1

The Funeral

The ancient city of Afor, bathed in the golden light of a spring morning, was blanketed by grief. Their Queen was dead.

Bells, housed in towering belfries across the city, sounded out a ceaseless symphony of mourning, as a grieving people, clad in rough white cotton, crowded its marbled streets and fell in behind the fast lengthening funeral procession. The great dome of the Temple of the Waiting Lady, whose blue-shingled roof sparkled in the morning sun, loomed ahead of the snaking procession. These cries and bells were soon joined by the sounds of cannon, for eight of the Navy’s Men-o-War had been gathered in the Grand Port. Glimpses of these eight giants, with their golden hulls and towering masts and the ant-like men standing to attention on their top deck, were visible to the mourners through breaks in the buildings along St. Vitian’s Way.

As the procession, led by horses draped in yellow and crimson, ridden by horsemen dressed in uniforms of dark green, neared the Temple, the Navy gave its salute. The cannons roared and each of the eight Men-o-War belched out great clouds of gun-smoke, as a total of twenty-one shots rang out. The procession continued its march, undeterred by the smoke which fast engulfed it, down the wide avenue that was St. Vitian’s Way.

“Our Queen, our beloved Lady!” called the Singers of the Pyre, who followed the horsemen on foot.

“Our Queen, our beloved Lady!” repeated the procession.

“Our Queen is dead!” the Singers of the Pyre led, “Our Queen is dead!” the procession followed.

A cool shadow fell over the body – which was wrapped in a simple white cotton cloth and garlanded by yellow flowers – and the leading elements of the procession, as they entered the sanctuary of the Temple. At once, the Temple echoed with the chanting and calling of the Singers.

“Our Queen arrives, O She Who Waits!” sang the Singers, “Our Queen arrives, O She Who Waits!” bellowed the mourners.

“Her tumults are done, her life is led, O She Who Waits!” the Singers sang alone now, their chorus ringing out uninterrupted.

“Her tumults are done; her life is led!

She is yours, O Lady Bessamere!

Though our hearts for her are bled,

And our minds with grief are sheer

For the emptiness she leaves in-stead,

We know, O Lady Bessamere,

We know, O Lady Ever Waiting,

With you shall rest Our Queen,

We know, O Lady Ever Waiting,

In you we find Our Queen.”

The words echoed in the sanctuary and hung heavy in the air, lingering for a moment or two longer than normally they would.

Finally, they were dismissed by the ringing of the bells as the body of the Queen was lifted onto the pyre – the Queen, Anhida Mawer II, was to be cremated in the chancel, same as her father who was King before her. The High Priest, in his plain crimson mantle embroidered with gold thread, was in that moment praying for her soul to be welcomed by Bessamere, the Goddess of the Peaceful Dead, when – behind him, in the crowd of noblemen and clergymen, of courtiers and estranged relations – two figures were conspiring.

“She should have converted, Dazhyen! You should have converted her!” an older man shouted through a whisper at his apprentice. The boy, no older than sixteen, did not retort, though the muscles on his face tensed.

“She was a Saptic, Master! Devout to the last… and she bore us no ill will! Not her, not the Mawers before her,” Dazhyen spoke quietly, his defiance dying in his throat. He had no wish to upset his master, but he had to say something! “She left us to Azda-Mara…” he began meekly, but did not complete his thought. His eyes remained fixed on the marble floor.

“Bah!” Dmitur did not seem to care for this explanation. “You were an advisor to her! You had her ear!” This was untrue, at least in part, and Dazhyen balled his fists but said nothing.

Master and apprentice were silent for a moment, as both listened to the prayer that the Priest read out. Dmitur’s rage deepened with each stanza. Dmitur was by rank Atashga of All Azdavyery in the Isles, and thus had total authority over all who worshipped the goddess Azda-Mara in the Isles of St. Maria. Given his position, he wore a habit quite different to those worn by the clergymen of the Pantheon. Where they wore flowing tunics and glittering scarves spun from the fine fabrics of Dunwenn or the Uttar Raegis, the Azdavyery priests wore simple habits made of cheap fibre. In the centre of their habit was embroidered in silver thread a smiling face, the left half of which was covered entirely by a hand.

“Listen to that foolish chant, Dazhyen!” Dmitur spoke up again, as the High Priest asked Bessamere to watch over the Queen’s soul. “To think that you allowed this to continue! This sacrilegious temple should have been torn down,” his fury barely contained, “and you should have convinced her to do it!”

Dazhyen made no response, though his nails began to dig into his palm.

“And now that mad bastard will take over,” Dmitur grumbled, “and he will ruin us.” Dmitur stared daggers at the King-in-mourning.

“They care not, Master!” Dazhyen finally broke, his tone catching Dmitur by surprise. “For nearly two centuries have they ruled over us, and they have left us be! They pray to their Gods, they leave us to our worship of Azda-Mara, and not one of their Kings or Queens has forced the Pantheon upon our people!” Dmitur stared at Dazhyen. The old man’s face, though wrinkled with age, had not lost its edge. His razor straight nose and sharp eyes tore through Dazhyen’s audacity. His wire-thin lips did not move, but his sallow eyes said enough. “Sorry, Master,” Dazhyen apologised and Dmitur relaxed.

“They may not be forcing us to live and die by their blasphemous Pantheon, but we cannot stand idly by while we, we who are Azda-Mara’s proud and faithful people, are ruled by servants of a fraudulent faith, boy,” Dmitur’s tone was venomous. Dazhyen fell silent – he could not speak, no matter how hard he tried. His lips would not part, and the muscles in his throat tightened into stone. This was not the first time his teacher had punished him so for speaking out of turn.

“Repeat to me the Chant of Truth, Dazhyen,” Dmitur’s face softened into a smile that was easily mistaken for warmth. At the mention of the Chant, Dazhyen wanted to crumble, but, dutifully, he began its recitation.

“Our Goddess, Our Great Lady, is the Truth,” Dazhyen began, wincing as the pain spiked in his brain. “Azda is the Truth of life. Mara sings the Truths of death. They are one and the same,” the pain now was already immense, and he wanted to cry out or collapse. But he couldn’t – no, he couldn’t suffer another whipping. “Azda is the light of the Truth. Mara is the darkness in which It hides. They are one and the same. Together, they speak Truth. Together, they are Truth. Our Goddess, Our Great Lady, is the Truth!” Dazhyen’s rebellious resolve disappeared as the pain set in. Dmitur’s smile broadened.

“Remember always, boy, that the Pantheon is a lie! They are pretenders to the Truth. And this world has no need for pretenders.” Dmitur had not raised his voice beyond a whisper but Dazhyen’s fear was total.

There was silence between them again, broken only by the rhythmic chanting of funerary hymns and the crackling of the pyre. The pyre’s grey smoke rose into the still air in the Temple’s great vaulted ceiling, and wafted out of the opened Painted Window. Dazhyen found himself unable to speak again, but he welcomed the silence from his teacher.

“You will kill the Mad Prince and his upstart bastard daughter,” Dmitur said finally, revelling in his torment of Dazhyen. “Mara commands it!”

Dazhyen had dreaded this moment. He could not do it. He would not! He tried to open his mouth to protest, to scream, to warn the King and the new Princess, but to no avail. A hand gripped his arm tight, nails digging through the fabric of his habit, and he heard a low, cruel laugh in his ears. “There is no use in resisting me, boy. You will do it. Your parents swore your life to Mara, to me. If you dare to turn away from your destiny, you will suffer. It is written!” Dmitur’s laugh drove Dazhyen nearly to tears.

In that moment, the air around them shifted, as the smoke settled low. For all his effort, Dazhyen could not cough for his throat still would not cooperate, and so tears welled in his eyes and snot streamed out of his nose. When the smoke lifted, there was a man standing in front of them – he was old, elven, and smiled warmly. “We have much to talk about,” the elven man said through his smile, a smile that reminded Dazhyen of the Whip Master’s. Before either master or apprentice could utter a word, in protest or otherwise, and within the blink of an eye the three of them vanished into thin air.

The funeral had been difficult for Eliza – due in equal parts to her grief and to her impatience. Eliza’s grief for her adoptive grandmother – Anhida, or Aani as Eliza had called her for most of her life – was true, but it was not her governing emotion on that afternoon.

Eliza had loved Aani, of course, for she had been a kind and welcoming woman, to whom Eliza owed a great many good fortunes. She had accepted without hesitation, for instance, Eliza and her low-born parents into the Royal Household, in the face of constant doubt from her courtiers. She had also trained Eliza in the ways of diplomacy and political etiquette – a schooling in which Anhida had been a hard but just mistress. Yes, Eliza loved Aani and she mourned her, but in that specific moment, thought it was just a few hours after the Queen had been committed to ash, Eliza was governed by impatience.

This impatience, she felt, was long overdue. For twelve out of her sixteen years, she had been prepared for this day by Gunada – her adoptive father, the man who was now King.

From the age of four she was taught to run like a gazelle. At the age of seven she was taught to survive – from weeks spent alone in the temperate forests near Afor to days of wandering aimlessly in the burning hot dunes of the Uttar Raegis on the mainland. The first deer she killed was at the age of nine. The first time she swung a sword in a duel, she was ten. The first time she fired a pistol and loaded a musket, she was eleven. Aside from her incessant physical conditioning, Eliza was tutored – in mathematics and astronomy, philosophy and logic, history and religion, language and culture – until her mind was on par with that of the most learned of scholars.

All of that, Gunada had told her, was leading her to this moment. He had been, for as long as she had known him – and she had known him all her life – vague to the point of frustration. Then, a year ago, Aani fell ill and Gunada sought out a private moment with Eliza.

“Exactly a year from now,” he had said, “My mother will die.” He was in mourning even then, as though he were resigned to this fate. “That is the moment, my dear pupil and my heir, that I have been pushing you so hard for. All will become clear then. For now, you must focus on what remains of your education. On the day of her funeral come to me, Eliza, and all shall be explained.”

It was with expectations then, that she hovered outside the door to Gunada’s private study, just hours after the passing of her Queen. Gunada had already been proclaimed King, and had immediately shirked all formalities pushed upon him and buried himself in the business of governance. Gunada’s study was, true to his reclusive fashion, at the top of a tower which had once been a battlement – a remnant of a time when the Palace had been a fort. She could hear him inside, murmuring. “If you do not open this door, Gunada, I shall blast it down!” she shouted.

There was no response. Not again. “Gunada?” she asked after him, certain that this was – yet again – some sort of test.

“Make good on your threat,” she heard back. This took her by surprise. She had had limited practice with her inborn powers, and Gunada had always dissuaded her from using those powers on Palace grounds.

“Reach out, feel the door, and will it open. Or will it to crash off its hinges – it is up to you what you choose, but I shall not unlock the door for you!" Eliza could hear the mischievous grin on his face. He had always warned her of the danger of the powers the two of them possessed, but he had found them to be endlessly entertaining. He had once said to her something about every man being a little boy at heart, by way of explanation.

“Fine! But you’ll have to clean up the mess, I swear!" she shouted back, rolling her eyes.

She closed her eyes and focused. Immediately, the world around her was rendered in her mind in hazy shapes of monochromatic granular light. She had always been able to do this – in fact, this ability of hers was the reason that Gunada had adopted her. Her philosophy teacher, Mrs. Saldina, had told her that what she could see was the latent energy from Creation. Gunada called it the fundamental substrate of reality – the “meya”. Both definitions, she was taught by her teacher of logic, could be true.

As she breathed deeper, as she centred herself, the version of the world she saw in her mind came into focus – the brownstone bricks, the carpeted floors, the door in front of her, the nails in its wood, the dents in the nails. Pain spiked through her brain and shot down her spine, and with a yelp she opened her eyes, holding on to the wall to steady herself.

From inside the study Gunada called, “Focus only on the door! Let the rest of the world be a mystery. You cannot yet channel that much of the meya through yourself!”

“Yes, sorry. It’s just so tempting!”

“I know – but do not give in to temptation. Small steps. Open the door.”

And so, she closed her eyes again. This time, she regarded only the door in front of her and shut herself off to the rest of the world, which remained hazy and undefined. She could feel the grain of the wood, the cold iron of the nails, the bend of the handle. She could have willed the latch to unlock, but she felt that drama was the need of the hour. She found the hinges and focused on them. The hinges burst open, disassembling rapidly with a sharp crack, and the door splintered and crashed to the ground. Eliza opened her eyes and saw Gunada sitting at his desk grinning widely.

His hair, once pitch black and thick, had begun to grey over the past year. His face, all angles, had wrinkled slightly. His elven ears, however, remained as straight as ever, and his eyes sparkled in the noon light. “Come in, come in!” he ushered her in. “I’ll take care of the door, worry not!” already splinters of wood and shards of metal were flying past her, as the door began to stitch itself back together. Gunada was the only other person Eliza had met that could do what she could and he was a master at it.

“Wizards and sorcerers,” he had told her in an early lesson, “warlocks and mages, all can manipulate the meya, so to speak! But they impose their will on the meya for fleeting moments, through charms and spells. We,” he had looked her straight in the eye as he explained this, “we understand the meya, we command it to obey. Not by reciting a spell or mumbling an incantation, but by shaping it, by bending it, by breaking it, and by mending it.” He had never told her what “we” meant, of course.

At once Gunada pulled her into a hug and, in that moment, any joy evoked by Eliza’s trick with the door was gone. They stood like that, in a tight embrace, for a few moments. They did not speak, but the hug was comfort and salve enough for the pain of Anhida’s loss. When he pulled away from Eliza, neither he nor Eliza addressed the matter further.

He turned to face the window, which looked out west over the expanse of Afor, and the glittering blue blanket of the Sunrise Strait. Gunada seemed to Eliza to be in a pensive mood. He was often pensive, so this came as no surprise, but in this particular moment his manner seemed to be tinged with a rarer emotion; foreboding.

“Playing the fool is difficult enough,” he began, dissipating any airs of emotion, “but now I have to act the mourning fool. The more fool me,” he chuckled dryly.

“If I remember correctly,” Eliza sat down in a plush armchair, “you decided to play the fool. Well, that’s what you told me, at least,” she reached towards a bowl of fresh fruit and plucked out a handful of plump black grapes. “So, it is my opinion, that you really only have yourself to blame. Eccentric genius would have worked as well, you know,” she remarked.

Another dry chuckle from Gunada. “For her adoptive granddaughter, you share a remarkable amount of similarities with my late mother.”

“Well, if I were to be honest with you, the idea of the eccentric genius was hers – not mine.”

“I know, Eliza.”

Eliza spat out a seed into the seed-bowl and, before biting down another grape said, “You said ‘all shall be explained’ on the day of Aani’s funeral, Gunada.”

“Yes, I suppose I do owe you that,” he acknowledged but was silent a moment longer. Eliza knew to let him collect his thoughts and to not interrupt him. After Eliza spat out another seed, Gunada turned to face her, his eyes heavy with dread, and spoke.

“5 years from now you will kill. I’m not certain who, or how, but I know that it will be 5 years from now.” Eliza almost choked on her grape.

After a fit of coughing, she managed to speak up. “How do you know this?”

“Because I was 21 when I first killed. I killed the man I killed because it was the right thing to do. For you, it will be no different,” and in that moment, as Gunada’s eyes peered into her soul, Eliza realised that she had seen those eyes before. They were the eyes of a soldier who had seen and done horrible battle – they were the eyes her father, her real father, had worn.

“It is a pity, an incomparable one, my darling,” Gunada sighed. "Our people were not meant to be warriors, much less assassins and spies.”

“What do you mean ‘our people’?” she asked, interrupting him as he began a new sentence. He smiled – her confusion was well-founded. He was a dark elven King of ashen skin, she a human of pale brown. He was born and raised in the ancient city of Afor, she was born and raised far to the west, on the mainland, in the city of warm winds, Odeah. What similarities could they possibly have?

“Not ‘people’ by relation, Eliza. But by faith, by belief, and by mission,” he smiled as if this was meant to clear everything up, and Eliza nodded, but she had more questions to ask. She would ask those later. “We are members of an unknowably ancient order, though only a few of us remain now,” he continued. “Our ability to interpret and command the meya is less a gift and more a roll of the dice. Anyone can be born with that ability, since the meya is existence itself – without it, the world cannot be. And so, anyone can be born with the ability to see and control it.”

This made Eliza feel immediately less special, which was but a passing thought, and burdened her with the implied responsibility.

“If one believes the old tales,” Eliza tried hard not to roll her eyes as Gunada now assumed an air of explanation, “then all living beings are descended from the Aspeyari – the children of Bessamere and her husband Luminil. As such, every man or woman born is born with equal chance of being, in the original Aspeyari, pur raktali.” Here Gunada paused to take a sip of water. “What does that mean, Eliza?” he asked.

“Old Blooded,” she said after sorting out the etymology of pur and raktali in her head. One of the many languages she was taught was Aspeyari, an ancient and now dead language that, according to the myths, was created by the demigods named for it. Very few spoke or understood Aspeyari anymore, and fewer still believed its mythology. Gunada believed in many ancient myths as told by poets of old, and Eliza, for her part, could not fathom that version of events to be true, but she knew the language well enough to be able to break down the phrase posed to her.

“Correct,” he gave her a bare smile before continuing. “Some pur raktali, like me, are members of an ancient order. We call ourselves Pura Raktaliya Faris; the Servants of the Old Blood. Simply, we call ourselves the Prafi. Our order was once, uncountable generations before even I was born, an order of monks that dedicated itself to meditation and learning and the unravelling of secrets,” he swallowed a few orange slices.

“Now…” his voice trailed off. “Now we kill and we fight. The mortal world seems to hate itself, and if there is any order to be found, we must protect it.” He laughed again, but this time it was a derisive snort. “No one gets in the way of their own peace like we do; wars, revolutions, inquisitions, massacres, murders, rapes. The list goes on.” His grin had faded away. “We play now the role of spymaster and assassin. Tell me, Eliza, do you think it interesting that we Mawers, foreigners in every way to the Isles, have managed to maintain a Kingdom that is built on the ideals of freedom – both personal and religious? That we have never wavered from these ideals for the century and a half that we have ruled?”

Eliza nodded. It was something she often wondered at. The nations on the Isles beyond Mawer lands were havens of intolerance. Those who did not worship Azda-Mara were branded heretics and, at best, to be cast out. At worst, they were tortured to death. In the few kingdoms and nations that championed the Pantheon of Seven – Saptadharma, in the original Uttari – the same treatment was meted out to the Azdavyery (that is, the Azda-Marans). Only two nations, both minor Princedoms, believed in the Duology of the Married Gods, and they were oft subject to invasion – by Azdavyery as well as Sevenist nations. She had little knowledge of the politics of the wider continent that stretched out to the west of their archipelago across the Sunrise Strait, but what she knew, particularly of the empire seated in the city of Afsos that ruled over much of the Uttar Raegis, was a smattering of similar stories of violence.

“The founder of our dynasty, Hedi Mawer I, was the first to uncover the existence of the Prafi. Ever since, he has enlisted their help.” Gunada paused once again, this time to wolf down a couple slices of apple.

“When I was born and I was found to be pur raktali, my grandfather – the youngest son of Hedi – was overjoyed. My training started at a younger age than yours, if you can believe it.”

“Who trained you?”

Gunada chuckled. “The same man who brought you and your family safely to me – Raidas.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. This story had been told to her many times by her mother and on more than one occasion by Uncle Rai. “I never knew…”

“Nor should you have, well, not yet at least. He might be upset that I’ve let the cat out the bag, now that I think about it…” Gunada paused a second, as if expecting something, then continued. “The Prafi, you see, only helped my family as long as we served order, justice, and freedom. Their assistance has allowed us to maintain the fragile equality in our Kingdom. This,” he got up and began, once again, to stare out of the window, “as you may be able to imagine, annoyed some of the more… noble in my family.”

“You mean those who believed in power for power’s sake?” Eliza asked.

“Yes, like my grandfather,” he was speaking quietly now.

“What do you mean?”

“He was excited by my birth, you see, because it meant that a pur raktali was born that was more loyal to the House than he was to the meya and to good,” his voice was now almost mouse-like.

“What happened?”

“Raidas trained me. That, I suppose, was my grandfather’s mistake and misunderstanding. The Prafi… they do not do things in half measure. No amount of venom from my grandfather or his courtiers could overcome what Raidas taught me – that good matters, in the end,” in saying this Gunada coughed multiple times, as if clearing his throat or forcing away tears. Which one it was, Eliza was not sure as he remained facing away from her the entire time.

“My grandfather was the first man I killed, Eliza.” There followed a long silence, in which neither moved and Eliza barely breathed.

“Did Aani know?” asked Eliza in a quiet voice.

“Hmm? Oh,” he turned around, “she did. And she did not hold me in contempt. She had also received, by her own choice, moral lessons from Raidas.”

This conflicted Eliza immensely. To protect good, she must kill? Does that not make her the very thing she seeks to destroy? Does that not destroy good, if in her own self, though she seeks to protect it elsewhere?

“Yes,” said a voice. It was Raidas, who had materialised behind them. “I know the thoughts you have, little one,” said the old elf, walking up to her. “To protect the goodness of others, the purity of life, and the beauty of innocence – we sacrifice that in our own hearts. That is the oath we take, that is the duty accorded us by fate.” He exchanged a knowing glance with Gunada, who had poured himself some wine. “It is a dark path. And one we must tread – for if we do not, no one else will.”

“Come,” said Gunada, walking over to her. “It is time you see the world that awaits you, should you choose to live in it.”

The trio walked briskly through the Palace, wading through a sea of people who launched themselves at the King to offer comfort or express their grief. There were, in this crowd, friends and estranged relations that approached the King who only truly cared to hear what the Queen had bequeathed them. Then there were the self-important courtiers, who rivalled great thespians in the performance of their grief, though secretly they were unmourning. The least egregious sort, to Eliza, were the ministers of state who, regardless of their personal feelings toward the Queen, wanted little more than to get on with the task of managing a new reign.

Then, their march took them to the gardens. The gardens were manicured in the latest fashion – bushes of the fiery red hibiscus flower, trimmed so that none were taller than the waist, lined the smaller paths while apricot trees of equal height flanked the wider gravel tracks. The paths formed a grid pattern which radiated out from the Palace toward the walls. At the end of twelve paths stood marble statues, each depicting one of the first saints in the Saptadharma faith. In the centre of each grid was a rectangular, flat pool hewn from blackstone, in the still waters of which were strewn lilies and lotuses. Eliza knew these gardens well, of course, but their march was unceasing and Eliza had not the time to enjoy the manicured sights.

She thought to ask where they were going, for the route they were taking seemed odd. They were headed towards the Palace’s westernmost wall, where Eliza knew there was nothing of import; not even a saint’s statue. But she kept quiet, for it was obvious that all would be revealed to her in time. When they turned down a path flanked on either side by large mango trees, which had begun to bear their sweet fruit, they sighted the wall. Gunada’s and Raidas’s pace quickened.

They came to a stop, finally, at the wall. A young Captain of the Lifeguards, the regiment of infantry assigned to the King, shouted down from atop the wall, “Shall I open it, Your Majesty?”.

“Yes, Cermak, thank you,” Gunada responded. The mention of Cermak made Elzia’s hairs stand on end. Bolina Cermak was, among other things, her chief trainer in firearms, swordsmanship, and physical conditioning. No one could say he was unfair or unpleasant, and Eliza knew him to be a gentleman of the highest standard, but he was an unrelenting training officer. Echoes of “Again! Again!” sounded in Eliza’s head, coupled with memories of failing one drill or the other, and sent a chill down her spine.

She was roused from her thoughts by a series of heavy thuds and sharp clangs, which sounded as though some great mechanism had been woken from a slumber. In front of her, and to her astonishment, a section of the wall swung open like a door. Gunada walked in, as did Raidas, and disappeared from sight. Not wanting to be left behind, for the wall-door was already in the process of shutting, Eliza rushed in. To her right there was a wooden staircase that descended into the earth. Aside from that, there was nothing else but solid stone around her. Gunada and Raidas had disappeared down the stairs, and Eliza followed. She appeared at the bottom at the start of a long hallway. The hallway was made of brick and the air was stale; there were no windows, of course, for they were far below the earth, and light was provided by oil lamps that hung off the walls. On each side of the hallway, there were cell doors placed every ten feet, and the Lifeguards patrolled in twos or threes, each carrying a musket or rifle, a pistol, and a sabre.

“Come now, Eliza. There is something you must witness. It is the first scene of the play to which your life has been building,” Gunada’s tone was ominous. As they started down the corridor, passing a variety of rooms – some ordinary cells, some accommodations for the guards – she felt the presence of Raidas behind her to be a steadying one. She wondered if that was his intent, since Eliza had never been in the dungeons before.

From what she knew, the dungeons were meant for special prisoners – not the local riff-raff or even the more sophisticated among the criminal classes. They, she understood, were interred in one of three prisons spread across the city. The dungeon was meant for those who posed a serious threat to the Kingdom itself; those who would not receive a trial. Sometimes, if the rumours were to be believed, they were used to imprison people who were never supposed to have existed.

It was in front of a heavy iron door at the end of the main corridor that they stopped. From inside Eliza could hear nothing – in fact, the whole place was deadly silent, save for the breathing of the guards and the sounds of their footsteps. Opening the door was a slow process, due more to its weight than anything else, and they were ushered inside with no real hurry. Clearly no one was worried about prisoners attempting an escape.

Inside, sat on chairs, were two men, their arms bound behind them and their heads covered by sacks. They were lit by dim torchlight, whose smoke trailed around the room before being sucked out into the open air by a series of ducts cut into the ceiling. In that dim light she saw their garb – it was a rough fabric, perhaps wool, and on it was the silvery symbol of the Azdavyery.

“This man,” said Raidas walking up to one of them and ripping off the sack, “is Dmitur Poitr, and he speaks of sedition.”

Sitting in front of her, eyes widened with fear and his mouth bound by a gag, was an old man whose hair had long taken its leave and whose skin had wrinkled into waves. She recognised him, in fact. She had seen him around the palace often – if her memory served, he was the Atashga of All Azdavyery on the Isles. He was often seen around the Palace, for he sat on some religious council that Anhida convened, but Eliza had never interacted with the man and had, up until now, not even known his name.

“How can you be sure?” she asked of Raidas, who seemed to have anticipated the question. But the man who spoke up was Gunada.

“Close your eyes and focus – focus on him. Cut through the noise of the world and tear through his mind,” he instructed. His tone was more authoritative than usual.

“What?” Eliza responded with shock.

“I know it is difficult to understand, but try. Know this: every thought we think, every action we take causes ripples in the meya. Observe the ripple and follow it to its source,” he offered some more detailed instruction.

“But why?” Neither man responded, and waited, instead, for her to elaborate. “You said we must protect that which is good, innocent, and pure. Does Dmitur pose a threat to that which is good, innocent and pure, simply by speaking of sedition?"

Raidas smiled a knowing smile.

“To punish someone for disliking me, which is the core of all seditious thought, would be a total betrayal of what we, as Prafi, believe in and strive to, Eliza,” Gunada said, resorting to his tone of warmth. “You know me to be fair – would I do this simply because Dmitur and his apprentice dislike me?” he was being, Eliza suspected, honest in his answer.

“No, you would not,” she said, the tension in her shoulders disappeared slightly.

Gunada smiled. “Now will you do as I instructed?” he asked.

Eliza closed her eyes and focused. The room around her was rendered, again, in granular light but this time she focused on the unmasked man in front of her. Slowly, her vision shifted into focus until she saw every detail of the man’s physical existence and the rest of the world disappeared into the haze. She breathed in deep and relaxed herself, as she felt around for the ‘ripple’ that Gunada had described. She wasn’t sure how long she remained in that meditative state but finally, she felt it – it was like a low thrumming that resonated from deep inside Dmitur’s mind.

Without hesitation, she launched herself at the source. Eliza felt herself tumbling through fragments of memories and remnants of thought. There were… so many. It was becoming too much, she had to stop- a hand on her shoulder calmed her down. “Stay focused, little one,” Raidas. “Remain calm and you will not falter. Chase his memories until you find those of which we speak.”

She breathed in and out a mite more, before sorting through the many memories to which she was now party. It was as though she were experiencing them through her own eyes – rather, it was as though she was living them through Dmitur’s body. It took her some time, but she quickly learned the different thrums that came with different sorts of memories and thoughts, and she soon found herself sorting through visions of secret meetings and plan-making.

The man’s cruelty was revealed to her almost instantly. In his youth, he had been appointed Whip-Master of the Azdavyery temple in Afor. He relished the pain he caused in that position; those he whipped were largely disobedient children. In such a manner, he had killed more than a few. His treatment of women, especially unbelievers, was so vile that Eliza nearly expelled herself from his memories. Still, she fought against herself to remain in control. As she steadied herself, she witnessed a conversation he had had with his apprentice, a man she learned was called Dazhyen. He spoke of killing Eliza, but not before having his way with her. He spoke of what would come after the King and his ‘bastard child’ were dead – the inquisitions and the cleansings. “Sevenists hanging on every street corner, Duoists skinned alive and drowned in the sea…” it was all too much, and Eliza felt herself recoil in horror, collapsing on the floor.

“Blast it all!” she heard Gunada yell. “I told you!” he seemed to be directing this to Raidas, “I told you she was not ready!” Raidas said nothing as Eliza opened her eyes and attempted to sit up, aided by the helping arms of Gunada.

“That man…” she stared at Dmitur with disgust. Dmitur did not match her gaze, and stared, instead, at Raidas and Gunada in turn.

“Yes, little one. But that is not why I asked Gunada to instruct you in this exercise,” he spoke softly, as if in apology. “It was to see if you could penetrate his mind. This is… something that is difficult, especially for someone so young. But you did it. Didn’t you?” Behind her, Gunada was breathing heavy as though he were furious but quickly his breaths became measured once again. As Eliza got to her feet she considered what Raidas had asked her – yes, she had done it. She’d collapsed not because she was overwhelmed by any exertion, but because she was overtaken by the depths of Dmitur’s evil.

“You were right, Uncle,” she said finally. “I did it, and I feel I could do it again.”

Gunada seemed to be calmed by this answer. “Well, now that that experiment is done-”

Eliza interrupted him. “What about him?” she pointed to the other man, who had said and done nothing, though his breathing had become heavier and more panicked. “He is Dmitur’s apprentice, and he bears us no real ill will,” said Raidas. “He is a faithful of Azda-Mara, born into the temple and raised by the Azdavery’s staunchest believers – yes. But through it all, his heart has resisted the evil. Still, he will be dispatched to a lesser prison whence he will stand trial for treason, and be released in some time.”

At this statement, Dmitur’s eyes widened even more and his face melted in horror. It seemed to have dawned on him that he would never again see the sunlight. “Well then,” said Eliza catching her breath, “what about Dmitur?”

Raidas smiled dryly, and Gunada shook his head. “No one will miss him,” said Raidas.

“Really, Eliza,” Gunada whisked her around so that her back was to the prisoners. “You do not need to be here for this – please,” he was almost pleading, “leave this to us. You will have your fill of death in the years to come.”

No one spoke or said anything. Eliza had already made up her mind. “No, Gunada. I must see this,” she said solemnly. “You were right – this is my world. I will fight and, if need be, die for good, for innocence, and for purity.”

“You were younger, Gunada, when you made the same decision,” said Raidas. Gunada’s face hardened at that reminder.

“So, I was,” he said. “Very well,” he relented and let go of Eliza, who turned around. Raidas had already armed himself with a long dagger, and was standing behind Dmitur. The condemned man’s gag was undone by Raidas who asked him, “any last words?”

“You will all be buried by my Lady!” shouted Dmitur almost instantly, his fear replaced in his eyes by fiery conviction. Within an instant, Raidas’s dagger had slit open the man’s throat, ear to ear, and he died in the chair, twitching and spasming, gasping for breath, drenched in his own blood. Beside him, his apprentice’s screams of horror were muffled by his unremoved gag.

****

PS: This is a world I've been building since 2019. It began as a thing I did to pass the time, and has become a pet project. I have over 6000 years of history written down, and dozens of in-world documents. I think all of this has bled into chapter one to detrimental effect.

But I'm too close to it! My beta readers have been friends and family, and they've been too close to it too. So I need fresh eyes.

My questions are simple: what works? what doesn't and why?

Ty!

This is chapter 1 out of 31 (not including the prologue). The book itself is already at 132k words and on draft 3, and I need edit suggestions or I'll go mad!