Dilmun’s swine.’

  Zuêna lifted her eyes, finally meeting Alim’s gaze. ‘For that, I thank His Highness. You gave my father an honourable death.’

  Alim released the breath he had been holding.

  She thanks me? Praise, Marutuk!

  Alalnagal pressed on. ‘It changes nothing. Dumuzid died a traitor; he will not receive his death rites—his body will be carved up and left for the scavenging beasts.’

  The mood of the surrounding court darkened upon the sounding of the chancellor’s words. For the Anunnaki, cremation was the accepted method of processing a body, allowing the deceased’s soul to ride the lulilimul—the “star winds”—back to the homeworld. Even now, under Alim’s orders, Dumuzid’s corporeal vessel was being prepared for the journey, encased in a preservative bed of embalming salts. What Alalnagal proposed instead was nothing short of cruel; the fragments of Dumuzid’s spirit would be bound to Namtaki for all eternity, denied the chance of coalescence with their primordial ancestors and the homeworld that entombed them.

  ‘Dumuzid fell in single combat,’ Zikê reminded with a growl. ‘He was slain by a sword with a name. His body deserves every—’

  ‘The king’s justice does not bow to your sentinel’s creed!’ Alalnagal snapped.

  ‘Silence,’ Alim said, speaking broadly so that all within the chamber could hear. ‘Dumuzid has already paid for his defiance with his life. I see no need to punish his soul in death.’ He looked down at Zuêna. ‘You may proceed with your preparations, my lady.’

  Her black, clouded hair bejewelled within a golden headdress, Zuêna audibly jangled as she touched her head to the floor. ‘Your Highness, I thank you.’

  Tired of seeing her on her knees, Alim moved down from the raised stonework housing the city’s throne to help her to her feet. All around, the members of the surrounding court seemed to lean in, straining to listen from the edge, but Alim made sure his words were for her ears alone.

  ‘Zuêna. I’m—’

  Zuêna did not hesitate to cut across him. ‘I meant what I said, Alim. You saved my idiot father from the Pot. There is nothing else to forgive.’

  Alim allowed himself to breathe a little easier. ‘The years have treated you well. You—hah... you haven’t changed a day.’

  ‘You have,’ she replied, studying him.

  ‘This... pleases you?’

  Flirtation simmered within a coy little smile. ‘Perhaps. Is it true you still love me?’

  ‘You’re a married woman now, my lady. I wouldn’t dream of sullying your honour.’

  ‘That’s a shame. There’ll be many days between now and my father’s ascension. How else are we going to entertain ourselves?’

  Excitement bubbled in Alim’s stomach. From the look in her golden eyes, it seemed she knew exactly where they could start.

  Behind them, Alalnagal had grown impatient. ‘Your Highness. There is still the matter of the traitor’s tribute. A funeral will be expensive. Should we simply add it to the city’s debt?’

  Before Alim could close him down, Zuêna turned to face him.

  ‘Your Lordship—if it pleases the king—I have brought enough tribute to pay for my father’s rites and absolve his debts.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Alalnagal sniffed. ‘You are a mere wife of Sipa.’

  ‘Your Lordship, forgive me, but I was a daughter of Ki? long before I was a wife of Sipa.’

  Alim beamed. To his left, Halad released an appreciative snort.

  ‘That may be,’ Alalnagal continued, prickled with irritation. ‘But Sipa has already paid its tribute. It would be unjust to—’

  ‘The tribute is not from my lord husband. It is my bride price.’

  A wave of unrest punctuated her words. Among the Anunnaki nobility, the gifting of abzu was just as crucial as exchanging vows. If he were worth having, all grooms were expected to offer up a portion of their personal cache as a gift to keep their new wife young and beautiful for as long as they could afford. Alim remembered how much he had been prepared to provide in exchange for Zuêna’s hand. It would’ve been enough to pay for the city’s debts three times over. ‘Zuêna,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t do this.’

  Zuêna ignored him. ‘Please, Your Lordship,’ she announced boldly over the hum of the court. ‘For the restoration of peace, please accept my tribute.’

  Up ahead, a covetous look of opportunity had appeared upon Alalnagal’s face. ‘In the name of the king,’ he announced. ‘I accept your tribute. The city of Ki? is absolved of its debts.’

  Knowing that the chancellor had been making regular calls to the city’s etemenanki upon the mound, the court breathed a sigh of relief, but Alim was not moved to share in their joy. Though Zuêna had saved them, it had been at the cost of her bride price—her entire cache of abzu. Without it, she would be forced to age out. Alalnagal knew this; the cruelty of his smirk made it plain.

  ‘I know that face, my prince,’ Halad said, stepping close. ‘I’d like to remind you that you can’t kill him, no matter how much the bastard gloats.’

  Alim looked to Zuêna, taking the opportunity from the surrounding hubbub to gather with the city’s noblemen. ‘It’s not fair. She’s been left with nothing.’

  Zikê moved forward to join their conversation. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, still refusing to use the more informal address of “my prince”. ‘The people of Ki? loved their lord. They will not abandon his daughter to endure the indignity of tilud.’

  Alim shook his head. ‘So, she’ll spend her life stooping to the charity of others?’ His eyes settled upon the empty throne. ‘We can give her better than that.’

  ‘Is it wise to antagonise the chancellor, Your Highness?’

  Halad chuckled. ‘We have made something of a sport of it, tagup.’

  Zikê appeared only subtly encouraged by his counterpart’s use of the Old Speech term for “comrade”.

  Flanked by his two sentinels, Alim looked up towards Alalnagal. ‘Lady Zuêna has demonstrated great loyalty,’ he said, projecting his voice wide to ensure everyone present could hear his words. ‘Do you not agree, my lord?’

  Alalnagal’s triumphant smirk faltered as the court fell silent. ‘I... I do not disagree, Your Highness.’

  ‘In the history of our great kingdom, has a bride price ever been offered as tribute?’

  ‘I... I do not believe—’

  ‘Surely, my father would wish to reward such an unprecedented act of loyalty?’

  Alim saw the hinges of the chancellor’s jawline squeeze together. ‘She has been rewarded enough,’ he said. ‘Her traitor father will receive his death rites.’

  Halad folded his arms. ‘Is that your opinion, Your Lordship, or the king’s?’

  ‘I refuse to be questioned by a—’

  ‘My lord,’ Alim commanded, putting on a playful air of impatience. ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘I am the king’s representative here,’ Alalnagal sniffed, lifting his chin to the air. ‘I ensure his will is carried out.’

  The court began to mutter. Many had interpreted his confidence as arrogance. ‘But I do not assume to comprehend all that the king wills!’ the chancellor then added, quick to realise his mistake.

  Alim struggled to contain his glee. ‘So... once you have overseen my father’s orders, you do not have the mandate to create new ones or obstruct those made in his stead?’

  ‘Your Highness, I fail to see the relevance of this!’

  To Alim’s surprise, it was Zikê who stepped forward next. ‘His Highness has asked you a question, Your Lordship. It is not your place to query its—’

  ‘No!’ Alalnagal snapped. ‘I do not have the mandate!’

  Alim feigned ignorance. ‘Is there... anyone in this room who does?’

  ‘You, Your Highness,’ Alalnagal answered, the admission sounding almost painful. ‘As the crown prince, your will can take precedence in the king's absence.’

  ‘I see.’

  Alim paused after that, allowing the tension to build for what he planned to say next. The court of Ki? leaned in—rapturous, enthralled. Within the heady silence, his eyes met with Zuêna’s, embered amber against burnished gold.

  ‘I declare Lady Zuêna to be the new Lord of Ki?.’

  The throne room erupted, the surrounding court whirling in the thrill of such a political spectacle. Alalnagal tried to screech above the disorder, but his protests were lost amidst the roar. ‘Alim!’ Zuêna exclaimed at one point, rushing out from amongst the chaos to take hold of the prince’s wrist. ‘I came here to burn my father and settle his debts! Nothing more!’

  ‘And now you have a city,’ Alim winked, pulling her close. ‘You can thank me later.’

  But as the revelry of the Ki? continued, an Igegi slave looked up from Zuêna’s escort, her brown eyes kindled—unnoticed—as they studied the Anunnaki prince standing amongst them. ‘Marutukgedu,’ the voices around her murmured.

  Marutuk reborn.

  https://www.reddit.com/r/ABZU_Tetralogy/