CHAPTER NINE | KI?

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

  ‘Fate is a dog—well able to bite.’

  – Ancient Sumerian Proverb, as cited in ‘Prisca Theologia’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  Arms burdened with dried fruit and fresh water, the Igegi slave Saharu tried to remain unseen as she stepped into the prince’s bedchamber. A sickening sense of unease had fallen over the palace of Ki?. Following the scandal of Zikê’s actions three days prior, the broken son of King Alulim had awoken in a terrible mood.

  ‘Cease your fussing, woman.’

  Zuêna stopped fluffing the prince’s pillows and retook her seat at his bedside. ‘Forgive me for trying to make you comfortable.’ She poured him a goblet of water after Saharu had placed the refreshments within reach.

  ‘Enough,’ the prince grumbled, waving her offering away.

  Zuêna gave him a wearied look. ‘Alim, please. You must drink.’

  ‘Not that flavourless piss. Bring me saga.’

  Saga—a potent alcoholic spirit distilled from malted grains and infused with honey. Saharu glanced at Zuêna for confirmation, but her Anunnaki mistress didn’t appear keen on the idea; it was only mid-morning, and the prince had managed to drain a full jug already. ‘How about another game?’ she said, gesturing towards a nearby balni?ba board.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I could summon a musician—?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Well, what would you like to do?’

  ‘If you’re bored, leave.’

  Zuêna blinked, visibly stung. ‘You don’t want me here?’

  ‘You’re not bound to me. Do as you wish.’

  ‘Fine. But at least allow Saharu to stay with you.’

  Saharu shied into the farthest corner of the bedchamber when she felt the prince’s amber-burn eyes flash towards her.

  ‘Whatever the hell for?’

  Zuêna sighed. ‘Your dressings will need changing soon.’ She looked out into empty corridors. ‘And you appear to have frightened every other capable person away.’

  The prince scoffed, incredulous. ‘What would an Igegi know of healing work?’

  ‘Saharu,’ Zuêna said, ignoring his protests as she rose from her chair. ‘You are to stay and care for the prince. He is not to leave this chamber. Understand?’

  Alim seemed humoured by her attempt to corral him. ‘You do realise I can just command her to leave, right?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Zuêna said. ‘I’m sure Mu?ana?e would be more than happy to serve in her place.’

  With the memory of the chief lady-in-waiting’s simpering absurdity still fresh, the prince conceded at once. ‘All right. The Igegi can stay.’

  Though he said the words, Saharu stayed in her corner long after her mistress had departed. He may have lacked the violent predilections of other seed-giving Tall Ones, but his injury had made him as changeable as a desert wind—blazing hot one minute, bitter cold the next. And for a slave whose survival now hinged on keeping him contained and content, waiting for that first command was sheer paralysis.

  ‘Saharu,’ the prince said at last, his voice low. ‘Bring saga. Lots of it.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the sun had reached its midday zenith that Saharu finally mustered the courage to tackle the prince’s dressings. Peeking out of his bedchamber towards a balcony shaded by potted date palms and fluttering canvas, she decided that now was as good a time as any. Halfway through his third jug of saga, the prince had drifted off into an alcohol-induced slumber. If she was quick and quiet, there was a chance he would wake without ever knowing she had been there at all.

  Armed with water, splints and clean strips of gauze, Saharu tip-toed across the balcony, taking her time as she knelt beside him, admiring how he lay—broad-shouldered, sensuously trim-waisted—upon an arboured daybed. His nearness stirred an old thrill—the same girlish awe she had felt the day the Voice-Beneath had named her, a young hunter of the highland tribes, naively optimistic of all her great destiny would bring.

  ‘You will be treated like vermin,’ the guiding goddess had warned, ‘but you must endure, or all shall perish.’

  Accompanied by the outrage of the observing tribal moot, her brother had soon stepped out into blue-lit waters to voice his displeasure. ‘Not my sister,’ he argued. ‘Choose someone else.’

  But the Voice-Beneath had spoken. ‘What was—must be again. It cannot be undone.’

  Saharu had not understood her brother’s anguish; the Tall Ones were strong and beautiful, and she had already long decided to give all of what she had to ensure the promise of the Twelvefold Path—the promise of a world washed of its sins. ‘How will I know?’ she asked. ‘How will I know when I’ve found him?’

  ‘Do the stars question their orbits?’ the Voice-Beneath answered. ‘Trust the Path, and you will know.’

  Being gentle so as not to rouse him, Saharu adjusted the prince’s arm so that it hung off the side of the daybed and began the awkward task of gently undressing his wound. Soaked through with the blue-shaded ichor of his people, the strips of fabric had a sour, musty smell, one that grew stronger the closer she got to the flesh beneath. Bad, she thought in alarm when she removed the final band of gauze, revealing a hastily sewn laceration that was swollen and hot to the touch. In his ongoing sulk against the recent twists of fate, the prince’s wound had begun to fester, and it would do him no good if she did not attempt to clean it first.

  Hoping that the prince’s inebriation would work in her favour, Saharu carefully took hold of the half-empty jug of saga still resting upon his chest and began to pour. ‘Marutukta!’ the prince yelped within moments; a word she knew the Tall Ones would use often—a cry to their great hero of old. ‘What are you doing?’

  Saharu hunched her shoulders out of habit, preparing for the punitive strike of a hand, but all she heard in its stead was the sound of his breathing, passing loudly through his nose as he waited for the pain to dissipate. ‘Ebanki,’ he eventually sighed—a Tall One curse against the universe. ‘It... it’s infected.’

  Saharu made a cautious glance upwards. With eyes of cindered bronze, the prince was studying his arm with a troubled look. ‘Saga,’ he said, noting the clay jug still gripped between her hands. ‘Not... not the worst idea, but—nulemedne?—you could’ve at least warned me first.’

  Despite his growled insult—nulemedne?: “stupid” or “tongueless thing”—Saharu relaxed; it appeared the prince had no desire to punish her. ‘Go ahead,’ he commanded, holding his arm outstretched. ‘Finish it.’

  Saharu swallowed thickly as she upended the jug for a second time. The moment the pale gold liquid touched the ugly gash marring the prince’s perfectly black skin, he seized with pain, the supple muscles lining his arms and shoulders pulsing with life. Taking pity on him, Saharu moved to cease the flow but let out a small gasp of surprise when the prince’s good hand shot out to take hold of her knee, just visible below the hem of her thin linen tunic. ‘Keep—going,’ he encouraged between short, quivering breaths, his eyes, shining and steadfast, burning through her with a determined look.

  Saharu shivered. Even when injured and half-blind on saga, the strength of the prince’s palm was still powerful enough to hold her firmly in place. Through his tightening grip, she felt the splendour of his species, a terrifying reminder of just how pathetically feeble her own people were in comparison.

  It wasn’t known from which region of stars the Tall Ones had fled; whenever questioned, the Voice-Beneath was always unhelpfully vague on the subject. All that was known was why they had come; banished from their homeworld after causing some offence to their own guiding goddess. Initially, relations between their two peoples had been harmonious, fostered upon the mutually beneficial exchange of resources and knowledge. For the First Chiefs, the arrangement had made perfect sense. Other than slight differences in their respective physiologies, there was more that connected them than set them apart, almost as if they were refractions from the same cosmic mirror—sibling species... reunited after having never been apart.

  The peace, of course, had never been destined to last. At some point, one of Saharu’s people must’ve trusted too easily—or a Tall One had taken too much—and with that betrayal, the hatred was born.

  Below, Alim suddenly huffed a wordless gasp of caution, his firm grip upon Saharu’s leg slipping away. When he began to tip forward, she lifted her hands to him, snarling as the jug was left to smash upon the floor.

  ‘Marutukta,’ the prince mumbled, his head rolling to the side as Saharu endeavoured to hold him up. ‘My... my bed. Quick.’

  She helped him as best she could, allowing the broadness of his pectorals to rest upon her shoulders as she supported his steps. The prince was not the tallest example of just how fearsomely towering a Tall One could become, but he still loomed over her by more than a head. It reminded her of the times she would hunker down and carry the harvested flesh of a mighty earth-tooth following the success of a Great Hunt.

  Strong legs, a fellow hunter had praised in the weeks leading up to her selection, moving their hands in the way of the silent gesture-language of the First Chiefs. Who better to carry the hopes of our people?

  Saharu remembered how her brother had quickly thrown a hollowed bone across the feasting fire. Busy your hands with something else, fool.

  What is it that you fear? she had asked him later, signing beneath the warm embrace of animal skins and crackling embers. To serve our people in such a way would be a wonderful thing.

  The Voice-Beneath does not see the one from the herd, her brother had replied. To Her, we are as the arrows and spears we wield.

  So? What is one life compared to the many?

  Her brother had responded to her logic with a hand over her heart.

  Everything.

  ‘Saharu,’ the prince groaned from the present. ‘The bed—hurry.’

  Saharu made a face of exertion as she heaved him back onto the comfort of his bed. The pain he was experiencing must’ve been profound, for as soon as he landed, he was reaching for a fourth jug of saga.

  Stop, Saharu signed without thinking, pushing him away with one hand whilst gesturing with the other.

  Despite his discomfort, the prince paused to consider her with a puzzled look. ‘What... what is that?’ he asked, staring down at her outstretched palm.

  Heart thumping with the speed of a drum, Saharu used his confusion to her advantage and snatched the saga from the bedside table.

  ‘Wait. Where are you going with that?’

  Backing away to the safety of the bedchamber walls, Saharu levelled her eyes to the floor.

  ‘Please,’ the prince continued. ‘My arm—you have to give me something.’

  Begrudgingly, Saharu returned the jug. He was right; though the splints aligning his arm had held out, she still needed to replace his bandages and denying him a way of relief would likely only end up doing more harm than good.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Saharu snatched a look at the prince’s shining irises. Other than the occasional sprinkling of praise from Zuêna, it was the first time a Tall One had thanked her for anything.

  ‘Ready yourself,’ the prince then cautioned, seemingly unaware of the impact his words had wrought as he lifted the jug to his lips. ‘I’d rather not wake from this to find you only half done.’

  * * *

  Contrary to his warning, the prince slept soundly until the arrival of twilight. Labouring as discreetly as possible, Saharu shivered against a cold northern breeze as she readied his chambers for the encroaching night. Seated upon a wicker chair, padded with felt and inlaid with bronze, Alim watched her as she worked, the glow of his fire-bright eyes matching that of the freshly lit braziers dotted about him. Sharing the chamber’s seating area, a visiting physician had arrived to attend to the prince, unwrapping his still reasonably fresh bandages with contempt on his face. Glancing over to check on his condition for herself, Saharu felt her stomach twist in alarm when she noticed the prince, perhaps to distract himself from the pain, re-enacting the “stop” signal she had signed to him earlier. Despite her earnest wishes, his prior insobriety had clearly done nothing to stunt his memory.

  Saharu did her best to reassure herself. Determined to maintain the public perception of their enslaved workforce, she was well aware of how Tall Ones treated the few within her number who ever attempted to communicate. No signing, a fellow slave had signalled to her on the day of her capture some three years ago, a mere couple of weeks after she had departed her tribe to journey into the land of the Tall Ones. Looking back, it was a warning that had most likely saved her life. As the slaving caravan approached the northern city of Sipa, a young male, gasping in parched desperation, had signed to one of their captors for water. The Tall One responded by swiftly removing the boy’s hands.

  Things only got worse after that. Poked, prodded—stripped of her furs—the slave auction on the city’s outskirts had been next. Naked before the crowd, all Saharu remembered was how loud it was—the sounds, the sights, the smells—the commotion of all her senses working far beyond their normal limits, piercing her skin until the pain of it raked at her bones. Colossal and vivid, the Tall Ones had not appeared bothered by the disorder, speaking with the total weight of their throats as they shouted peculiar coalitions of sounds towards the auctioneer. Saharu could only stare in wide-eyed terror in the presence of such irreverence; among her people, the use of one’s voice was only permitted in the privacy between family members, or at times of rite and great necessity. Even then, they often deferred to hand-signing out of preference; silence was safety amongst the great dangers of the world.

  The Tall Ones have noted you, Highlander, her impromptu ally had explained once her sale was complete, listening in to the unintelligible babble coming from the mouths of their captors before signing a translation across a holding enclosure. You’ve been claimed by a chief.

  Saharu remembered trembling as she had repeated the slave’s final gesture. A chief?

  Each city has one. You’ll likely be a curiosity for him—a plaything.

  Saharu recalled a creeping sense of panic. But I do not want him.

  The Tall Ones do not see the grace of life-bringers as we do, the slave had replied. In their eyes, the act of union is a trivial thing, owed to them by nature, taken when desired.

  Horrified, Saharu had pressed a silent sob to the back of her hand. This was not as had been agreed. The Voice-Beneath had said she would get to choose a Tall One of her liking.

  Focus, Highlander, her guide had continued. You must find other ways to be of use if you wish to survive. If not, you’ll be back here, valued only for fielding or worse.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Worse? Saharu had replied, wringing her hands in frustration. What can be worse than this?

  Whether out of mercy or impatience, the slave had chosen to ignore her question. The chief has a life-bringer of his own, one who is yoked to carry his seed and seek no other. Perhaps she can be of help?

  She’ll still be a Tall One, Saharu had replied. Tall Ones do not help.

  Highlander, her guide had reassured with one last smile. Not all within the forest is poison.

  Saharu hesitated as she lit the final brazier, banishing the lingering shadows darkening the prince’s chambers. There was a saying amongst her people: “The unsung assure the future”. She never found out the slave’s name, their fate, or why they had been so willing to risk their own safety to help her. She often wondered if the Voice-Beneath had guided their actions, pulling upon the strings of fate to ensure that Saharu would end up where she needed to be. But, even if there was the power to ask, she knew the goddess would only deny it. On destiny, the Voice-Beneath had always avowed the promise of choice but would equally threaten destruction if anyone desired a path different from the one She had ordained. It implied that all thought on the matter was contradictory, yet another unknowable truth that mortal creatures had seemingly been created to suffer without.

  After studying the prince’s wound for what had seemed like an uncomfortably long while, the attending physician finally delivered his diagnosis. ‘Your Highness, your idea to use saga was an astute one, but please permit me to apply a poultice; one cannot be too careful with a sickness of the flesh.’

  ‘If you must,’ the prince replied.

  ‘Slave!’ the physician barked, clicking his fingers towards the pile of disused bandages heaped at the prince’s feet. ‘Burn this filth at once!’

  Scampering forwards, Saharu did her best to mask a look of irritation as she scooped the remains of her healing work into her arms. Despite all that he had suffered earlier in the day, the prince had only worn her dressings for a few hours, the attending physician demanding to remove them the moment he had learned they were the work of a slave. ‘She is an Igegi, Your Highness,’ he had petitioned in disgust. ‘Permit me to have her taken away.’

  ‘Zuêna gave me strict orders to keep her here,’ the prince had replied. ‘You’d have me upset your lord tonight of all nights?’

  Carrying the bandages to one of the braziers upon the balcony, Saharu stopped to look out over the city of Ki? as she began casting them into the flames. Following the commemoration of Dumuzid’s ancestors three nights earlier, tonight was a celebration of the dead lord’s life, an opportunity to revel in his exploits, share stories of his childhood and reminisce on days of glory long past. With the sound of Tall One music and merriment rising from the city streets to greet the approaching night, all within the city appeared ready to participate. ‘Any excuse,’ Zuêna had reproached as she begrudgingly financed a doubling of the city watch.

  Following the foulness of the prince’s mood earlier in the morning, her mistress’s afternoon visit had been markedly tinged with disappointment. ‘No more saga,’ she had commanded, clearly irritated to find him passed out in his bed. ‘I will tell the chief physician to stop by if he needs something for the pain.’

  It had not taken Saharu long to determine the root of her mistress’s frustration. Upon hearing of her father’s death, Zuêna had shown no hesitation in journeying to Ki?, further evidence—perhaps—of her true motive. Though she wished her father a dignified send-off, she had never fully forgiven him for rejecting the prince’s marriage offer a hundred years ago. ‘He claimed it had been in my best interests,’ she had divulged during their journey south. ‘But—in the end—it was all just politics. Ki? is the second largest city in the kingdom, second only to the might of Dilmun. My father feared that any union between Alim and I would’ve only given the king more power, so... I was promised to Hagit? instead.’

  Continuing to load the disused bandages into the brazier, Saharu allowed her mind to go back further, back to when she had been presented to Zuêna for the first time. Though she had still felt scrambled by the chaos of the slave auction hours earlier, she did not need the full capacity of her mind to feel the tension between the Lord of Sipa and his lady wife.

  ‘An Igegi, lord husband?’

  Utterly ignorant of Tall One etiquette, Saharu remembered with embarrassment how she had stared so unashamedly at Sipa’s noble lady. Until then, she had only witnessed the towering dominance of the species’ seed-givers, but with awe in her heart, she saw that their life-bringers were willowed and lithe in comparison, sumptuously broad at the hips before tapering out into strikingly lissom limbs. Dressed in long lengths of silk wrapped intricately around her body—a form of Tall One clothing Saharu later learned to be called a ?ug?mizil—Zuêna was the most elegant creature she had ever seen, more heavenly, perhaps, than the Voice-Beneath Herself.

  Upon hearing his wife’s displeasure, Hagit?—the Lord of Sipa—had merely feigned ignorance. ‘What’s wrong? You said you needed a new maid.’

  ‘An Anunnaki maid. What do you expect Mu?ana?e and I to do with an Igegi?’

  ‘That’s the beauty,’ Hagit? said, ‘anything you wish. I’ve heard that hu?du are far more adaptable than samneed.’

  Zuêna’s bright golden eyes had flashed with alarm. ‘A wild-born? Are you mad?’

  ‘It’s called “investment”, dear wife—one that will pay back double once you’ve trained her.’

  Zuêna’s eyes had narrowed with suspicion. ‘For you or for me?’

  ‘She’s yours, dear one. Check her collar if you don’t believe me.’

  Saharu looked out across the darkening city of Ki? as she placed the last of the prince’s dressings into the brazier. Hagit?’s assurances to his wife were forgotten by nightfall. Bearing down upon her assigned sleeping place like a barrage of rocks, Saharu recalled his merciless grin as he carried out the twisted desires that had motivated his purchase in the first place. She remembered her pitiful attempts to stop him, her woeful cries to the Voice-Beneath when the lord responded to her struggle with sadistic barbarity. Was this the kind of union that destiny demanded? Was this the kind of love that would save the world?

  ‘Dalgerin was right,’ Hagit? had sneered at one point, a knife flashing in the darkness, his slithering tongue coming to lap at her skin. ‘Nothing sweeter than a wild-born.’

  Reaching for herself, Saharu traced her fingers over the scars crisscrossing her hands and forearms as the bandages burst into threads of light. Testament to her honourable nature, Zuêna had tried to help where she could—setting up Saharu’s bedroll within her own chambers, drip-feeding talk of her husband’s debauchery through the gossip of Sipa’s resident nobility—but Hagit? only seemed encouraged by their attempts to thwart him, as if they were a part of the perverted game he seemed determined to play. Eventually, it was only when the novelty of his newest plaything faded that the lord’s dogged assaults began to dwindle. ‘We should sell her,’ he had suggested to his wife one morning, ‘before she grows too old and loses her value. I hear Dalgerin is looking for a new breeder—’

  ‘No,’ Zuêna had replied.

  Saharu remembered fearing for her mistress when Lord Hagit?’s face had darkened. As per the advice she had received on the day of her purchase six moons earlier, she had been diligent in becoming a dependable attendant to her Tall One mistress, learning to comprehend the soft guttural timbre of her alien language, studying her people’s customs, culture and routines, acquiring skills in needlework to the point where her embroideries were often mistaken for Mu?ana?e’s. In truth, it was around this time that Zuêna had begun to depend on her more than even her established ladies-in-waiting, for it was not long after this that she privately denounced her own people’s falsehoods and began seeing Saharu as the sentient being she clearly was.

  ‘What do you mean, “no”?’ Hagit? had argued. ‘We could use the money to hire a proper servant for you—an Anunnaki this time—just like you wanted.’

  ‘I have spoken, lord husband,’ Zuêna had replied. ‘Saharu is not for sale.’

  ‘You forget —wife—that I’m the one who paid for her; she is mine to do with as I wish.’

  To that, Zuêna had merely started laughing, and Saharu had learnt enough of Tall One custom to understand why. Whilst Hagit? had used his own coin to obtain her, he had thoughtlessly placed Zuêna’s name on the metal collar she wore around her neck. In the eyes of the law, she was Zuêna’s and Zuêna’s alone.

  Though grateful to have been reprieved from the horror of a breeding camp, life within the palace of Sipa did not necessarily get any easier. Following Zuêna’s refusal, Hagit?’s interest in her took on a vengeful, almost fixated quality, as if he too had been captured by the allusion of sentience hiding behind her dull brown eyes. As the months turned to years, Saharu lived like a doll caught between two possessive children, forced every now and then, when Hagit?’s thirst could not be quenched elsewhere, to relive the horror of the night when her faith nearly broke.

  Returning herself to the bedchamber balcony with a nauseated shiver, Saharu watched as the brazier’s heat carried the last cindered fragment of the prince’s bandages into a darkly blue lapis sky. Though the hint of the sun’s glow remained faint on the horizon, its setting had ushered in a corresponding moonrise to the east, the heavenly body ascending, waxing and gibbous, from behind a far-distant ridge of mountains. Slipping quietly back into the bedchamber, Saharu hugged the surrounding walls as she made a break for the servant’s passage hidden behind a large tapestry. By now, the kitchens would’ve delivered the first of many courses to Dumuzid’s honorary feast, and if she was quick, there was still a chance she could fetch a plate of what remained for the prince’s evening meal—maybe even scrounge a little something for herself.

  ‘Saharu,’ the prince called from his chair. ‘Come here.’

  Saharu froze against the wall as the physician paused with his pestle and mortar. ‘Your Highness,’ he said firmly. ‘Please. The presence of an Igegi will tarnish my herbs.’

  The prince ignored him and pointed to a nearby spot on the floor. ‘Saharu. Sit.’

  Clenching her fingers around the hem of her tunic, Saharu obeyed the command.

  ‘Now,’ the prince said, turning back to the physician. ‘Explain to her what you’re doing.’

  The physician scoffed. ‘Explain the science of healing to an Igegi? Your Highness, I’d have better luck lecturing the walls.’

  Saharu shivered as the prince stared down the scholar with coal-fire eyes. ‘Indulge me, my lord.’

  Noting the prince’s growing impatience, the physician resumed without further argument. Despite his snide scepticism, Saharu found his methods easy enough to follow. Though they bore different names, much of the medicinal arsenal laid out before him were plants that she recognised, ground-gifts conjured from earth, sun and water for the benefit of all. What the Tall Ones called ?i?asal, her own people called “trembling-green”. Sesige?—“sun-drops”.

  ‘?e?kakus,’ the physician announced as he prepared the final herb. ‘Good for knitting the bones.’

  Saharu sniffed and frowned at the sight of the plant. Wet-root, she realised with a rush of alarm, noting its black, finger-like roots and strong-smelling leaves. It was safe when used externally, but not on an open wound like this.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to like that addition,’ the prince observed.

  Saharu cowered as the physician joined his inspection. It had been hard enough to endure the luminous stare of a single Tall One, let alone two.

  ‘Your Highness,’ the physician sighed. ‘Forgive me—I grow tired of this.’

  ‘Is the herb without risk?’ the prince asked.

  ‘No, but your body will stave off its more malignant properties. The Igegi may fear it, but we are Anunnaki. The blood of Marutuk makes us strong.’

  ‘I see,’ the prince pondered. ‘So, she bears more knowledge than you care to admit.’

  The physician scoffed at the suggestion. ‘Your Highness, quite the opposite. Her fear is clearly a conditioned response; even the grazing beasts have learnt to avoid the plant. The sentience you speak of is the ability to look past such basal emotions and perceive the truth. The plant will hasten your recovery. That is the only certainty you should be considering.’

  Saharu felt the prince’s gaze leave her then, and after enduring it for so long, she felt an unpleasant chill pass over her skin.

  ‘Apologies, my lord. Carry on.’

  Squeezing her fingers until they felt ready to snap, Saharu watched in dismay as the physician smeared the poultice onto the wound, ignoring how the prince immediately strained against the sting of its touch. ‘It’ll take a few moments to dry,’ the physician stated, pressing several amulets carved from precious stones into the moist, bitter-smelling mass. ‘But if it holds, you can leave it on until the new moon.’

  Glancing up toward the rapidly heightening discomfort upon the prince’s face, Saharu did her best to muzzle her outrage. Three weeks? He’ll be lucky to see morning!

  The prince shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Is it... is it meant to feel—?’

  ‘The pain will lessen once it dries,’ the physician interjected, appearing unconcerned as he redressed the prince’s arm with thick strips of cloth. ‘Though you are more than welcome to seek a second opinion.’

  Saharu gripped the rough tunic covering her thighs. Had he truly been so affronted by her healing work that he was prepared to harm the prince to massage his own pride?

  ‘Saharu,’ the prince groaned once the physician was gone. ‘Saga. Quickly.’

  Rising to her feet, Saharu stared down at the plant-sodden bindings, clenching her hands into fists as her instincts screamed at her to remove them.

  ‘Saharu. Please.’

  Saharu turned away, determined to hunt down the tallest jug she could find.

  * * *

  As promised, the prince’s discomfort improved once the poultice had hardened, even enabling him the strength to settle at a cedarwood desk to catch up with some administrative duties. Against Lady Zuêna’s strict instructions, Saharu made sure to keep a jug of saga at the ready, topping up his drinking goblet every time she sensed it growing dry. ‘I’m hungry,’ he announced at one point, turning to consider her as she sat embroidering upon a reed-woven mat lined with candles and cushions. ‘Go fetch us something.’

  Gladdened that his appetite was returning, it wasn’t until Saharu had reached the palace kitchens that she fully registered his use of the word “us”, its existence inspiring a tremor of excitement to stimulate the soft hairs of her skin. ‘Marutukta,’ she recalled Mu?ana?e lamenting the first night Zuêna had shut herself away with only the prince for company. ‘The things I would let him do. Alas... he has eyes only for our sweet lady.’

  She knew full well the prince’s inclusion of her was more out of convenience than concern. Nevertheless, she permitted herself a girlish moment of fantasy, remembering the promise of the Twelvefold Path. Hagit? had been ill-fated—a test of her faith—but the prince? She certainly wouldn’t mind if a Tall One like him resided in her future.

  When she returned from the kitchens, the gibbous moon was high within the milky firmament. ‘No,’ the prince instructed when she motioned, head down, to bring the platter of food to his desk. ‘Bring it here.’

  Saharu felt her face grow hot when she turned to find him sitting amongst her mistress’s silks, holding her embroidery up to a nearby brazier to better view the braided seams of flowers she had spent the last few hours stitching. ‘How did you learn to do this?’ he asked. ‘Did Mu?ana?e show you?’

  Saharu placed the platter gingerly onto the mat before snatching the fabrics away.

  ‘You’re right,’ the prince said, an almost impish look of amusement appearing on his face. ‘Rude of me to look.’

  Saharu held the silks close to her stomach as she backed up against the cold stone of the enclosing walls. Hidden in the shadows beyond the reach of the dwindling braziers, she did not hesitate to seize her chance to look at him again, understanding with increasing intensity the green-bellied envy harboured by the ladies of the court as she admired the way he was reclined upon the floor. She wondered what it would be like to lie with such a man, how it would feel to be the focus of his fire-glow eyes, equal parts scorching and nourishing, like the sun upon the earth.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Saharu blinked uncertainly as the prince looked down at the hastily arranged platter of roasted meat and spiced fruits. ‘There’s ?egzêmin here,’ he continued, ‘and—oh—??rupag swine. Good choice.’

  Saharu tightened her grip upon her mistress’s silks as the prince began to eat, her tummy rumbling in protest as she watched him wipe drips of succulent residue from his chin. ‘It’s... good,’ he thrummed appreciatively, reaching for more. ‘Come. Have some. You’ve been cooped up in here just as long as me.’

  Unable to deny her hunger any longer, Saharu made a few tentative steps forward and hovered upon the edge of the reed-woven mat.

  ‘Here,’ the prince said, sliding the platter over with his good arm before turning away to relocate his drinking goblet. ‘Take whatever you want.’

  Skittish at the idea of eating off a Tall One’s plate, Saharu snatched up a ripened fig before scurrying back to the shadows. The prince’s humoured look reappeared when he turned to find her gone again. ‘The name Saharu doesn’t suit you,’ he said. ‘Têkuza would’ve been better.’

  Despite her hunger, Saharu’s mouth hesitated around the bell-shaped fruit. Meaning “to nibble in secret”, the word was the archaic—decidedly more poetic—name for the skin-tailed pests that would often plague larders and grain stores. Though she knew the risk of allowing it, Saharu couldn’t help but smile a little as the prince chuckled proudly at his own joke.

  ‘I was never great at Old Speech,’ he confessed, sinking a little more into the surrounding cushions as he paused to take another swig of saga. ‘More interested in swinging swords and racing about on kasan?e than spouting verse from the Chronicles.’

  Saharu moved to kneel cautiously upon the edge of the mat. She sensed from the prince’s deepening repose that he would be asleep again soon; with each lengthening swallow from his goblet, his eyelids grew ever heavier, his muscled stomach rising and falling a little deeper with every softening breath. Only when Saharu had fully settled down onto the mat did he seem to have a sudden resurgence of wakefulness, his eyes burning bright as she shuffled anxiously beneath his gaze.

  ‘What did... this mean?’

  Saharu glanced in his direction as he made the sign for “stop” once again, holding a closed fist against his chest before turning the wrist outwards into an open palm. It was an excellent imitation for an utter novice, even accounting for subtleties like the thumb—starting against the palm before straightening out to form a sharp angle against the rest of his hand. If Saharu hadn’t known any better, she would’ve assumed he had been using the sign for years.

  When the Igegi offered no answer, the prince sighed wearily around the rim of his goblet. ‘All right,’ he relented. ‘I hear you. No more questions.’

  The next hour passed thus, with an Anunnaki prince and an Igegi slave sharing a lounge mat and a serving dish, all the while doing everything in their power to busy themselves with anything but each other. Picking up the nearest length of silk, Saharu turned back to her embroidery. Seeking yet another jug of saga, Alim sank further into the cushions and tried to drink away the burning sensation in his arm. Outside, the celebratory clamour of Dumuzid’s commemorations was tapering into silence, the sounds of music and laughter slowly replaced with a cold breath of wind and the occasional alerting bark of some four-legged animal. Tomorrow, Dumuzid would be cremated in the Anunnaki way, and it would be as if he had never existed. Pausing with her needle to watch the prince finally surrender to sleep, Saharu wondered if the soul of the late lord would truly journey across the Void–Between–Worlds to return to the home the Tall Ones had lost. If the stories of the Voice-Beneath were to be believed, she imagined it to be a lonesome journey.

  ‘How is he?’ Lady Zuêna asked when she entered the chamber not long after midnight.

  Drunk, Saharu signed bashfully as she retreated away. I’m sorry.

  Zuêna sighed as she looked down at the prince lying spread-eagled and snoring. ‘I suppose it couldn’t have been helped.’

  Down below, the prince suddenly stirred at the sound of her voice. ‘My lady,’ he crooned, grinning up at her with languorous abandon as he ran his good hand beneath her ?ug?mizil, curving upwards and inwards towards her left inner thigh. ‘You have returned to me.’

  ‘And you to me, it seems,’ Zuêna replied, her eyes becoming almost predatory. ‘Leave us,’ she added afterwards, briskly waving Saharu away as she moved to lower herself upon him, her closeness prompting a drunken chuckle of delight—seemingly all the permission she needed.

  * * *

  Some hours later, Saharu was awoken by the sound of Zuêna’s weeping. ‘He won’t stop,’ her mistress pleaded as she rushed into the chamber to investigate, moving forward to turn the prince on his side as he gagged and frothed at the mouth. ‘I don’t understand. He seemed better! Marutukta! Alim, please!’

  Saharu brought her hands to his face and chest, finding him scalding to the touch. The bed was awash with vomit, and his stomach was distended and swollen. Holding his head still, Saharu brought the flame of a clay lamp to his face to see that the whites of his eyes had a bilious hue.

  ‘What?’ Zuêna pressed when it looked like the slave had come to an answer. ‘What is it?’

  Water, Saharu signed. Water. Bring.

  Zuêna fetched the Igegi what she needed without even pausing to question it. Gripped with panic, she watched as the slave began soaking the hardened poultice surrounding the prince’s arm, and after a few painfully drawn-out moments, the cast became soft, allowing Saharu the leverage she needed to start ripping it away.

  ‘?a usgêni tuk!’ Zuêna cried out when the extent of Alim’s horrifying situation was revealed; a phrase Saharu understood as “have pity on me”—a plea for undeserved sympathy in the face of a mortal sin.

  Turning Zuêna’s face away from the prince’s swollen, pus-filled arm, Saharu began signing to her again. ‘Head!’ the Tall One rushed, her golden eyes wide as her mind laboured to interpret the slave’s frantic gesturing. ‘No, crown! Crown? Purple! Purple crown? Is that a herb? Does he... does he need medicine?’

  Saharu made a short snarl of irritation before signing words she knew her mistress would understand.

  Healer. Bring.

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