The Tears of Kas̆dael

Life had been surprisingly quiet for the last few weeks. True to Lord Barbaru's predictions, Lord Akkû had done his best to make his life difficult, but the bounds of propriety enforced by Tēmānu's status as an ambassador had prevented him from doing anything too extreme.

Instead, Tēmānu had suffered a thousand minor slights. He'd been turned away at restaurants that had formerly welcomed him with open arms, had been charged outrageous prices at half the stores in town, and had suffered a precipitous decline in the number of invitations he'd received from noble Houses.

There were only two consequences he'd truly minded, however. The first was a loss of regular access to Ḫaḫḫuru. That, he suspected, was less a result of Lord Akkû's influence than of the king's own anger; the wedding between the two families, after all, had been engineered almost entirely at his behest, a failed attempt to smooth over the tensions between his own followers and those who had held true to his cousin, the former queen. That the marriage had failed had hardly been Tēmānu's fault, but his gelding of the young groom had pushed it past the point of all repair, making him an easy target for the king's wrath.

But Tēmānu wasn't especially worried about Ḫaḫḫuru; the king had too few allies left in his court to risk pissing off the Empire by ignoring their emissary altogether. He'd felt sure he'd be invited again to the palace once his temper had cooled.

No, the most painful repercussion of the impromptu duel with Akkîtu had been his loss of access to Damqa. Lord Barbaru had allowed him to visit her after their meeting, but since then, he had yet to be invited back to the manor. He'd tried several times to arrange a visit and, denied entry by their servants, had even haunted a few of her favorite spots around town, but it seemed the young woman had ceased going out altogether as Lord Akkû's vicious campaign of rumors swept through the ranks of high society. That, more than anything else, was his biggest regret.

And, yet, some part of him still believed his actions had been necessary. As much as Lord Barbaru might have blamed his gelding of Akkîtu for his outrageous actions that followed, Tēmānu felt certain the man would have tried to harm her one way or another. There was a cruelty there, hidden beneath a courtly exterior and a charming smile, that had been simply waiting for an excuse to strike. But that did not make his exile from Damqa's company any less lonely.

With a sigh, he drained the last dregs from his cup of maqta, thereby extinguishing the final excuse he had to avoid looking at the pile of letters sitting in front of him.

Most were consigned to the dump heap immediately, part of the constant letters he received from nobles across the Empire looking to use him to advance their trading opportunities. As usual, the proposed trade agreements came complete with insinuations that they might consider a betrothal if he helped them land contracts with Strythani merchants, but Tēmānu wasn't gullible enough to believe them. As the crippled son of a house in decline, he knew the nobles had no intention of following through on their hints; at best, he'd be lucky to get some distant cousin thrown his way from some of the lesser families.

He sorted through them quickly, setting aside the handful that didn't insult his intelligence with such insincere offers for further scrutiny: a minor lord in Sapīya, a commander in the Celestial army, a merchant house from the Moon-kissed. The rest were dumped in the fire, and he moved on to the more important communications.

Eligon's letter was swiftly replied to, though he knew its contents would bring the emperor little joy. He was no closer to forming a firm alliance with the Strythani than he'd been at the moment he'd first stepped off the docks, and given the increasing tensions in the capital, he was afraid they might just be in open civil war by the time the durgū actually made their move.

If I could only find a way to leverage them to our side… He sighed, as displeased with the news he had to report as he knew the emperor would be. His best bet of saving his house, after all, was turning this mission into a success, but his hopes of garnering actual military support from their old allies had faded by the day. Unless the Ilrabû comes through.

He paused at the errant thought, realizing he hadn't returned to the temple since that day. In truth, he doubted there was much more he could do on that front until the Emperor's campaign to reclaim the capital either succeeded or failed, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to keep the lines of communication open. Making a note for himself to return to the priest, he turned to the final stack of letters.

These demanded more careful attention. There was a letter from the king of Hadīn, the commander of the Celestian armies, and, strangely enough, from the king of Sapīya that went to the top of his list. Others were less pressing but would still need to be responded to: a request from the temple in Dūr-Tṣadê to send some priests to Kār-Apû, a missive from the ambassador to the durgū, and even a letter from the famous Bastard Prince of Onkodos Laos. But he set them all aside as he saw he'd received a letter from his little brother.

S̆ams̆āgû would have been the best hope for their family's revival, if only he weren't so young. Unlike Tēmānu, he didn't have a crippled arm to hold him back, and, while he lacked even a speck of magical ability, he'd already unlocked a useful combat class. But, at barely eleven, he was simply too young to earn them glory in the coming campaign for the capital. He'd taken it hard when Tēmānu had told him he was leaving, so hard that he had yet to send a single letter. Maybe he's finally getting over it.

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Leaving the other letters for later, Tēmānu shattered the wax seal and ripped the envelope open, but a frown stole over his face as he perused the contents. How dare they?

With an angry growl, he tossed the letter aside and grabbed the one he'd prepared for Eligon. He knew his family's fortunes had declined, but if an unjumped merchant house thought they could force his sister into an unfavorable marriage, they would have another think coming. He'd barely put pen to paper, though, when a loud boom shattered the silence.

"What was that?" He stood up, grumbling to himself, as the boom repeated, his ears tracked the source of noise toward the east. Toward the palace.

With a curse, he bolted toward the door, knocking his chair to the ground as he grabbed a cloak and a pouch full of potions. Please don't be what I think this is.

The square was strangely silent as he hurried out the door, turning his eyes toward the palace. The boom sounded again, like the crack of lightning, and there was no doubt in his mind this time of where it was coming from. The only question now was what to do.

Do I have any chance of saving the king? Without heading to the palace, it was impossible to know how many had joined the attack against Ḫaḫḫuru, but he doubted the Houses would act unless they felt assured of victory. Granted, they were relatively unused to dealing with mages, so he might be able to turn the tide, but it was certainly a gamble. And pitching in for the losing side would be a dangerous thing.

As the booms continued in the distance, he turned around reluctantly. As an ambassador, he was a neutral party. His duty was to the Empire and the nation of the Strythani, not to any particular lord. Retreating inside, he barred the door and scrapped his letter to Eligon; the whole accursed thing would have to be rewritten.

The fight continued for some time, gradually drifting closer to his home, but he was still taken by surprise by the frantic banging against his door an hour later.

"Let me in, ambassador, let me in!" He recognized the hoarse voice as the king's - or former king, he supposed - but made no move to the door.

"Kruvas̆, let me in," the king swore, a boom following his words as he fought off another assailant. "I plead sanctuary with the Empire," he pleaded.

Drumming his fingers against his leg, he considered the plea; technically, the Strythani would have no right to pursue him if he let him inside, but Tēmānu knew he didn't really have the power to keep them out if they were determined enough. It was just him and a handful of guards. Still, the man might prove useful.

He started moving toward the door, inclined to grant his request, when the man damned himself. "Put me back on the throne, and I'll give you the alliance you want - we'll fight the durgu, the stoneflesh, whoever-"

You bloody fool - if you could've just kept your mouth shut… With a sigh, Tēmānu backed away from the door. Offering Ḫaḫḫuru sanctuary as a fugitive was a risky, but not entirely impossible, move; letting him in as a prospective claimant, however, was tantamount to declaring war.

He retreated to the back of the house, shutting himself away in the study as he redrafted his letter to Eligon.

My lord, it seems the situation has changed greatly and, not I fear, to our advantage…

The next morning, Tēmānu was awakened by a thunderous pounding on the door. Hastily pulling on a tunic bearing the Emperor's colors, he headed downstairs. He paused long enough to prep a spell, just in case whoever awaited on the other side was prepared to do something monstrously stupid, before opening the door with a bow.

"Lord Barbaru?" He greeted the man with some surprise.

"May I come in?"

"Of course," he ushered the man in with a sweep of his hand. "I'm afraid I don't have any maqta to offer you yet, but if you're willing to wait…"

"No need," the noble brushed his offer aside.

"Have you heard the news?" Before Tēmā̄nu could reply, the lord continued. "Of the king's illness."

He raised a brow. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The man shrugged. "It seems Lord Ḫaḫḫuru has come down with a grave fever; the healers have been summoned, but there is not much hope for his recovery."

"I see," he replied drily. "And have the good healers predicted a timeline for his demise?"

"I should imagine the sad news will break in three or four days."

Tēmānu sighed and walked toward the kitchen, gesturing for the man to follow. "I don't know about you, but I need a cup of maqta."

"I suppose that won't be out of order," the man allowed, waiting patiently as he put a kettle of water over the fire to boil, before continuing.

"Do you remember our discussion a few weeks hence?"

"Aye," Tēmānu grunted, "But if you're expecting me to somehow put you on the throne-"

The lord snorted. "I'd be king for a day, maybe two, if I were lucky. No, I have no illusions about my chances there."

"Then who do you want to see on the throne?"

"It's less about who I want to see sit on the throne, and more who I would rather not see," Barbaru replied bluntly. "As it stands, there are several serious claimants that do not concern me, but one, in particular, must not succeed."

"Lord Akkû?"

"Not technically; the council will not elect anyone who lacks blood ties to the royal clan, but Lord Akkû does have a nephew who, as it happens, is the son of the former king's sister. He would, no doubt, forsake his father's name to ascend the throne, but I'm sure his uncle would have his ear."

"And what makes you think there's anything I could do to help?" Tēmānu scoffed.

"Maybe you can't," the man shrugged, "but it's in your own best interests to try. Akkû has been forced to act cautiously up till now, but if his nephew sits on the throne, do you really think your status as ambassador will be enough to protect you from a knife in the night?"

He wasn't sure, but given the man's son had been brazen enough to attack him before Ḫaḫḫuru's death, he was inclined to think Barbaru was right. "Looks like we have some plans to make," he conceded.