Witch of Ambition

How pitiful.

Sarif felt nothing for the writhing crowd trapped in his ritual. As an important man, he knew the power of appearances and as a learned man, he knew the dangers of filth. Thousands of unwashed bodies rolling in the fluids forcefully ejected from their bodies in the throes of death was a nightmare. If he felt anything for them, it was resentment for forcing him to bear witness to something so disgusting.

It was the way of the world that some rose while others supported them. Every creature had a natural responsibility. It was the duty of the great to seek greatness, guiding the lesser of their kind to new heights, and it was the duty of the weak to take upon themselves misfortunes that would otherwise hold the best of them back. Just as water flowed downward, so too did the muck of life. The widest burdens were placed on the narrowest shoulders and that was proper.

As a boy, his tutors made him study the Book of Natural Laws extensively and Sarif made it a point to read passages often. When his work seemed endless and overwhelming, he recited them, taking strength from the knowledge that he was walking the same path as many great men.

“If one must suffer the disfavor of fate, let it be the least among men,” he muttered as his ritual reaped thousands of lives. “Better a weight crush a lesser than bring low a man with the potential to soar above all others. The broken become the sands upon which great men tread.”

The greatness of men. Laughable.

As the last of the crowd lost their grip on the mortal coil, the abominable sensation of ghostly hands trying to pull away his very being ceased. Sarif’s relief from the pain was short-lived. One agony quickly replaced the other, spiritual desecration substituted with the ache of the nails hammered into his back.

It had taken months to prepare the horrid things, the iron needing to be work in a special fire before being frozen in ice for a season. Amazingly, they were the simplest, and least painful, foci meant to anchor one’s spirit. They were also the least reliable. It was why he had eight driven into him, four on either side of his spine. He hoped to make up for quality with quantity.

Thankfully, they had done their jobs but there was a price to be paid. If he stayed still and measured his breathing, all he felt was a terrible ache, something he could endure with grit teeth. If he dared move, no matter how slightly, a lancing pain shot through his whole body.

Sarif was no stranger to hurt. He’d been small as a child and suffered the brutality of boys at the age where they were indistinguishable from beasts. As soon as he was big enough to hold a sword properly, his mother hired a martial tutor, who taught him through pain. He liked to think he had a strong tolerance for it but he’d nearly fainted ascending the steps of the shoddy stage. He should have but his partner wouldn’t allow that. It fed off his suffering, its constant siphoning far gentler than the ritual but a constant reminder that he lived on borrowed time and very little of it.

The snap of his fingers might as well have been as loud as a crack of thunder as it reached the ears of every servant he’d brought with him, the men raising their heads like hounds hearing their whistle. They were the ayn, the hands of the Celestial Court. Boys with acceptable circumstances and attitude were taken in by their order and stripped of anything that made them individuals before being filled with duty.

They were not men but living tools, masterworks in the right hands and utterly essential to the Court. Sarif appreciated them the way a smith loved a good hammer. To get anything done amongst supposedly intelligent men took a hundred explanations, hours of cajoling, and grimy backhanding.

The ayn? They had no pride to be placated or ambition to be wary of. So long as he held the title of minister, they would remain completely loyal and would carry out his orders with strict efficiency.

One of the ayn approached and bowed his head, the sign that he was awaiting orders. “Reveal the focus. Carefully. And bring the barrel.”

He waved a hand in dismissal and the men went to work. A dozen laid down their spears and began shifting bodies. Once the center of the circle was cleared, another ayn carrying a small broom began to sweep away the sand there, each swing of the tool moving away a disproportionate amount of sand than its size would suggest.

An icon, as weak and far more common than the Cloudcrier Horn. That didn’t stop it from being exorbitantly expensive. Magic wasn’t a business anyone, even a court official, traded in easily. His plan had gutted his finances and accrued ridiculous debts that would leave him a beggar…if only he lived long enough for the bankers to collect their due.

Stars shine brightest before they are snuffed out.

The ayn didn’t take long. In minutes, they had revealed the upper torso of a skeleton, a small bag stuffed into its mouth and its left hand extended over its head, held in place by silver rods and threads of finely braided hair.

The bones of an enlightened man, bound by mortal attachments. A hard focus to acquire, as the Court valued its learned men almost as much as the officials that made use of them. Sarif’s involvement in the murder of the scholar and his favorite woman was obvious and one of the many things he’d done in the past months that could see him executed. It was amazing what he could accomplish when he didn’t need to concern himself with popular opinion or long-term consequences. It was if he was a brand-new man, the reason he believed he hadn’t been caught yet. No one knew what he had in store because they couldn’t imagine the man he was enacting anything of such grand scale and consequence.

Sarif was almost giddy as he turned away to descend the stage. Until he took his first step. The pain briefly whited out his vision and dampened his joy…but kernels remained. If his lips weren’t reflexively pressed into a tight grimace, he would have smiled as he stopped in the center of the circle.

In the time it took him to arrive, the skeleton had been removed from the ground, without a scratch marring it, and placed into a barrel of wood so dark it appeared black outside bright firelight, it’s hand still reaching skyward. The ayn busied themselves collecting the glass bowls, tossing the fangs resting on top of the red sands away before dumping the contents into the barrel. Many hands made for quick work. Before long, every bowl was collected and the focus was buried again, except for its hand.

Sareef took a deep breath to fortify himself against the pain to come. Then, with an economy of movement, he removed the large dagger from his hip, holding it high, the silvery metal gleaming under the light of Aylen. With more care than he used handling his mother’s glass dishes as a boy, the minister placed the dagger in the skeletal hand, tightening the dead man’s grip with the braid of hair wound around the arm.

Speak the words.

“Kalp kalbe, ruh ruha, beni irae senin guan olum.”

Heart to heart.

Spirit to spirit.

Will to power.

His words weren’t a spell. True spells required Words of Power, the language of the gods, their writing and meaning hidden away within the natural wonders of the world. Learning just one was an endeavor that could take a lifetime of dedication, each word encompassing an entire ideal.

What Sarif spoke was plain Old Sava. The history of the language gave it some power, but the world would be a dark place if anyone could kill thousands after spending a week practicing a pretty speech.

His words were a plea to something much stronger than himself, giving it permission to work through him. An aggravating circumstance but Sarif had no choice. No mere man could stand against the royal family.

A wave of weakness made Sareef’s knees buckle but he refused to let it topple him, gritting his teeth as he battled his trembling legs. Not only because such a display would be shameful but also because he doubted his ability to climb back to his feet should he fall.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to sustain himself for long. The weakness passed as the sands in the barrel shifted, flowing as if moved by a gentle wind. Sareef marveled at the sight, wishing he had paid more attention to the arcane arts. Such a subtle gesture was the only sign that a being was imposing its will on the world.

As the scarlet sand reverted to gold, the silver blade gained a red tint, easily dismissed if one didn’t look closely. Another subtle clue given the drastic change in the weapon.

It's ready.

Sareef carefully removed the dagger, staring at it with critical eyes. He could feel the power it held, the hilt warm in the palm of his hand. The weapon had been transformed into something legendary, the magic of thousands of souls sacrificed willingly able to fell even the titans of the desert.

It still wouldn’t scratch the khan.

Audacious little insect. Dreaming far above your station.

“Clean this mess up,” the minister snapped as he walked away. Two of the ayn fell in step on either side of him, their hard gazes and tightly held spears keeping back the fearful eyes watching the minister’s retreat.

Under the cover of darkness, Sareef traced a plain, golden ear cuff along the lobe of his left ear. As the pad of his finger rubbed the cool metal, a small shock made his skin tingle, the thing on the other side of the focus reaching out to him in turn. “This better work as you say.”

It will. I am far greater than any mortal, even one touched by the heavens.

The end of Sarif’s smile turned up at the ends in what could be taken as a charming smirk as he imagined the scene. First, there would be a discordant note as the jovial music stopped, strings screeching as the musicians dragged on them with harsh reflex.

All the strained, lascivious, and drunken smiles would be replaced by grimaces and gaping horror as the crowd shied away at his approach, pressing themselves against the walls like prey making itself smaller before a predator.

The khan’s face frozen in a mask of shock as he was snatched off his gleaming throne, heart pulled from his chest and blood splattered on the floor of the great hall in the same vibrant patterns as the skyfire blooming above the palace.

That was a sight worth giving it all for. A price he wasn’t thrilled to pay but there was no sense in being bitter when he was poised to lose everything anyway. His glorious life, orchestrated from before he was born, brought to an abrupt and unfair end by a single man’s disfavor.

The scholars said that each man was born with a fate written in the stars. No one could escape their destiny, but great men could alter its path, just enough to make a difference. Sarif couldn’t escape an early death, but he could choose to embellish it with accents of bitter betrayal and sweet revenge.

He'd wanted to write himself into the history books but, seeing as someone else would have that honor, the next best thing was to make sure they had plenty to write about.

If he couldn’t be the greatest man in Savath, then he would be the worst. The man whose last breath swept aside a dynasty. He who broke the unbreakable. Tonight, he would become a legend.

Tonight, a star will fall.