CHAPTER SEVEN | KI?

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

  ‘Empedocles once philosophised that the universe is governed by two forces—each essential, neither one inherently good nor evil. Too much of either would leave Creation sterile. That which Love binds, Strife will set free. That which Strife separates, Love will unify.’

  – from ‘Catechisms of the Dyad’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  Alim awoke to find the warmth of Zuêna’s tongue tracing slow circles across his navel. She smiled and purred when he reached down to retrieve her. ‘Do you truly wish me to stop, Your Highness?’

  Alim grinned, his head sinking back into the pillows atop her reed-woven bed. Outside, a deep yellow sun clung low on the horizon, but its beauty was lost on him. After Zuêna had guided him to rapture and back, he spent the rest of the sunrise just as determined to return the favour.

  ‘So,’ she declared afterward, ‘that proves it, then.’

  Alim frowned—not the reaction he had been expecting.

  ‘I never taught you how to do that,’ she said, arching a brow over glistening golden eyes. ‘How many others have there been these past hundred years?’

  ‘Seems you’re quite the expert yourself,’ Alim countered, sliding over the curves of her body. ‘Remind me to thank your husband.’

  ‘Swine!’ Zuêna gasped, laughing as they tangled together once more.

  The second time Alim awoke was far less pleasant than the first. The soft amber glow of sunrise had given way to a mid-morning glare, broken only by the blurred outline of the Anunnaki sentinel looming over him.

  ‘It is well past morning, Your Highness.’

  As the details of Zikê’s face came into view, Alim instinctively clutched at the surrounding bed linens. Nearby, Zuêna’s ladies-in-waiting twittered with amusement. Their mistress had long since departed, but—for the sixth morning in a row—they had taken it upon themselves to straighten her chambers, grunt work usually reserved for lower-class attendants.

  Alim felt his cheeks burn beneath their yellow-gold stares, a striking contrast against their midnight-black skin. Zikê, meanwhile, glowered a colder shade of citrine, his face like thunder.

  ‘Halad requests your presence in the training yard, Your Highness.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alim replied, sitting up. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’

  Without another word, the sentinel turned and strode out of the chamber, abandoning Alim to the surrounding gaggle of women.

  ‘Ladies,’ he greeted stiffly, his grip tight upon the linens as he shuffled towards the edge of the bed.

  ‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ they chorused in sickly unison.

  Scurrying between her towering mistresses like a pest amongst claws, only the Igegi female—the sole member of Zuêna’s personal entourage doing any meaningful work—seemed wholly uninterested in his morning state of undress.

  ‘A gift from my husband,’ Zuêna had explained during their first night of reunion, days earlier. ‘Thing was positively feral when she arrived—almost clawed poor Mu?ana?e to shreds when we tried to free the wilderness from her hair.’

  ‘Your husband gifted you a wild-born?’

  ‘Perhaps he hoped such a ferocious beast might solve a problem for him,’ Zuêna had mused, marking Alim’s subsequent horror with a humoured chuckle.

  ‘Relax. She’s since proved herself perfectly harmless.’

  Alim took a moment to study the Igegi as she prepared him a water basin. In Dilmun, Namtaki’s indigenous were forbidden from working in the Royal Palace, relegated to menial labour such as quarrying or fieldwork instead. So, although an Igegi maid had seemed highly irregular at first, his nightly visits to Zuêna’s chambers had quickly enlightened him as to why the new Lord of Ki? was content to keep her around.

  Admittedly, much of it was likely born from a desire to one-up her husband, but as luck would have it, the female appeared reasonably intelligent, possessing a surprising amount of initiative before requiring an explicit command from an Anunnaki master.

  Judging by her appearance, Alim guessed she had been captured from the feral packs roaming the highland wildernesses to the north: her brown skin was a little too fair to be of the savannah troupes past the deserts to the west, and—though somewhat underfed—her powerful legs and lean arms spoke of an adolescence spent wading through snow and scrambling over rocks.

  ‘Saharu!’ barked Mu?ana?e—Zuêna’s chief lady-in-waiting—as she spotted what the Igegi was doing, causing the creature to freeze mid-motion. ‘Take that away! Bring abzu!’

  ‘Wash-water will do,’ Alim said, gesturing for the slave to leave the basin where it was. He had bathed in abzu before leaving his home city of Dilmun over two moons ago, and— though his bimonthly submersion was overdue—he did not yet feel the telltale ache that signalled the need to replenish his youth.

  The court lady bit her lower lip. ‘It’s no trouble, Your Highness. I find there’s nothing better than a soothing bath of abzu after a long night of... exertion.’

  Her hesitation over that final word stirred up another wave of tittering laughter from her companions.

  ‘Perhaps another time,’ Alim said.

  Curtseying as one, Zuêna’s ladies-in-waiting were mercifully quick to interpret his response as a plea for privacy. Sighing in relief as their giggling conversation receded down the outer corridor, he glanced back at the Igegi kneeling nearby.

  ‘Women, huh?’

  Keeping her gaze averted, the Igegi did not respond, though her silence did not surprise him. Save for the occasional snarl or grunt, it had long been accepted that she and others of her species were largely clueless about the communications around them. There were rare instances of slaves imitating a few words of the Anunnaki tongue, but they often failed to use their mimicked vocabulary in the appropriate context.

  ‘Keep your words simple,’ Halad had advised when the king had once tasked them with surveying the slave billets that supplied Dilmun’s salt evaporation ponds—one of the fiefdom’s chief economic exports. ‘You’ll only confuse them otherwise.’

  ‘Clothes,’ Alim announced plainly as he rose from the bed.

  Without hesitation, the Igegi female crossed the chamber to recover the tunic she had left folded nearby, the soft patter of her feet echoing in the quiet as he crouched over the washbasin she had prepared.

  No doubt, there was another reason why Zuêna preferred an Igegi slave over an Anunnaki attendant—one that Alim was steadily discovering for himself.

  Though Zuêna valued all her ladies—Mu?ana?e, in particular—one could never fully relax around them. Gossip was endemic in Anunnaki society, and even the most trusted servant would be hard-pressed to remain loyal when offered a measure of abzu in exchange for a shameful tidbit or scandalous rumour.

  But that fear was put to rest when the Igegi was present, allowing Zuêna to act and behave without the dread of watching eyes.

  Alim could not deny that he had felt it too—the weightlessness that allowed him to float far from the pressures of manners and protocol, exhilarating for one whose every action was constantly scrutinised by his father, the king.

  After cleansing his body of the morning’s mischief, Alim dunked the top of his head into the basin, wetting the dense curls of his coal-black hair.

  He felt the hands of the Igegi come to him then, lightly teasing out sleep-borne tangles with a wide-toothed comb before applying scented sesame oil with gentle hands. Alim closed his eyes and released a bone-deep sigh as her fingertips ran firmly against his scalp.

  It was the sixth morning in a row the slave had prepared him like this, the first eliciting fits of laughter from Zuêna as she attempted to explain to the Namtaki native that Anunnaki men and women had different morning routines.

  Seeing her smile had been all the encouragement Alim needed to permit the slave to finish. Now, he had simply grown to enjoy the novelty of it. He had never received such pampering as a legion commander—nor even as the kingdom’s crown prince.

  Even more reason to drag out our stay, he thought.

  Halad, however, was of a very different mind.

  ‘The people of Ki? grow restless, my prince,’ the sentinel had informed him a day after Zuêna’s rise to provisional lordship. ‘I will see that the men are readied for our return to Dilmun by the end of the week.’

  With the memory of his first late-night reunion with Zuêna still fresh, Alim had baulked at his sentinel’s assertiveness.

  ‘We will stay for Dumuzid’s ascension.’

  ‘My prince—’

  ‘I have spoken, Halad.’

  Outside his thoughts, Alim felt the hands of the Igegi leave him, the sound of dripping water filling the silence as she washed the excess oil from her fingers. She returned once he was dressed, helping to straighten out the pleats of his tunic as they ran beneath the leather band of his sword belt.

  In truth, it had never sat well with him that his own people had essentially robbed the Igegi of their homeworld—the very same act their own legends vilified the world-eating Tiamat for.

  ‘The Igegi were created to serve us,’ a tutor had once argued. ‘They’re inferior in every way.’

  ‘How could they have been created for us?’ Alim had queried. ‘They lived on this planet as an independent species long before we arrived. For a hundred millennia, some say.’

  ‘And they were savages, young master. No better than the beasts that squat in the mud or eat their own young for nutriment. We civilised them. Raised them to a higher purpose.’

  ‘Toiling in our fields and salt ponds is a higher purpose?’

  Alim had received three strikes for that last comment, though such punishments never did much to dissuade him. Only the sudden disappearance of his mother succeeded where his teachers had failed. ‘She also liked to think the Igegi are more than what they are,’ his father would say, his words more menacing than any sting of the cane. ‘Perhaps, you too, are mad.’

  As the slave continued to neaten his tunic, Alim could not help but study her.

  Though not as tall as an Anunnaki woman, her height was notable for an Igegi female, the top of her head only a few inches below his shoulder. And though he often marvelled at Zuêna’s voluminous black curls, he could not deny that there was a certain pleasing novelty to the slave’s soft brindled hair, flowing long and thick like a river of earth flecked with sunlight.

  Curious, Alim peered down at the wedge-shaped impressions stamped upon the crude copper collar locked around her neck. ‘This one is the property of Lady Zuêna,’ the glyphs informed him. ‘This one is named Saharu.’

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  ‘Saharu,’ Alim murmured aloud, considering its translation: “A gift of dirt”.

  At the sound of her name, the Igegi flinched, briefly meeting his eyes before trained submissiveness returned them to her task. The moment was fleeting, but long enough for Alim to catch a glimpse of her deep brown irises, the colour of grain fields after the spring floods.

  Compared to the vivid clarity of the women he was used to, Alim had never thought such a colour could be so striking. The term “Igegi” meant “lustreless eyes”, after all, a mark of inferiority compared to the shining yellows, golds and ambers of their Anunnaki masters.

  Until now, Alim had never thought to consider the accuracy of the claim.

  Visibly trembling, Saharu went back to aligning the folds of his tunic, seemingly determined to finish the task as quickly as possible.

  It was only natural, Alim supposed, for her to hold such a fear of him. Though Zuêna appeared to treat her well, it was easy to see the countless thin white scars that striped her arms and upper torso—remnants of more than one encounter with a sharp-edged knife.

  Her cowering obedience had not arrived by accident. Rather, it was the result of frequent physical punishment—and, knowing his own people, not all of it likely justified.

  ‘Enough,’ he said when he could stand her anxious shivering no longer. ‘I will do it.’

  Whether from training or self-preservation, Saharu dropped fearfully to her knees.

  ‘No,’ Alim continued, realising too late what he had done. ‘I’m not angry at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. I just—’

  He cut himself off, unsure why he had even started to explain. Why should he care if she understood? What commonality could exist between an Anunnaki prince and an Igegi slave?

  Perhaps it was a sign of the loneliness he felt. His reunion with Zuêna had been gratifying, but ultimately bittersweet. The call of duty would soon pull them apart once more. There was no way she could ever truly be his.

  Below, the Igegi had cocked her head upward, stealing cautious glances of his face. Between the cautious flashes of her round brown eyes and the way her teeth pinched at her lower lip, she appeared almost... sympathetic.

  ‘Sa?nultuk,’ Alim muttered irritably, snatching up his sword Imhullu before exiting the chamber.

  Fool. She was Igegi—barely wiser than a feasting beast reared for its meat.

  There was no way under heaven she would ever understand.

  * * *

  The training fields adjoining the city barracks rang with the clash of weapons. Halad, fearful that the men of the King’s Legion were growing complacent, had roused them early for a gruelling practice.

  ‘Tênul!’ he barked at one of the infantrymen, his voice cutting through the clash of weapons as the rest continued to work through their drills, their dark, sweat-slicked backs glistening like basalt stones from the riverbed. ‘Overextend your strike again, and I’ll use that spear to make you a shadow puppet!’

  Standing beside the crown prince, Zikê blinked in disbelief. ‘This is how the might of Dilmun trains its warriors?’

  Alim chuckled as he tended to his shortsword. ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘It’s... unorthodox,’ Zikê said, eyeing the prince, ‘but I suppose the methodology must be sound, considering it produced a swordsman such as yourself, Your Highness.’

  ‘Don’t let Halad hear you say that. His head’s big enough as it is.’

  The sentinel fell silent, watching the crown prince as he polished Imhullu’s tapering blade, coaxing it to a silver-bright sheen. He seemed distracted, uncharacteristically disinterested in maintaining conversation beyond a few polite sentences. After the depravity Zikê had been forced to witness over the past several days, he was more than happy to oblige. It was one thing to find himself bonded to the man who had bested his master; it was something else entirely to serve him as he repeatedly sullied the sanctity of Zuêna’s marriage vows. He knew he needed to find a way out of this loathsome contract—to leave this world with what remained of his reputation. Every breath beyond Dumuzid’s last was an insult to his creed.

  ‘Would you like to spar, Your Highness?’

  Alim paused with his whetstone. ‘Spar?’

  ‘Yes. I could show you some combinations from Ki?.’

  Zikê watched as Alim surveyed the faces of the soldiers gathered around them, studying them as they, in turn, studied the men of Dilmun. After three weeks, the truce between the two armies hung by a thread, and despite Halad’s best efforts to temper their pride, the men of the King’s Legion grew more boastful with each passing day. The soldiers of Ki?, meanwhile, had only grown increasingly restless for revenge.

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ the prince said, returning to his sword.

  Wise, Zikê conceded. Sparring would look too much like a rematch—a gamble with few happy outcomes. If the prince outshone his new sentinel, he risked angering the Ki? even further, yet anything less than that threatened to cast doubt on his recent victory. Still, Zikê pressed on, determined.

  ‘Your Highness, you... do wish me to serve as your sentinel, do you not?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I must ensure you are prepared for all you may face. I... would not wish to fail a second master.’

  Zikê summoned the most pitiful expression he could muster.

  Finally, the prince relented. ‘Very well. It would be foolish of me to refuse your offer of wisdom, tagup.’

  Zikê bowed his head to hide his snarl. Tagup—“comrade”—the word tasted like ash in his mouth.

  ‘But let us use wasters,’ the prince added, sheathing his sword within a scabbard of smoothed palmwood, etched—as all noble scabbards were—with the ancient glyphs of Marutuk’s four basal teachings: bi?, za, ?a, and zid—bravery, wisdom, sympathy, and justice.

  ‘Afraid I’ll cut you, Your Highness?’

  Alim grinned at the quip. ‘I’m as ready for a scar as the next man,’ he said. ‘But I’ve just finished polishing Imhullu for tonight’s feast. I’m not one to parade a dusty blade.’

  ‘Very well,’ Zikê said, reaching down to remove his own adama-forged weapon: a sickle-shaped blade named Usaka, the Sword of the Crescent Moon. ‘Wasters it is.’

  By now, their conversation had already drawn the attention of the surrounding soldiers. Without command or signal, they formed a ring around them both, their shining eyes burning with the promise of combat. Sensing danger, many Dilmun legionnaires abandoned their drills, stepping forward to shield their commander. Within moments, Halad had fought to the centre of the throng, exchanging a few stern words with the prince once he had confirmed his safety.

  Yet, despite his passionate counsel for calm, the prince was determined. ‘We will tell our men to disperse, tagup,’ Halad said as Alim picked up a wooden practice sword behind him, testing its weight with a casual flourish. ‘This is a place of instruction. We shall treat it as such.’

  Zikê glanced at his Ki?. ‘You heard him. Leave.’

  A groan of disappointment rippled through the ring. Across the field, the men of Dilmun let out a comparable sound of discontent as Halad barked a similar order.

  ‘Show him, Zikê,’ one of the Ki? officers muttered as the training grounds began to clear. ‘Make him bleed.’

  With a flick of his foot, Zikê twirled a practice sword up off the ground.

  ‘I’ll do more than that.’

  * * *

  Alim stared across the sunbaked dirt, the air between them shimmering with heat. Ahead, Zikê looked like a bowstring ready to snap, his wooden sword held in a low-guard stance. ‘We call this one gidkun,’ the sentinel explained.

  Long tail, Alim translated, lowering his sword to match.

  ‘Useful for a strong rising cut,’ the sentinel continued, his narrow eyes almost citrine-like beneath the noonday sun. ‘From here, finish into dasa?ki.’ He shifted fluidly, demonstrating. ‘You try, Your Highness.’

  Alim performed the combination, ending with the wooden practice sword raised beside his head, presenting its near-side face to the sun bearing down overhead.

  ‘Good,’ Zikê said. ‘Dasa?ki should be avoided as an opening stance, but as a finisher, you can use it to protect yourself against various counterattacks.’

  ‘Child’s play,’ Halad scoffed. ‘Are you training him or rocking him to sleep, tagup?’

  Alim paused to give his sentinel a critical look, catching the tactic at once. Anger Zikê just enough, and the sentinel might turn his challenge on his peer instead, sparing Alim altogether.

  ‘Point taken,’ Zikê said. ‘The prince is already well versed in the passive stances.’

  The gold in Halad’s eyes faded. ‘Passive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zikê said, his tone flat. ‘Dumuzid dictated the pace and course of their bout. It makes me wonder if the prince knows any offensive stances at all.’

  Without a word, Alim lifted the practice sword above his head. A slight against his own skill he could endure, but not against Halad’s teachings. As Zikê’s gaze darkened, Alim knew his choice of stance had been recognised. Annalal. Tower. The same opening that Dumuzid had used weeks earlier.

  ‘A bold choice, Your Highness. But do you know how to use it?’

  When Halad noted Alim’s irritation, it was already too late. The prince lunged forward, powerful and fluid, a bolt within the storm. For a moment, Halad felt a brief swell of pride as Zikê was forced to surrender ground, meeting the firm edges of Alim’s ceaseless advance with thin wooden cracks. But then, having lured the prince close, the sentinel countered with a merciless flourish, trapping the prince’s right arm within a vice-like grip.

  ‘For Dumuzid.’

  Alim heard the snap before he felt it, an eerie moment of weightlessness before the sharp pain of reality. He remembered looking down at the angle of his hand, the impossible position of his palm explained only by the break Zikê had ruthlessly enacted. Teetering between agony and unconsciousness, Alim heard a distant roar as Halad surged forward.

  According to some accounts, the bout that followed had been comparable to the legends. Alim, however, could not attest to the truth of it. At that moment, the adrenaline dulling his pain receptors had dissipated, allowing his body to finally respond to its trauma. Legs buckling, the last thing he consciously remembered was an intense flood of nausea and how rough the dirt felt when it scraped against his cheek.

  * * *

  When Alim regained consciousness, his body felt like it had been carved from stone. ‘What happened?’ he grumbled, blinking up at the vague outline above his bed. The hours following his injury had passed in a blur, and he could still taste the bitter, cloying trace of h?lulu? upon his tongue, a sedative derived from the seeds of the joy plant. The damage to his arm must’ve been severe for palace physicians to resort to such a potent remedy, though he did not yet have the stomach to check.

  The shadow hovering over stirred. ‘Zikê put you on your arse, that’s what!’

  Alim tensed at the anger in Halad’s voice. ‘Where is Zikê?’

  ‘Currently locked in a pillory, Your Highness,’ came a cold, measured response. ‘I have scheduled his execution to take place in the morning.’

  The voice hadn’t been Halad’s, and as more of the room came into focus, Alim turned his head to find Chancellor Alalnagal’s narrow, self-righteous face peering out from within a sea of restless physicians.

  ‘Release him immediately.’

  Alalnagal scoffed. ‘Release the man who sought to kill you?’

  ‘It is a broken arm, my lord, not an assassination attempt.’

  ‘Your Highness, I strongly advise you to reconsider. He openly attacked a—’

  ‘My fault,’ Alim said, his words clipped but resolute. ‘I goaded him. See that he is released and that his injuries are attended to.’

  Alalnagal shot him a biting look. ‘Injuries, Your Highness?’ He turned to survey Halad with a marked look of disdain. ‘Your sentinel barely touched him.’

  Alim snapped back to Halad, his stomach twisting as he finally took in the bruises and scrapes marring the sentinel’s face and arms. The sight struck him like a blow. In all the years he had known him, Halad had never conceded a hit from anybody.

  ‘Lusag?u, you... you’re hurt—’

  Halad flashed him a bristling, gold-eyed look before turning away. ‘Chancellor, the feast will begin soon, and we ought to have at least one of us present to attend the Lady Zuêna. Perhaps you should see to the prince’s orders before you turn in to dress?’

  Alim hardened in alarm. The feast tonight marked the first of two commemorative evenings leading up to Dumuzid’s cremation, and he would be damned if Alalnagal would be the one sat next to Zuêna. ‘There is no need, Halad. I will be there.’

  ‘No. You will stay here and rest.’

  ‘It is only a broken—’

  ‘You’ve been skybound on the joy plant for the past three hours,’ Halad growled. ‘Further excitement is the last thing you need.’

  With the thought of missing the evening gnawing through him, Alim went to push himself up, but the moment he moved, his right arm seized with a sickening flare of pain, the sharp burn of it making him crash back into the mattress. He hissed a curse through his teeth, the world spinning.

  ‘We set it as best we could, Your Highness,’ a physician said, his voice nervous. ‘But the damage to the nerves has been... considerable.’

  Alim’s breath caught as he forced himself to look at his arm. Bound within a crude wooden splint, it was hideously swollen, streaked with an obscene palette of bruises from purpled black to sickly yellow. Where the bone had ruptured through the skin, the tearing gash was grotesque, hurriedly stitched with blood-soaked threads.

  ‘What... what does that mean?’

  ‘It means you’ve likely lost the full use of your hand,’ Halad growled as the physicians murmured trembling apologies. ‘Still feel like turning Zikê loose?’

  Alim glared up at him. ‘Why are you being such a bastard?’ he spat.

  ‘Because I have an arrogant fool for a ward! What were you thinking? Zikê is a sentinel. Five hundred years your senior!’

  ‘Dumuzid was nine hundred years my senior—I bested him, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, I see. You defeat one fat lord and suddenly think yourself the greatest swordsman to have ever lived?’

  ‘Of course not! He just wanted to show me some combinations. I didn’t... I didn’t think it would turn into what it did.’

  ‘Then we can add the fault of foolishness to your arrogance! Zikê has been tainted with the shame of a dead master—denied the path of the ugnigan blade; he will take any and every opportunity to restore his honour!’

  Alim felt his insides twist. ‘It was just a sparring match, Halad! You make it sound like I lost an entire war!’

  ‘Sa?nultuk! Can you not see that you have risked everything? The people of Ki? were broken. They feared you. By Marutuk! Marvelled you even! Zikê has given them a reason to believe in the strength of their own again.’

  Alim flinched. ‘They plan to take back the city?’

  ‘They already have the city. You gave it to Zuêna. Remember?’

  ‘Then what is the—?’

  ‘The problem is you! You killed their lord and bed their lady!’

  ‘Dumuzid asked me to kill him! You even encouraged it!’

  ‘And what of Zuêna? Are you truly content in reducing her to a whore?’

  This time, when Alim pushed himself up from the bed, the potency of his anger was enough to dull the pain. ‘Worm!’ he shouted, squaring up to Halad as soon as he got to his feet. ‘It takes the son of a whore to know one! How dare you speak to me in such a way! I am your prince!’

  The words had come from a dark place, the side of himself he always endeavoured to keep hidden. Low-blow insults and one-sided demands were too much... his father’s way.

  ‘The prince has had a trying day,’ Halad said, the pride he had displayed only hours ago seemingly all but gone as his golden eyes began to swim. ‘He needs rest.’

  With the realisation that their quarrelling had been observed, Alim felt his cheeks surge with heat as he turned to view the room.

  ‘The sentinel is right,’ Alalnagal commented, his face nauseatingly humoured as Halad promptly stormed out of the room. ‘Fetch His Highness ?imsani?sig—I hear it is a delightful aid for sleep.’

  Alim glowered. ?imsani?sig—“the purple herb”—an incense commonly used by weary mothers to calm their irritable babes. ‘That will not be necessary, my lord.’

  Clearly enjoying himself, Alalnagal persisted. ‘Fear not, Your Highness,’ he jibed as the surrounding physicians filtered out of the chamber. ‘I will see that the Lady Zuêna is well attended in your absence.’

  Alim turned away, fearful he no longer had the restraint to maintain eye contact. ‘Just be sure to release Zikê before anything else,’ he said. ‘I do not want him harmed. Understood?’

  Alalnagal simpered. ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’

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