CHAPTER TWELVE | KI?

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

  ‘The Way of Heaven does not strive and yet it overcomes, does not speak and yet it gets responses, does not beckon and yet it attracts, is at ease and yet it follows a plan.’

  – Tao Te Ching, as cited in ‘Prisca Theologia’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  ‘I warned him! I warned him that the presence of an Igegi would poison the herbs!’

  Halad turned to the physician. ‘So, you admit that it is your healing work that is to blame for all this?’

  In the east, sunlight smudged the horizon, a thin gold bar dissolving against a mantle of scattering amber—a sickly dawn. Surrounded by a panicked gathering of surgeons and herbalists, Alim looked desperate in his fragility, the intensity of his fever robbing his black skin of its usual cool-toned clarity.

  ‘Were you not listening?’ Alalnagal said. ‘It is the slave that is to blame. Kill it, and we might be able to undo the evil it has cast.’

  ‘No!’ Zuêna cried. ‘If it weren’t for Saharu, the poultice would be on him still!’

  Halad lowered his eyes to the Igegi female trembling at Zuêna’s feet, her knife-scarred hands still caked in the remains of the compress that had been affixed to Alim’s wound. That much, at least, was true. Without the slave’s disturbingly sharp display of intuition, the source of the prince’s torment might’ve gone unnoticed for hours.

  Emerging from the shadows, Zikê stepped forward. ‘I agree with Lord Ki?. This is no spell, merely inadequate healing work.’

  ‘Treacherous worm!’ Alalnagal spat. ‘Of course, you would try and shift the blame! It is only because of you that His Highness needed such work in the first place!’

  Halad almost wanted to laugh at the irony; it was a cruel twist of fate to find himself agreeing with the chancellor. ‘Is there nothing else you can do?’ he asked the physician.

  The scholar returned his question with a disquieted look. ‘I fear the sickness has spread to his liver. He is at the mercy of Marutuk now.’

  Halad knew it to be true. It did not take much to deduce meaning from the shifting ratio of physician to priest beginning to appear at Alim’s bedside.

  ‘Does... “Purple Crown” mean anything to you?’

  Four pairs of shining irises swivelled towards Zuêna.

  ‘My lady?’ the physician eventually acknowledged.

  ‘Your herbs,’ she continued. ‘Is there anything at all that would match that description?’

  The physician pondered for a moment. ‘There is... silanisikul. It flowers a bright purple before propagating its seeds—’

  ‘Bring some immediately.’

  ‘But, my lady, where did you hear of this plant? It is nothing but a weed.’

  Halad met Zuêna’s gaze. There was something unshakeable in it, and the way she had placed a reassuring hand upon the slave at her feet...

  ‘Just do it. If the prince is as unwell as you say, what do we have to lose?’

  * * *

  The sky had curdled to a festering red by the time the silanisikul arrived: rows upon rows of mackerelled cloud—a thick, angry rash. Having refused to leave, Zuêna had settled herself in the accompanying lounge area with only a balni?ba board and Mu?ana?e for company. Nearby, Alim’s bedside had become crowded with men, each with their own opinion on how best to prepare the unassuming little plant.

  ‘Look at them.’ Her gaze dropped to Alim, helpless and withered between them. ‘An hour ago, they hadn’t even considered the plant’s existence.’

  Taking advantage of her mistress’s inattentiveness, Mu?ana?e quickly captured one of Zuêna’s pieces off the board. ‘Just wait until His Highness opens his eyes.’ She scooped up the set of four tetrahedral dice. ‘They’ll be elbowing each other for credit before he’s even had his first sip of water.’

  Unbothered by looming defeat, Zuêna looked down at the Igegi slave sheltering between their feet. ‘How should they prepare the plant, Saharu?’

  Wary of the number of eyes in the room, the slave’s signing was subtle and fleeting, easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. Observing attentively as her hands moved beneath flickering brazier-light, Zuêna felt a familiar twinge of guilt when the thread-like scars lining the slave’s fingers and palms glistered a soft silvery white.

  Seeds. Water. Time.

  ‘What did she say?’ Mu?ana?e asked.

  ‘They need to create an infusion with the seeds,’ Zuêna translated.

  The two Anunnaki women turned to find one physician brandishing a smoking bundle of the plant’s spiny-edged leaves.

  Mu?ana?e pinched her face into a grimace. ‘I’m sure they’ll figure it out.’

  * * *

  Though duty demanded he remain by the prince’s bedside, Zikê retreated to the balcony not long after sunrise. Inside, the healing mob continued to quarrel, their panic exacerbated by the ominous presence of the king’s chancellor, his watchful eyes and cutting tongue picking apart their every move. Taking a firm hold of Usaka—the sickled adama blade sheathed at his side—Zikê had half a mind to run them all through; there had to be a more dignified way to ease the prince’s suffering than this.

  ‘Fear not, tagup,’ a voice spoke from the arboured corner of the balcony. ‘If they can’t figure it out by midday, I’ll send them away myself.’

  Zikê lowered his gaze when he realised the voice had belonged to Halad. ‘Apologies, sa?arib?u—I did not realise...’

  Halad scoffed at his fellow sentinel’s use of the Old Speech—“my superior”. ‘Stop that pointless chatter and have a drink with me.’

  Zikê hesitated. Having spent the last few days isolated within his chambers, the thought of more alcohol churned his stomach. Nevertheless, he accepted the cup of saga Halad had poured for him.

  At least his regrets would have company this time.

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  ‘So,’ Halad said, his golden eyes perusing as Zikê claimed a seat upon the daybed opposite. ‘Start from the beginning.’

  Zikê gave a slow blink. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Wait—let me guess. Noble birth? The youngest of many brothers?’

  Zikê smirked. ‘Close, but I was my father’s only son.’

  Surprise ghosted Halad’s face. ‘And he let you become a sentinel?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Ah... So, a life of luxury didn’t appeal to you?’

  Zikê thought about it. ‘It came with a price I was... unwilling to pay.’

  Halad scoffed around the rim of his cup. ‘A highborn with integrity. How refreshing.’

  Zikê contemplated the sarcasm in Halad’s voice as they both paused to drink. Unlike most of the boys cropped to become sentinels, Halad’s path had not begun in a world of plenty. The bastard of a merchant who had once frequented the brothel houses of Dilmun, Halad had only caught the attention of the Nunuru ?eserem—the Sentinel Guard—by chance. ‘Some palace dignitary was getting rough with one of the girls,’ he remembered the gutter-born recounting—more than once, always with a grin. ‘Managed to get a few jabs in before his sentinel came running. He was ordered to gut me like a fish, but gave me the knife instead—told me that if I managed to land a single hit, he’d enter me for the trials himself.’

  ‘And you managed it?’ one of the city’s officers had asked.

  ‘Managed it? I spiked the bastard three times!’

  Remembering how the sentinel had captivated the room, Zikê glanced warily towards the warrior now sat before him. Slumped upon the daybed, the bruises from their bout four days ago still mottled upon his skin, the mighty Halad looked utterly broken.

  ‘None of this... was my intention, Halad. I was... angry. Ashamed. I just wanted to give the prince cause to... to...’

  ‘To end your duty,’ Halad finished.

  Zikê stared down into his cup. ‘I wasn’t afraid to die. I was prepared the moment Dumuzid stepped out to face him. He... he didn’t have to...’

  ‘I know, tagup. But, if there’s one thing you must learn about the prince, he... cares deeply. Often to his own detriment.’

  A touch of certainty returned to Zikê’s voice. ‘You’re proud of him.’

  Halad gave a withered smile, his golden eyes beginning to swim. ‘It was hard for him to realise he would likely never rise to the purpose he was born for.’ He glanced sadly towards Alim, lying helpless in the chamber within. ‘Not to mention the guilt he felt for wishing it. All that training... for what? To endure an eternity on standby? He felt like the universe had cheated him; nothing more than a beggar at a feast with their mouth sewn shut.’

  Zikê remained silent as Halad refilled their cups. The abzu’s gift of immortality had brought about many far-reaching consequences for their species, the laws surrounding the subject of inheritance being one of them. For a society built upon the custom of death and succession, only sickness, poverty, or the malice of others ever killed an Anunnaki, and—after ten thousand years—King Alulim had become very practised in avoiding all three.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Halad continued. ‘I think it was Dumuzid who saved him.’

  Zikê cocked his head. ‘How so?’

  ‘Zuêna. He wanted to be better for Zuêna.’

  Zikê chuckled, remembering the days when the young prince would trail behind the lady like some wide-eyed pup. ‘Dumuzid’s rejection of him was more an act of defiance than anything else,’ he confessed.

  ‘I know. But Alim didn’t see it that way—nor did his father.’

  Zikê stared down at his drink; the king’s displeasure that day—and the fallout it wrought—was infamous up and down the kingdom.

  ‘I regret... that the prince was made to suffer so.’

  ‘Baad ?ul dembilten,’ Halad intoned.

  Zikê allowed the words to linger. They harkened to the teachings of Marutuk and one of the Guard’s principal creeds: “Hardship tempers the warrior”.

  ‘I wasn’t aware you were versed in Old Speech, sa?arib?u.’

  Halad smirked as he drank. ‘The kingdom may think me the bastard son of a whore, but I’m not completely worthless.’

  * * *

  After a fraught hour of medical disharmony, Alim’s condition finally stabilised. ‘All we can do now is allow him to rest,’ the court physician concluded as his attending counterparts carefully cleansed and bound his wound.

  ‘The silanisikul worked?’ Zuêna asked.

  The physician nodded. ‘The plant appears to have more medicinal benefits than I first gave it credit for, but I would have to conduct a more comprehensive study to ascertain why.’ He gestured to the prince. ‘For now, the tincture we have prepared seems to be doing well in alleviating his symptoms.’

  ‘Exercising untested healing work on the kingdom’s one and only heir,’ Alalnagal growled, striding from the chamber. ‘The king shall hear of this!’

  ‘One would almost think he desired a different outcome,’ Zikê remarked coolly, his citrine-cold glare lingering upon the chancellor’s diminishing back.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Halad said. ‘His life’s purpose is to sow discord at every turn.’

  ‘Regardless,’ the physician continued, ‘I should best return to the apothecary.’ He flashed a vengeful, tow-coloured look towards the Igegi slave still cowering in the corner. ‘I’d best begin preparing my defence.’

  ‘A word of advice,’ Halad said, noting the way Zuêna immediately stiffened against the scholar’s insinuating gaze. ‘Keep it rooted in facts. The king does not suffer fools gladly.’

  The physician drew back, hackles rising. ‘I am aggrieved you’d think I’d stoop so low as to lie to the king. The fact is only this: an Igegi should not have been assigned to the prince. His aura is of a much higher plane than ours, too pure to suffer the presence of these’—he grimaced, the mere mention of Namtaki’s indigenous seemingly conjuring a foul taste in his mouth—‘things.’

  ‘Saharu is more than a mere thing!’ Zuêna snapped.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Ki?, but I fear I’ve seen women in your condition before.’

  Zuêna’s face dropped. ‘My... condition?’

  ‘Indeed. Despite many attempts on your part, you are... childless, yes? To compensate for your own feminal failings, your maternal instincts have driven you to believe truths about that slave that simply do not exist. She’s no different than the animals we feast upon.’

  Zuêna snatched up the hems of her silks, holding up the embroideries for the physician to inspect. ‘Ever seen a banquet swine capable of this?’

  ‘Your slave is... talented, to be sure, but I hear that even birds can be taught to mimic the speech of their masters. Shall we crown them Anunnaki as well?’

  ‘Saharu! Come here!’

  Hearing the anger in her mistress’s voice, the slave appeared reluctant to obey, visibly recoiling against the chamber’s stone walls.

  ‘Saharu! Now!’

  Mu?ana?e reached for Zuêna’s arm as the Igegi scuttled over. ‘My lady, you’ve not slept. Let’s—’

  ‘Show them!’ Zuêna commanded, brushing Mu?ana?e away. ‘Saharu, show them!’

  Encircled by five towering Anunnaki, Saharu fell rigid—did what any cornered animal would do—her fright blooming at her feet, silent and puddling, like an unravelling shadow.

  ‘I fail to see how this strengthens your argument,’ the physician said.

  Zuêna lifted her fists, though even she seemed unsure at whom. Saharu cowered on instinct as her mistress surged forward, but—almost as if he had seen it coming—Zikê stepped between.

  ‘Come, Zuêna. Let me help you to your chambers.’

  ‘No,’ Zuêna whimpered within a firm embrace. ‘Alim... I must stay with Alim...’

  ‘Sentinel Halad will watch over him now. Come. We would do well to prepare for your father’s ascension.’

  Halad scowled at the physician as Zikê led Zuêna from the room, trailed closely by the ever-faithful Mu?ana?e. ‘There is little honour in striking low, sir.’

  ‘Am I wrong?’ the physician countered. ‘Does not even the king know of the dangers these... creatures pose?’

  Halad did not answer. Whilst it was accurate that the Igegi had not been permitted to work in the Royal Palace for over a hundred years, Halad knew well enough that the change in legislation had been driven more by politics than anything else. Many within Queen Puabi’s circle had believed the Igegi to be more than mere beasts—a notion King Alulim had since seemed determined to quash. Soon, no one dared praise Namtaki’s indigenous—save for perhaps in arguing their value as a menial workforce.

  ‘Permit me to have it removed,’ the physician pressed, motioning forward.

  Halad stepped to block his path. ‘Your Lord Ki? gave no such command. Until it can be proven that she is the cause of all this, the slave will remain.’

  ‘Then I shall not stop until I find such evidence,’ the physician said. ‘Summon me if there is any change in His Highness’ condition.’

  ‘Respectfully, until you can provide such evidence, the medics of the King’s Legion will be overseeing the prince’s care.’

  ‘Medics?’ the physician huffed. ‘By my word, sharpen your death-blade, nunuru—you’ll be needing it soon enough!’

  With his departure, the prince’s chambers slowly emptied of activity, until only sentinel and Igegi remained.

  ‘Look at me, slave.’

  Shivering with terror—wet with shame—Saharu looked, a morning chill brushing the salt tracks of her tears.

  ‘You’re from the feral packs to the north, aren’t you?’ Halad pressed. ‘Highland folk?’

  Saharu wobbled as the towering sentinel continued to study her, the piercing gleam of his golden eyes like twinned bolts of lightning, poised for discharge.

  ‘I ask not how or why, but something tells me I should be thanking you. Ni ara aru.’

  I dedicate praise, Saharu translated from Old Speech. A phrase reserved for only the most heartfelt demonstrations of gratitude, a recognition of the divine working through the seemingly mundane. Its significance was not lost on Saharu. Likely, it was the first time in history a Tall One had ever said such words to an Igegi, and as relief flooded her body, realising the warrior now considered himself indebted, she could no longer resist the pull of the floor.

  ‘You there,’ Halad’s voice commanded from somewhere within the ensuing swirl, the tone of it muffled by a sudden ringing in her ears. ‘See that this one is fed and rested. On your head be it if I find she has come to any harm.’

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