The Tears of Kas̆dael

"Do you see now the rot that infects this realm?"

Tēmānu's leg felt like lead as he mounted the last step to the temple, and his hand shook as he clasped it over the wound Akîtu had torn in his side. Despite his best efforts, he'd lost a good amount of blood, and his vision had begun to blur. "Maybe you could heal me before talking politics…" he mumbled.

The priest - if that's what he was - smiled a toothy grin. "But of course." Tēmānu detected no movement from the man, nothing that would indicate he had cast a spell, but he hastily jerked his hand away from his side as his flesh squirmed beneath his fingers. Within seconds, the wound had knit together, and even the wooziness in his head faded as whatever the man had done replaced his blood loss.

"My thanks," he inclined his head respectfully. "With a healing spell like that, I'm surprised the whole town isn't beating down your door."

"I only heal those who are interesting."

"And that's me?" As Tēmānu lifted a skeptical brow, his eyes swept over the priest again, noting every detail. The priest was a mountain of a man, a solid two feet taller than Tēmānu himself and almost exorbitantly muscled. He was immaculately dressed, his long hair and beard neatly plaited, but there was a savage light in his amber eyes that made him wary.

Tēmānu had never given much credence to the notion that the Strythani were beasts that could change into men, rather than men that changed into beasts, but looking into the priest's eyes, he could understand how those rumors had gotten started. A visceral, wild power clung to the man like a mantle, as the priest's teeth flashed in an unpleasant smile.

"And why shouldn't I find you interesting? You reek of ambition, the crippled son of a dying house, desperate to find a way to right your fortunes. And yet," he cocked his head to the side, considering, "Despite that ambition, you're surprisingly loyal to your lord and a nearly competent mage."

Tēmānu wasn't sure whether to be alarmed at the amount the priest knew about him, or insulted at being labeled nearly competent. "I see Ḫaḫḫuru isn't the only one spying on me," he replied calmly, but the priest just snorted.

"I have no need of spies."

Is he a mindworm? Tēmānu tried to keep the alarm off his face, reassuring himself that the man was likely just messing with him. "So why do you want with me?"

"Let me ask you again, do you see now the rot that infects this realm?"

"You speak of Ḫaḫḫuru?" Tēmānu glanced around, verifying that the temple was truly abandoned, but he was still slow to speak. He was fairly certain that the priest represented a faction opposed to the king, but a small part of him feared that honesty was not worth the risk.

On the other hand, does it even matter? He rubbed his side gingerly, the phantom pain lingering despite the priest's healing prowess. If the king's own allies weren't afraid of him, why should he be?

"The king's hold on power is tenuous at best," he admitted. "He strikes me as a clever man and a good warrior, but not well-suited to the throne."

"You'd call him clever?" the priest scoffed.

"In a sense. Ḫaḫḫuru is keenly aware of the precarious grip he has on the throne and has a well-justified sense of paranoia. In the short time I've been here, he's sniffed out a dozen plots against him and foiled them successfully. He's made strides towards establishing a standing army independent of the clans, and has invested a great deal in reestablishing trading ties with the North and the elves."

"The king is far from stupid, but he lacks the…" Tēmānu paused to search for the right word. "Charisma? Political savvy? to deal with the threats facing him properly. He's enacted his policies over the objections of the council, heedless of the growing discontent among his lords. And, when it comes to the plots-" he shook his head, "Ḫaḫḫuru's brutal responses are working against him. Already, his list of allies grows thin, and those that remain do not respect him as they should."

"You give him more credit than I would," the priest rumbled, "but at least you are not blind to his faults. Are you willing now to hear what the Ilrabû has to say?"

"I can make no promises," he warned, "but I will convey his message to Lord Eligon."

"Then go, take your stand at the altar," the man commanded.

Reluctantly, Tēmānu followed the man inside the ancient temple. The bright day outside was replaced by darkness as they passed through the veil. The only light in the temple was provided by the massive wall of fire, whose suffocating heat suffused the air.

A simple stone altar stretched low before the flames. It bore no decorations, not even an inscription on its perfectly polished face, nothing save for a single hollowed-out basin in its center, which was stained a darker color than the rest.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Tēmānu paused before the altar and shrugged his withered arm. "If you want an offering, you're going to have to help me." He held still as the priest grabbed his shoulder and cut a thin slice in his upper arm. The blood dripped down into the bowl, and each drop seemed to multiply as it hit the blackened rock. The bottom of the basin disappeared rapidly, and the priest bound his arm. "Anything I need to say?"

"The Ilrabû needs no words." Walking over to the fire, the priest plunged his bare hands into the flame and pulled out a burning coal. The blood began to smoke as the coal sank into its depths, its fire not extinguished despite the liquid surrounding it and Tēmānu swayed as darkness covered his vision.

When his vision cleared, Tēmānu was not surprised to see he was no longer in the temple. The stars of the sky twinkled down on him as he looked up, shining through the web of interlocked branches above. The sounds of night swelled around him, a choir of chirping locusts and the steady rustle of the wind through the leaves. Vāya's presence steadied him and, summoning his courage, he turned to face the presence he felt behind him.

A small campfire stood between them, its logs hissing with the steady crack and pop of green wood and behind it lurked a figure that he struggled to comprehend.

It was a man - no, a bear - a man, and a bear again, somehow both and neither at the same time. He fell to his knees with a cry of pain, his temples throbbing as blood dripped from his nose.

"Get up." Healing washed over him as the incomprehensible being stepped into the light of the fire, finally crystallizing itself in the shape of a man, albeit one with distinctly bear-like qualities.

The Ilrabû was enormous, so large that his head neared the tips of the trees. Thick furred ears pushed through a veritable mane of black hair, and when he spoke, Tēmānu could see massive fangs. His arms and legs were covered in so much hair that it could almost be mistaken for fur, and the only clothes he wore were a stained linen kilt and a massive spiked mace coated with matted hair and blood.

"My lord," Tēmānu bowed swiftly. "I'm honored by your presence-"

"Your honor interests us not," the Ilrabû cut him off. "Tell me of your lord, this usurper who claims the throne and yet sits not on Nūrilī's throne."

Tēmānu was thrown by the request; the elves' obstinate support of the former royal house had been a source of many problems, but he hadn't expected the Strythani god, or whatever he truly was, to care. "Lord Eligon is a skilled warrior and a better commander. In the three decades of his reign, he's recovered more land from the stoneflesh than anyone else before him. Even now, he stands poised to reclaim the capital. And if you are concerned about the House of Nūrilī, know that Lord Eligon has made a deal with the elves-"

"I care not about House Nūrilī," the Ilrabû interrupted. "Rule is for the strong, but your lord's predecessors have not possessed that strength. Do you truly believe he can reclaim the capital?"

"I do," Tēmānu responded firmly. "Lord Eligon has assembled a coalition not seen since the days of the Fey Wars. The North marches to his aid, elves too, and even the Djinn have emerged from their mountains. The stoneflesh will be driven out of Alcorsyth."

"And what of the durgū?"

"The durgū….will be a difficult enemy," he admitted reluctantly. "One war after another has ravaged our lands - the Desolyton, the Fey, the stoneflesh - while the dwarves have been fortunate enough to dwell in uninterrupted peace. We could use your aid, my lord, the ancient alliance between our peoples-"

"Let your lord demonstrate his strength first."

He fought off a scowl. "And how shall he do that?"

"Take the capital," the Ilrabû replied bluntly. "If your lord proves capable of seizing the throne, then I shall aid him."

"That's it?" He asked skeptically. "What about Ḫaḫḫuru?"

"Ḫaḫḫuru will not be around to object."

Why does he dislike the king so much? Or does he just dislike any ruler of the Strythani that is not him? Keeping his questions to himself, Tēmānu bowed his head. "I will relay your words to my lord."

"See that you do." As the Ilrabû raised his hand, likely to banish him back to the temple, Tēmānu took a quick step forward.

"I have one more request, my lord."

The god paused. "Your emperor asks for more?"

"No." Tēmānu swallowed dryly, suddenly aware of the risk he was taking. "It's my own request."

Thankfully, the Ilrabû didn't seem offended as its gaze swept over him. "Let Vāya heal your arm," the god said dismissively. "He is your patron, is she not?"

"'Tis not my arm I seek healing for," he spoke up hastily. "It's Lady Damqa-"

"You wish to court one of my people?"

"Well, no, she's, uhh, married-"

"If you prove yourself worthy, I shall arrange it," the Ilrabû continued as if he hadn't heard him speaking. "I shall let you know when I have devised a suitable task by which to prove yourself. Now, begone, child of Vāya."

"I-" The world darkened around him, and Tēmānu huffed in exasperation as he found himself back in the temple. That wasn't what I was trying to ask. Damqa deserved better than that fool Akîtu, but he wasn't arrogant enough to think he was worthy of her either. She deserved better than a crippled mage, better than the scion of an impoverished house. Tēmānu had only meant to ask for the Ilrabû to fix the mistake Ḫaḫḫuru had made when he had forced the marriage between the two houses, but he supposed it would have to do.

"A frustrating conversation?"

Tēmānu nearly jumped out of his skin, having not realized the priest was standing next to him. "No," he lied promptly, "Lord Ilrabû was very gracious to speak with me-"

"The Ilrabû has never been gracious in his life," the priest chuckled. "It is not in his nature, but he will be your staunchest ally if your lord can prove his worth."

"He didn't ask for anything that Lord Eligon wasn't going to do anyway," Tēmānu recovered his composure swiftly. "But I shall relay his words immediately. I was…surprised," he spoke carefully, "he did not ask for aid against Ḫaḫḫuru, though."

"The Ilrabû has not determined his fate," the priest replied, "but when he does, he shall not need the empire's aid."

"Of course," he bowed stiffly. "Thank you again for the healing," he added before turning to leave. He had nearly made it to the entrance when the priest's sonorous voice called out to him.

"One last thing, ambassador."

Tēmānu turned back questioningly. "Yes?"

"You should know that the Ilrabû did not misunderstand your request. He answered the desire of your heart rather than the lies of your tongue."