Tomebound

One day I went down again from Mount Tulaylal and spoke to the people of Ralaheed. I climbed a tree and said to them: “By what tool does man subjugate the earth?” A young man in the crowd spoke up and said, “The sword! No animal can wield it, yet it slays the tiger.” I told him, “No. For man does not subjugate the tiger, but the earth.” A scholar in the crowd spoke up and said, “The plowshare! No animal can wield it, yet it feeds all men.” I told him, “No. For man does not subjugate the wheat, but the earth.” And no one could answer me. I said to the people, “The word. For it is by the word that the blacksmith teaches his son to forge iron into swords, and it is by the word that the farmer teaches his son to work the land so it is fruitful. It is by the word that books are written of the sword and the plowshare, and it is by the word that Eloei reveals to us His divine wisdom and undying love. I am the Word of Eloei, and my life is His book, that you may learn and be tested.”

-Testament of Kahlo Hadrizeen, First Prophet of Eloei, Chapter 39, Verses 1-11

Castle Muadazim, Dhasherah Region, Qarda

Lanor began her day with prayer, as she did every day. But today was not like other days.

She dipped the first and second fingers of her right hand into a golden bowl of consecrated water. She touched her fingers first to her lips and began to recite the Four Precepts. “Man shall preserve the word by book,” she murmured by rote. Lips, for the word. Second, she touched her fingers to her forehead, for dignity. “Man shall not enslave man.” Third, she touched her throat, for vitality. “Man shall not kill unjustly.” Fourth, she touched the center of her chest, for the heart. “All gods but Eloei are deceivers.”

She knelt in her sleep gown, facing Mount Tulaylal in the south, pressing her forehead once against the cool stone floor of Castle Muadazim. The kohfar, the dawn prayer, went: “Glory to Eloei, Maker of the Morning and the New Dawn. Guide my footsteps that I might not stumble. Guard my heart from the wiles of the Hateful One. Intercede for me, O Word Among Men, the First Prophet Kahlo Hadrizeen, and I will keep your Tome all my days. In the name of Eloei the Merciful, if it please Him, so be it.” The words were so practiced that they all but fell out of her mouth.

Castle Muadazim was cold and quiet that morning. Winter in Dhasherah was always cold, often rainy. Some years it even snowed. Today, a gray shroud hung over the temperate woods, bringing a biting mist with it. The servants stoked fires throughout the castle for warmth—something unheard of at her home palace in Rayyaq Raleed, where the seasons were only wet or dry.

Everything in Castle Muadazim was basic, functional, and utterly inelegant. There were hearths for heat as well as cooking. Where the palace in Rayyaq Raleed had ornamental inscriptions written in rare clay pigments, exquisite tilework, engraved marble arches leading to opulent gardens, Castle Muadazim was all gray stone, humble wood, black iron, narrow doors. The royal trappings brought from Rayyaq Raleed were delicate gold and silk, in sharp contrast with everything else in Dhasherah.

But they were two different places built for two very different reasons. The Palace of the Hierophant was built to glorify the Hierophany. Castle Muadazim was made for business—more precisely, business with unbelievers. Unbelievers unworthy of witnessing any such glory.

“My priestess,” said a soft voice outside Lanor’s chamber.

“Enter,” said Lanor.

The iron handle on the dark door creaked sideways and the wood groaned with its opening. Lanor’s handmaiden Sashani entered, already dressed in her ceremonial nusin dress, mint green with pale blue cuffs at the ends of the sleeves. “Eloei’s blessings to you, priestess,” she said demurely with a slight bow.

“And also to you.” Lanor smiled tiredly. “Did my father send you?” The servant bowed again even smaller. “I can dress myself, you know.”

“Of course, but today is the opening ceremony. There is so much more for you to do! The least I can do is help you to prepare, my priestess.”

“You can call me Lanor, Sashani. I’ve told you this.” Her admonishment was gentle but weary. “We’re friends, remember?”

“Yes, priest—I mean, yes, Lanor! But, with respect, only when we’re alone. It’s too informal to call you that around the others.” Sashani smiled a bashful smile, as if they shared a scandalous secret now.

Despite her royal privilege, Lanor was more than capable of getting ready herself, and had been since she was little—she often insisted when the occasion was less important—but she did appreciate Sashani’s help. Sashani was a year older and made tasks seem so effortless. The handmaiden guided her to the next room where Lanor disrobed and sank into the bath drawn for her, which was warm and sprinkled with fragrant rose and jasmine petals.

Sashani began the arduous task of washing Lanor’s thick hair. The servant poured bowls of water over her head, working an ivory comb between her coarse curls and combing out from root to tip. The sensation reminded Lanor of when her mother used to bathe her as a child—one of the only memories she had of her mother. Next came the oil thick with the scent of herbs.

Lanor knew her own responsibilities that day were small. Though she was Qarda’s crown priestess, she was only fifteen years of age, and not much was expected of her. She needed only look presentable and to speak politely and gracefully when someone addressed her. It was easier to be on her best behavior at her age; trips to Dhasherah bored her to tears when she was very little, but now it was just a chore to weather, a day to count the passing of the hours by the angles of sunbeams through the tall windows.

But today was not like other days. Today was the Circle of Kings.

“Pardon me, my priestess,” said a male voice on the other side of the chamber door. “Eloei’s blessings. I have a message.”

“Halt!” said Sashani. “The priestess is indecent.”

A pause. “The Hierophant Drakhman Sanzeen, Eloei grace him, requests your presence in the Hall of Unity, my priestess.”

Lanor sighed. “He told me as much last night. Tell him I will be there when I’m ready!”

A longer pause this time. “He says he would like you to recite the first duahr for our guests, the Prayer of Community.”

A group prayer? Lanor wondered. She rolled her eyes. “Unless he would like me to lead the prayer sopping wet and half-oiled, tell him I’ll be there later!”

The messenger answered her, “Apologies, my priestess,” sounding embarrassed at her candor. That was the last he spoke of it, his voice disappearing somewhere behind the barred door.

“A duahr when the sun is barely up. I know my father sent messengers to wake our guests, too. Must this whole day be filled to the brim?” Lanor sighed. “One of these days, my father will drop dead from the stress he creates for himself.”

“Priestess,” Sashani gasped. “Is it right to say such a thing?”

“Lanor,” she corrected her. “Remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

The crown priestess sighed, sinking deeper into the bath. “The day has just started, but I want it to end already.”

Lanor tired of her royal duties. She longed to be back home at the palace, playing with her pet scorpions or reading a book, a real book. The Testament was no substitute for a thrilling legend or the histories beyond Qarda. The Testament was just a set of rituals to be repeated each day, old stories that had lost all flavor for her.

She would never say this, of course. To say this would draw the wrong kind of attention to herself, which was any. The Testament of Kahlo Hadrizeen, First Prophet of Eloei was the most sacred, most important text in all the world. Stories spoke of Eloheed graced with incredible powers and insight through the tome—powers beyond that of mortal men.

But these stories had lost their flavor, too.

Four full days in Dhasherah loomed before her. She prayed silently to Eloei to turn the world just a little faster until she was on the palanquin home. It was less of a prayer, more of a wish she whispered in her heart to no one in particular, hopeful but unsure of the outcome.

What’s the difference? Lanor thought.

***

The Hall of Unity filled with foreign dignitaries, scribes, servants, and guards, and books were opened. Books to mark the occasion, to record the conversations, all the most minute goings-on, every look and gesture that passed between the gold-plated Qardish paladins and the iron soldiers of Grackenwell. The ostentatious delegates from Zan Vayonado looked wealthy enough to be Qardish—a wandering people, they wore all their treasures as a point of pride. In Qarda, a Zan was often called a sirrha—a courtesan—although it was shamefully rude to call one such a thing to their face.

The least conspicuous of the guests were those from Dridon. They were Grackenwell’s neighbors from the southern half of the Stone Continent. They dressed drab as a Stonish castle in shades of gray and brown, and they lacked the exceedingly masculine poise of the Grackenwelsh.

The mysterious moon-witches of Myrenthos arrived last. The ashes of books grayed their hip-length hair and robes, stained the undersides of their fingernails. An air of mourning followed them.

Lanor found it all very tiresome.

She slumped across the tablespace in front of her, itchy in her ornate nusin, studying the geometric diamond patterns of cyan embroidered on the jade fabric. “How much longer?”

Her uncle Ghamal frowned his disapproval. “Sit up straight, Lanor. Your father will arrive soon for the duahr and then breakfast will be served. The sun is barely risen, and already you want to shirk your religious duties?”

Lanor could only be so candid with her vizier uncle. “Of course not,” she lied. “I’ll recite the prayer my father expects of me. I know it by heart, just like all the others.” Her tone lacked any grace or enthusiasm.

The old man sighed, discreetly indicating their Myrenthian guests with a tilt of his head. “A new Prime Oracle has been appointed in Myrenthos. She’s here with us today. Many Myrenthians perished in our liberation of the land, and your father just finished supervising the burning of their books. They now join us at the Circle of Kings to establish trade between our lands and secure lasting peace. Is that not a good reason to take this seriously?” He grimaced and scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble, recently shaven to celebrate. “You’re not a child anymore, Lanor. People look to you as the future Hierophant. I think seeing you moan and complain about this gathering would salt many wounds.”

Lanor straightened up, suddenly hot in the face and keenly aware of the Myrenthian gazes boring through her. She brushed ebony braids out of her face; her deep brown skin prickled with sweat. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said sheepishly.

“Just don’t let your father see you behaving like that. What would he think of his vizier then? I’m meant to guide you in matters of the state, as well as your faith, while he’s away at war. What would it say of my discipline if he saw you acting out like this?”

Lanor’s gaze wandered around the Hall of Unity’s long tables full of foreign royalty. It was drawn most often to the representatives from Grackenwell. Their king sat straight-backed and proud, wearing his wrought iron coronet with thick palisades sharp as daggers.

But her gaze lingered on the prince—Kimbel was his name, she recalled. He was a year her senior, broad-shouldered and already gifted with the musculature of a man in his prime. She found his pale skin and the silky chestnut curls of his hair to be exotic. But she was most drawn to his eyes. There was a warmth to them, hidden beneath all the regal stoicism of a prince in a strange land. And it was simply unfair for a boy to have eyelashes that full and long without a drop of makeup.

The groaning of wood broke her daydream.

Her father, the man of the hour, burst into the Hall of Unity bright-eyed and lively, glowing with the energy of a man who’d matched swords with Death and lived. The doorman announced his arrival. “The venerable Hierophant Drakhman Sanzeen, Seventy-Seventh Prophet of Eloei!” The room rose to its feet.

He had dark Sanzeen skin, braids of coarse hair behind his head and a golden lacer binding his beard. The Crown of Hierophany adorned his head. It was likely the most precious single item in the world, solid gold encrusted with diamonds and other glittering gemstones encircling a dark green velvet cap. The tall band of the crown was engraved in Qardish script with the names of all the Hierophants who had come before; Drakhman’s was the last of them, carved in the fourth row above his left ear.

Lanor’s father exchanged a diplomatic bow with the new Prime Oracle of Myrenthos, Hessandra. He took her hands in his and said something with a lot of solemn nodding that ended with a cautious smile. She appeared enchanted with his manners. Despite the ashes of her nation’s holy books that still clung to her, she seemed genuinely happy to be here in Dhasherah. But when it came to burning those pagan tomes in Myrenthos, Hessandra, a recent convert to the Eloheed, had been one of the most enthusiastic participants; it followed that she would be enthusiastic about joining the Circle of Kings, her reward.

Drakhman exchanged another bow with King Brynh Garrotin of Grackenwell and his men—Lanor could see them eyeing each other, each assuring the other man was bowing appropriately, and that neither of them bowed deeper than the other. She caught Kimbel’s eyes flitting between the two monarchs.

The way in which adults carried themselves struck her as silly and pompous. It reminded her of her mother’s pet peacocks, which outlived her well into Lanor’s childhood. Adults were fond of puffing their chests and fanning their pretend feathers exactly as was expected of them. To her, they seemed more childlike than children did, full of their own imagined importance.

“My friends,” he announced to the Hall, “it brings me great joy and hope to see you all gathered here in Dhasherah under the sight of Eloei. May He bless this summit. May the Word of Eloei speak clearly to all who have opened their ears and hearts to receive it.” He motioned for a train of servants to enter the Hall, all of them carrying blue-and-gold-bound books on red velvet pillows. “I humbly offer each of our guests a copy of The Testament of Kahlo Hadrizeen, First Prophet of Eloei as a token of Qarda’s good will. Let this tome serve as the stepping stone of a cultural exchange between our kingdoms. It is Qarda’s hope that we can strengthen existing relations...” He beamed at the Stonish guests. “...and forge new ones as well...” At this, he turned his smile to the Myrenthian women in their midst. “...in the name of world peace and mutual commerce. I would like to begin this twenty-third Circle of Kings with a duahr led by my cherished daughter, Lanor Sanzeen, Crown Priestess of Qarda.”

When he finished speaking, Lanor could hear the mutterings of various interpreters throughout the Hall, translating the man’s Qardish words into Stonish dialects of Grackenwelsh and Dridic, as well as what must have been Myrenthian. Then the cavernous room fell silent. A cold haze prowled across the land outside the glassless windows.

Lanor stood. “This is the Duahr of Community. It was first spoken by...” The words caught in her throat. She straightened her back, feeling many eyes crawling across her skin like spiders. “...first spoken by Kahlo Hadrizeen himself, Eloei grace him, in the pantheon of the city then called Ralaheed.”

Lanor cleared her throat. Her heart thumped in her chest. How many times had she recited the same prayer to herself or in the temple? Why was now so different? “‘In the name of Eloei the Merciful, Lord Above Lords, may our peoples be joined harmoniously.’” She spoke hurriedly, without rhythm or passion. “‘As the drops of rain collect in the river and so lose their selfhood, let us too be united. Now is the time to clean our swords, and may blood not stain them in this generation, nor in the...’” Another snag. Hierophant Drakhman beamed at his daughter. Lanor’s eyes darted around the room from her father to the tables full of strangers. Prince Kimbel met her gaze at once—her stomach did a somersault, and then her throat was dry and the expansive Hall of Unity somehow felt like a much smaller chamber shrinking all around her. “Forgive me,” she said, and she bolted from the room.

She could hear her father’s booming voice finish the prayer behind her. “‘...nor in the generation of our sons, nor that of the sons of our sons. As the Deceiver sows division and strife, let us reap the togetherness ordained for us by the One True God. In the name of Eloei the Most High, if it please Him, so be it.’”

“So be it,” echoed all the Eloheed.

***

Columns of golden sun broke the mist by midday; the light was short-lived. After a while, the clouds reformed themselves, the mist gathering once more between the silent cedars of Dhasherah. All the while, Lanor hid in her chamber. She was too ashamed to show her face again to anyone in the castle. She watched night fall alone and was suspicious of the darkness, remembering old stories of the mahjeen that lurked in the deep wilds far from home.

There was another knock at her chamber door. She heaved a deep sigh in her bed, holding a silk-dressed pillow over her ears. “Sashani,” she groaned, “I told you I don’t want any visitors! Please, for the fifth time—”

“Lanor,” said a deep voice. It was her father.

The one person in all the world she didn’t have the heart to turn away.

She sat up, hugging the pillow close, drawing her knees up against her chest. “Come in.”

Her father entered wearing white leisure robes, having changed out of his formal green-and-gold regalia. His face was a tired one, a disarmingly human one, the kind he could only show his flesh and blood. Drakhman closed the chamber door behind him and sat at the foot of her bed as he often did.

“Why, Lanor?” he asked softly. “What happened?” There was no anger or even disappointment in his voice. Only weariness.

Lanor could only shrug meekly in response. “I forgot the rest.”

“You didn’t forget. We’ve rehearsed that duahr together dozens of times. You knew it like all the rest. What happened?” She had no argument to make this time; he was right. “You know, as my daughter, the crown priestess, you are—”

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “The future Hierophant.”

Drakhman scoffed. “You say it with such contempt. Like it’s a chore.”

“That’s what it feels like most days!”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Lanor, you are among the most pampered people in the known world! You sleep in the finest silk, eat the finest foods—your palanquin is plated with gold! Is it such a hard life you lead?”

“Make it a pyramid of gold. Make it a mountain. What good is it if I have no friends?”

“No friends? What is the meaning of this? You see Sashani every day!”

“She’s my handmaiden, not my friend. And it’s not for a lack of effort on my part. She’s like a nervous fawn around me. She still refuses to call me by my name.”

“Well, the girl might find it too informal. That’s all... What of Lucanh, the boy prince—”

“I’ve met the Prince of Dridon twice, father. He’s also a year younger than me. And the age of a boy is even less because of how slow they are to grow up. We have nothing in common.”

“And what about that Prince Kimbel? I know how fond you are of him.”

Now she was the one to scoff. “Father!”

“What? It’s clear in the way you look at him. He is still here in Castle Muadazim for two more days! Why don’t you talk about foreign affairs or your studies with him? In the morning, of course—you shouldn’t risk rumors of impropriety.”

“Father, stop!” Lanor drew her pillow closer, feeling warmth flood her face. “I don’t want to speak of that anymore. I don’t even want to be here. I just want to go home.” She looked poutingly out the open window. Rayyaq Raleed was sometimes called the City of Embers for the way its many thousands of torches and lanterns burned orange all through the night, twinkling halfway up Mount Tulaylal. But the feeble light of Castle Muadazim tapered off at the edge of the woods—beyond that, there was only the dark.

Her father rose from his seat and closed the shutters of her window. “You’ll fall ill from the cold vapors here.” She appreciated when he spoke to her like her father. But when he sat back down, he spoke to her again like the most important man in the world. “Do you know how many people would kill for the kind of power you stand to inherit? Do you know how many have?”

She furrowed her brow, tensing up her shoulders. “I never asked to inherit any power. I never wanted any of this!”

“Well, you have no choice!” Suddenly, her father’s voice was booming again. He was full of fire now—never directed at her, but still impossible to ignore. “You are my daughter, Lanor! You are my sole heir. Like it or not, I will not live forever, and one day... One day, the responsibility will be yours.”

“Don’t say such a thing.” She remembered what she’d said to Sashani earlier about her father working himself to death and felt a new shame. “You know I hate to hear that. If that were ever to happen—”

“When it happens, Lanor. When.”

She gave him a hurt look; he was unwavering. “On that day, I will want your throne even less than I do now.”

“Everyone mourns. You will mourn me one day.” She shook her head bitterly. “You will. As I mourned my parents. As we mourned your mother. And one day, your children will mourn you. Is that what this is?” He shifted a pace closer to her on the bed, his face full of confidence, as if to say, Now I understand. “You must put aside those fears of the future, Lanor. Let the grace of Eloei fill your heart. That feeling when the cantor sings the morning nasbilha? That is the spirit of Eloei anointing you with His love. Let that feeling take the place of your fear.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t felt that since she was a little girl. She hadn’t felt anything in the temple, nor during any prayer, not alone or even in the company of more ardent believers. “I know that,” she lied. “It’s not that. I... I could never accept your throne. Not even then. There has never been a female hierophant—you and Uncle have reminded me of that all my life. It will break tradition.”

“Eloei damn these earthly traditions,” Drakhman spat. “He said nothing of the matter in the Testament. Therefore, you must do your duty as the sole heir of the Hierophant. Such is the will of Eloei. Otherwise, you would risk the safety and stability of all of Qarda—no, of the entire known world.” She could see the whites of his eyes even in the low light, he looked so disturbed at the thought. “Listen to me carefully, Lanor.”

“I am listening.”

“The opportunist sees weakness and strikes. Do you understand?” She nodded. “I fought in that strange land, Lanor. Watched my men die. I gave their dying rites. Some days I read funerary verses from the Testament until my voice went hoarse. All in the name of the greater good. All in the name of Eloei.” He removed the white sleeping cloth from his head, showing his naked hair. For a woman in most social situations, such a gesture would have been scandalous; for a man to his child, it was a sign of humility. “I won’t ask you to lead a duahr again tomorrow. I have no plans of dying any time soon, especially now that we have entered a time of peace. But will you do me the honor of sitting at my right hand in the Hall?”

Her eyes welled with moisture. She’d forgotten how much she missed her father, how she worried for him when he was at war far from home. She’d come to take his presence for granted. “Why would you want me there again? All I did today was embarrass you.”

“Lanor, you did not embarrass me. And I want you there by my side anyway, even if you never lead another prayer for the rest of my days. Do you know why?” She shook her head. “Because you are my daughter. And your mother and I are very proud of you.” He stood, kissed the top of her head as he’d done when she was a small child, and patted her on the back. He drew his sleeping cloth back over his head and made for the door. “What do you say?”

She sniffled. “I’ll consider it.”

He smiled wearily from the door and made the sign of prayer, touching his lips. “I’ll take it. Praise be to Eloei.” With that, his shape disappeared into the dark corridor, his shadow dancing in the light of a distant torch. He was gone.

Lanor longed for home more than ever—not just for herself, but for the both of them. Her father had certainly earned it.

***

She slept deeply that night, Dhasherah bearskin blankets wrapped tightly around her shivering frame. In her sleep, she had the half-alert thought to stoke the fire in her chamber—one of the few tasks that she was expected to complete alone once night fell. She heard someone scream. Was it in a dream, or someone outside the castle? She wondered, half-awake, and then slipped back asleep.

Dreams of her mother plagued her sleep after that. Some were sweet, others strange, the sort of dreams she would never recall after waking. She awoke again to a scream—or was it the same one? Was it a memory? The tail end of a dream? She couldn’t tell.

But now she was awake.

She lit a candle with her fire steel and decided to pace around her chamber until she tired out again. In the clarity of night, she lamented the way she’d choked on her words in the Hall of Unity. But her resolve to avoid the duties of her station was stronger than ever.

Still, she could tell how her abdication made her father feel. She realized she’d never properly welcomed him home from war in Myrenthos, between all his diplomatic comings and goings. Her apology to her father would come first thing after sunrise. She would bring him morning milk and tea to thank him for his patience and to give him a formal welcome home to Qarda. Even if she refused to be a good crown priestess, she could still be a good daughter.

Another scream knifed through the night. Lanor nearly dropped her candle—that was no dream.

She burst out of her chamber and padded down the hall. The wavering lights of moving torches converged at the very end—the Hierophant’s chamber. The doors were open, the paladin guards missing.

Something was wrong.

She set down her candle. “Step aside,” she said, pushing her way through the small gathering of onlookers. “I am the crown priestess! Move aside!”

The tang of metal hung in the air, thin and ferrous. She forced her way through the chamber doorway, shaking off the grasping hands of paladins and noblemen who appeared behind her, pleaded with her to look away, and a moment later she understood why.

Her father, Hierophant Drakhman Sanzeen, Seventy-Seventh Prophet of Eloei, lay sprawled out on the floor of his chamber. He wore a scarlet ribbon around his neck, a pool of wine around his head. But it was neither a ribbon nor wine. Her eyes couldn’t make sense of the scene at first.

Another scream slit the night open. She didn’t realize until she was on her knees and shaking that it was her own.