Upon the death of Sir Terry Pratchett

Image from Wikipedia

As many of you may be aware, the author of the Discworld series, Sir Terry Pratchett, died today from a severe chest infection and complications from early onset Alzheimer's disease. Sir Pratchett made a very large contribution to the body of work that is known as fantasy literature. (If you have not read his work, I highly recommend it. Wee Free Men is a favorite of mine.) His not so subtle commentary upon current events through the lens of his work is impressive. His exemplary skill at world building and developing story arcs that span several books will be missed, surely.

I think, however, Sir Pratchett would not be pleased with the mourning that much of the fanbase and writerly community is entering into right now. He was a man with a great deal of anger at the injustices in the world. He was a man who used his novels as a vehicle to attempt to effect change in the world through the spreading of ideas. I suspect that Sir Pratchett would be furious to see hand wringing and flowery eulogies.

I believe, my friends, that the best way we might honor this man's truly impressive legacy is to pick up our pens and get to work. If we are not writers, that does not mean we escape the call to work for change in the world. Sir Terry Pratchett was a man who used his gifts to push the world towards being a better place, a more just place. Let us honor him not with tears and rituals of mourning, but with our honest effort to continue his fight to make this world a better place.

The High Council of Dacia

General Zalaz stood before the council dressed in his blood red linen tunic with the purple and gold sash at his waist that bespoke his rank at the highest of the generals in the empire. Beneath that sash, the dark leather baldric held his sheathed sword. That long, gently curving blade had drunk the blood of many and was rumored to be blessed by Ashur himself. More then the sash, the sword spoke of his authority. Gifted to him by the last emperor, the spouse of the previous high priestess of Julara, it was shocking austere in its apperance.

Where the others in the council chamber would have kept such a gift aside and worn it only for official purposes, Zalaz used the weapon with great ferocity on the field of battle. Standing before the council, Zalaz found himself wishing that the matters could be settled by combat. With his strong right arm and his trusty sword, Zalaz knew he could defeat any comers. This, however, was not a battle of weapons but rather words. Silently, Zalaz damned his fate that moved him from a mere soldier in the field to a political figure.

The council members were of varying ages but all bore a measure of softness in their bearing that disgusted Zalaz. These politicans were not people who would have survived the vigors of Zalaz's life, though with their lofty attitudes they seemed to assume that they would by virtue of their title. The fat man sitting at the extreme right of the semicircle of the chamber spoke nasally of the prices of grain and how disappointed he was that the taxes were not raking in as much as he desired. The wan light filtering into the room gleamed off the man's bald head and hilighted the deep shadows in his face from the folds of fat about it.

They knew that the general had something of importance to discuss. They, however, felt that he was unfit for their company. His long hair and stern disciplined life struck them as unnatural. The way he lived with his concubines, specifically Yaeli, disgusted them. They were of the mind that all women but for the silent sisters and the priestesses of Yulara were beneath them. The general's favorable treatment of his concubines ran too closely to treating them as equals. This, the other council members, believed could never do.

Thus, when Zalaz did not take his customary seat at the far left seat of the council dias, they decided to ignore him until he did. Quietly, Zalaz waited. Inwardly, his anger was rising. He knew the council would decry the situation that Marcos was in. He suspected that they'd argue that the priest-king should be executed and then insist that someone else be installed in his place. He suspected, also, that they would focus upon the problem of Marcos rather then the danger that the sons of Omaurath presented.

Zalaz had thought about the situation in the last two days. His nights had been sleepless, much to the concern of Yaeli, as he struggled to think of what to say to the council. As he considered the situation, he came to the conclusion that the danger of the sons of Omaurath was far greater then what he initially thought when they began to be discussed years ago. The fact that they had gone to Selath in search of aid for their cause told him that the accord was going to break. Zalaz had no questions that the govenor of Selath would send word to his superiors and eventually the king of Tamna. Tamna had long sought to win the fertile plain between the great rivers and the wealth of Dacia.

Zalaz learned from his predecessor, a general named Tuvius, that Tamna had repeatedly attempted to gain access to the western cities of the empire. The capital, sitting at the meeting of the fertile lands with the desert was unfortunately vulnerable but there was no ways that it might be moved for it was the very place where Julara and Ashur came together. There were cities farther west of Dacia but they did not have the strength of the cities in the floodplains. Zalaz was fairly certain though those cities would fight hard, they would fall before Tamna's armies. Zalaz knew they stood on the edge of war. And yet the council bickered and flattered themselves, ignoring him as he stood before them.

Unable to stand there silent any longer, Zalaz's anger burst forth with a single cry. Bellowing with all the volume he used to order his troops on the field, Zalaz's voice was deafening in the sandstone chamber. “Silence!” he roared. Shocked silence filled the room as all eyes turned to him. Zalaz noted with some disgust that almost all of the faces had some measure of fear in them. Deciding that he could use that fear to goad them into action, Zalaz said in a quiet growl, “I have word from the king and emperor that we are on the edge of war and yet you would continue to ignore me because I have stood before you rather then taken my seat. You will listen to me and a judgment will be made.”

In the minds of his listeners, the vague fear that Zalaz could send assassins into their midst crystalized and the soft men of the council trembled. Their arrogance faded before Zalaz's anger, for he had always been quietly spoken and courteous. This unexpected change of demeanor made them fearful. They had waited for him to turn on them and now they feared it had happened. So caught up in their fear, they missed the first words of the general's statement. Only the word war cut through their fear and served to heighten it at the same time.

“General, we are civilized men,” the boldest of them, an elderly man with hands that trembled, started. Zalaz's expression darkened and the man nearly fourty years his elder fell silent. Zalaz looked at each of the six men sitting before him. He could feel a headache building as his anger at their simpering behavior came to full force. They had denied that the armies of Dacia required more funding, insisting that there were no threats. They said that the accord with Selath was a sign that Tamna was an ally and to be a trade partner by how quickly it was signed. They argued that the army was better served policing the trade routes of bandits rather then preparing for conflict. Now, that conflict stood on the horizion, as Zalaz had warned for the past several years.

“Civilized men,” Zalaz said, “Civilized men, you say, Althas. Tell me, old man, how does a civilized man deal with broken treaties and an army coming to his door?” Althas's watery grey eyes widened at Zalaz's low, threatening tone and the horrible words he said. “The sons of Omaurath are raising an army as we speak. They are courting Selath and the kingdom of Tamna as we speak. The northern reaches of the empire are coming under regular attacks by the tribesmen of the mountains. The bandits that you have worried about interrupting your trade routes have become more organized due to the influence of Omaurath's three sons and the raider Althar, who moves into alliance with them in the hopes of dividing Dacia between the four of them for their own kingdoms. And yet, you declare that you are civilized men and ignore me when I have come to you with word of these movements.”

Althas started to open his mouth to argue with Zalaz when the man sitting to his left placed a hand over Althas's trembling hand and shook his head. The old man closed his mouth and looked at Zalaz. “I require a force of arms sufficient to defend Dacia in the immediate future. This means conscription. I will draw from all families. Men will be put to work according to their measure,” Zalaz said. Another man, sitting at Althas's right, opened his mouth to argue. Zalaz pointed at him as his expression turned thunderous.

“Do not argue against me, Zafar,” he ordered, “Your vineyards will be burned to the ground as Tamna moves through. Your women will be captured and your servants will be slaughtered, if not enslaved. You, of everyone on this council, stand to have the greatest amount to lose, for sitting in the west of the empire. It is in your best interests to approve what I propose.” Zafar paled as Zalaz described what would befall his lands and property. As he fidgeted with a jeweled necklace that he wore, Zafar, looked uncertainly at the others. Zalaz turned his bright gaze upon the other men in the chamber.

“All of you stand to lose more then your wealth,” Zalaz continued, “When the armies come into Dacia city, they will sack the city. All men will be slaughtered, even the priests of Ashur. The women will be raped, captured, and enslaved. Children will be killed down to the least babe in arms. All your wealth will not save you. It will be the reason why you are among the first to die.”

Shaken the council looked between themselves. “Give me the means to defend Dacia and the emperor freedom to do as he will. Release him from the ancient binds that require him to consult the council so that he might have the opportunity to take council from his generals and actually win this war that is coming.” One of the younger council members coughed. Zalaz looked over at him.

“We can not do that,” he said, “It is tradition that dictates our...”

Zalaz's expression contorted with fury. “It is tradition that digs all our graves,” he roared, “It is your blind adherance to the words of your fathers that keeps us from being prepared for this. Your fathers would not want you to destroy the very lands they bled for. It is spitting in their faces to do so.”

Shocked silence reigned.The obease man who had been complaining about his tax revenue raised his right hand. It was a silent vote in affirmation of Zalaz's demands. After a few minutes, two more hands joined him. Althas and Zafar exchanged a troubled look as the man sitting beside them raised his hand. “I have a majority,” Zalaz said darkly, “I could force the vote.” Althas frowned.

“We don't know for sure...” he started when Zalaz stepped forward. Althas went quiet and leaned back in his seat, as though Zalaz's hand could slay him from several yards away. “It is with reluctance, I vote...” he began as he started to raise his hand. Zalaz glared at him. Zafar locked eyes with Zalaz. A silent battle of wills took place. As Zalaz set his right hand upon his sword in a silent threat, Zafar paled and raised his hand.

Zalaz turned sharply on his heel. As he started to stride out of the chamber, he noted the scribe doing his best to not be noticed. “You,” he ordered, pointing at the man nearly cowering, “Send word through the city that I am calling my men to me. And make it known that all able bodied men are to prepare themselves for service in the army. I expect by sundown that all of Dacia city will be aware of this. And riders will be sent out into the empire.” The troubled scribe bowed deeply to Zalaz, not daring to raise his head until the general had left.

As Zalaz made his way to the palace, some of his anger cooled. While he had secured for Marcos the freedom to take this man Sorenan into his union, the general also knew that he had the means to secure the rights to command all the armies in all but name. He walked up the steps into the palace, noting that the skies had taken on an almost pink tinge though it was still hours before dusk. “Ashur comes at my heels,” Zalaz muttered, “I don't know if this is a good omen or not.”

He walked into the chamber where Marcos saw his officials. Marcos's dark head was bent low as he conversed with a scribe and read the document. It was an uncommon thing that Marcos could read, but it made sense with his history as having served as a scribe in his life before rising into priesthood. Zalaz strode through the long chamber and stopped a few feet away from where Marcos sat on his raised chair. Zalaz cleared his throat and the two men looked up. Upon realizing that Zalaz was standing before him, Marcos said in a ringing, “Clear the chamber. I have private business to discuss with the general. Any who listen in will be punished, severely, am I understood?”

The various servants and petty nobles that sought to bask in the presence of the emperor made their way out of the chamber. The two guards who stood at the main entrance into the room followed the attendants out of the chamber. Zalaz fixed the guards at the secondary entrance into the chamber behind Marcos with a dark glare. Knowing who Zalaz was looking at, Marcos said, “They can stay. They can not repeat what is said here. They are mute.” Zalaz looked back at Marcos.

“You are freed from consulting the council at all times and at liberty to do as you will,” he said. Marcos looked at him in amazement. “You will pay my debt,” Zalaz continued. There was none of his earlier anger in his words, only the dry tone of fact. Marcos swallowed.

“What would you have of me? I, who owe you all,” Marcos asked. Zalaz looked Marcos in the face with an appraising look. Though Zalaz knew that Marcos lived a pampered life and was not half so bold as himself, he suspected that he had steel within him yet.

“You will follow my orders in the movements and actions of the troops,” Zalaz said and Marcos's eyes widened. “If I tell you that all males over the age of twelve are to take military service, then you will put that word through out the empire as a decree. If I tell you that the cities of the west are to be abandoned, you will order it. The sons of Omaurath and the kingdom of Tamna move towards war. You know it as surely as I do. You know that the forces to the north will need little convicing to join them. I want to see this war won, with the sons of Omurath and their supporters feeding the vultures.”

Marcos swallowed and looked a little green. He nodded, however. “I can not go against Mina,” Marcos said. Zalaz's expression was solemn.

“We will require the blessings and the witchcraft of the priestesses of Julara,” Zalaz said, “I would not expect you to do otherwise. I wish to speak with her and your … third as soon as possible. We have much to discuss.”

Marcos nodded. Somewhere within himself, a knot of tension uncoiled. For the first time since hearing about the rumors and considering the prospect of facing the council, Marcos felt something of hope.

The dirty side of medieval-esqe life.

Something that regularly irks me in fantasy novels that are set in medieval settings is the fact that they whitewash the world. This happens a lot in romance novels set in this period too. Enough so that it had become a running joke between my best friend and I, with her reminding me that castles were warm and cozy and I reminded her that heroes always had to be muscular males (which always made her laugh because she was in a gay relationship when this conversation came up and we were trying to determine what the ideal hero was supposed to be). The whitewashing of the dirtiness and generally disgusting parts of the past and settings that are based in it is a type of romanticism that I think the genre could do without.

One thing that I actually like about the A Song of Ice and Fire series (Game of Thrones is the first book and the title of the television show based off it.) is the fact that Geo. R.R. Martin does portray the ugliness of the world. He doesn't try to pain his setting as one that is free of the attendant difficulties of that period. In keeping the more unpleasant aspects of that era in the picture, he adds a greater level of realism to his work. Yes, we can tell someone that a peasant lives in a hovel with their animals. Unfortunately, the image that comes to mind is a clean dwelling with clean animals that basically stand around and look pretty. When the truth is the dwelling is going to be dirty from what the animals track in and if they void their bowels or bladder indoors (which had to happen from time to time just on the basis of probability and statistics). The truth is that the dwelling was poorly lit and poorly heated. The truth is that there were rodents in the rushes that thatched that hovel and rodents scurrying around in the living area of it as well. A peasant's hovel was not the clean pretty thing you see in children's books.

And castles had their share of problems. The list is a bit too long to slap up here but a cursory bit of research into how people lived in castles will show you that they were also dirty places and were terribly heated. It would tell you that they were dark because they were poorly lit and lacked natural light. It would tell you many, many things that would put all but the hardiest of medievalists off from the idea of wanting to stay in one for a night, let alone live in one. (For the record, I am one of those hardcore medievalists.) They were nothing like what Peter Jackson portrayed in the Lord of the Rings movies. The people were not half so clean and well fed. The list of ways that the fantasy stories get the history wrong is too long to present here and that's really not my goal.

I want to make a case for presenting all that ugly stuff. Every story requires a conflict. Too often, it is assumed that the conflict must come in the actions of characters opposing each other. When we look at history, we see that there is lots of conflict in the story of these people's lives. It came from their environment. It came from if they had the bare necessities for survival. It came from the dangers that were present at all times, be it those of rancid food (because food preservation was nowhere near as advanced as what we had in the 1800s, let alone today) or illness. I'm not talking about something as dramatic as the Black Death. Influenza killed people in those days. A bout of bronchitis could (and most likely did) prove lethal all on its own. Then incorporate the medical technology of the era and illness becomes even more horrifying. A simple case of the common cold could possibly kill you if you weren't lucky.

Some would say that conflict coming from things like the dangers of using an open pit latrine or food poisoning are not as interesting as the conflict that comes from two characters fighting. I would argue that in the hands of a skilled author, even a case of the common cold in modern times can become a conflict that would interest the audience and advance the plot of the story. I would furthermore argue that not taking these factors into consideration is doing yourself and your readers a disservice. It is messy and depressing to read the history of the eras we base our material in. The trade off of this work, however, is creating a world that draws your readers into the story.

That, my friends, is one of the goals of writing a book. We don't just want our audience to passively look at the words on the page and come away with a dry sense of what the story was about. We want to draw them into the story and present human elements that they can connect with. We want to have our readers come away from our stories having gained something. A good book may tell a technical marvel of storycraft. It may be an exemplary example of sentence construction and how to organize material on the page. All of that technical skill, however, falls flat if your reader is not engaged in the story. Take the time to write out the dirty details of the world your characters move in. It makes the experience more believable and real to the reader. And that will increase your chance of moving the reader to emotion and the imaginative envisioning of your story. The more senses you engage your readers in, the more they will remember your book.

Want to be immortalized?

If you want to be featured as a supporting character in forth coming books (in the Evandar series or the Sanctuary^* series - Book one for that one will be ready Fall 2015!) fill out the questions and send it to me, the author.

1. What distinguishing physical characteristics do you have?
2. What distinguishing habits do you have?
3. What motivates you ?
4. Name three items that you can not do without.
5. Who are the people you are closest to? And why?
6. Who are the people you  hate? And why?
7. What foods do you detest?
8. What time of day do you love? And why?
9. Do you have a pet? If so, what?
10. What do you fear? Why?
11. What do you love? Why?
12. What do you hate? Why?
13. Do you like people or not?
14. Do you have any hobbies? If so, what are they?
15. What is your greatest ambition in life?
16. What is your greatest failure in life?
17. What are your vices?
18. What are your virtues?
19. The dark, do you fear it or love it?
20. If you could take on a new name, what would it be?

All information will be kept private.

* Sanctuary is a science fiction/action/erotica novel series set in an alternate reality in contemporary times. 95% of the stuff in the Sanctuary world is the same as what is in the 'real' world.

Places in the World and Cultures

In the world of Evandar, there is a level of technology that is approximately equivalent to what was in the world during the middle ages (5th - 15th cent CE). The region that the first books take place in are a rough analog to Europe. I have other regions that will be approximately like other cultures from that period of history. Some of them, you might have glimpsed in the stuff I have shared here.

The Horse Lords (One tribe named for Minghaa, others yet to be named) are roughly based off of the Huns.

The Cordid/Kordid are a bit of an homage to Tolkein's Rohirrim, but I will be keeping them tied to their seafarer roots. Stories are due about how they were driven away from the sea.

Elspar is those of the Cordid who were not driven away by the first wave of invaders from the south and the descendants of those invaders. It will be loosely patterned after Italian culture from this era with a measure of Gallic and Germanic influences.

Corinth on the eastern edge of the sea and south of Elspar is going to be my analog to Byzantium, with a few notable changes. It is an opulent and wealthy kingdom that technically is a satellite of the empire of Caer Dodth, but powerful enough that it functions as its own entity.

The empire of Caer Dodth stretches along the southern landmass below the sea of shadows (whose northern shores are Evandar and Ranyth) until it reaches near the isthmus of night. It is how I envision the Roman empire would have been if they remained into the middle ages.

The isthmus of night is so named because it is accursed ground. On both sides of the isthmus is a region known as the Darklands. On the northern side, there is a great stretch of marshlands known as the fens. The people who live there are patterned roughly after various aboriginal cultures from around the world. Outside of the fens, the Darklands are peopled by the remnants of various cultures that had gone before and served the will of the Deamons.

West of the kingdom of Evandar is a desert known as The Waste. Across this desert lies Dacia. Dacia is a mishmash of pseudo-arab cultures as handed down through the imagination of Western society. There are other peoples both within the Waste and beyond it that ring truer to the Arab cultures of antiquity (as far as I can research them).

From what I know of the state of our world during the era we call the middle ages, I am attempting to place the world of Evandar in a similar context. There will be remnants of an earlier time scattered here and there. The elves will show, like Sideria and her knapped stone arrowheads, evidence of that earlier time. It will be a bit tricky, I know, to build this level of complexity but I think the end results will be well worth it.

Flora et Fauna: Dragons

Dragons are creatures that men and demigods regard cautiously. There are two kinds of dragons. One kind is considered inferior to the other. Lesser dragons, also known as lesser wyrms, are animals of dangerous cunning and a very territorial attitude. Lesser wyrms can range in size from something approximately the size of a small car to something that is approximately one hundred feet long. Greater wyrms are possessed of an intelligence that is alien but comparable to humans. Adult greater wyrms are between one hundred and two hundred feet in length.

Lesser wyrms are terrestrial creatures with pseudowings that extend from their shoulders. The pseudowings of a large adult lesser wyrm are fifty feet from tip to tip at most. The pseudowings of lesser wyrms are displayed primarily in mating rituals and assertions of dominance. The greater the wingspan of a lesser wyrm's pseudowings, the more aggressive the wyrm will be. Generally, male lesser wyrms are larger then the females and possessed of more spines along the pseudowing.

Lesser wyrms are generally diurnal creatures. They all are venomous, though the degree of toxicity of the venom varies with size. The smallest of the lesser wyrms venom will immobilize an adult deer. The venom of the largest of the lesser wyrms is corrosive and serves to 'predigest' their prey. Female lesser wyrms live in a group known as a clutch which is made of three to five individuals. Male lesser wyrms stake out territory and will run off or eat juvenile lesser wyrms after their first molting, when they experience the onset of puberty.

The diet of lesser wyrms is carnivorous. When their preferred prey (deer, elk, and bear) are scarce, lesser wyrms will attack livestock and humans. Lesser wyrms have a recorded history of attacking and generally being hostile towards humans. The largest variety of lesser wyrms have been recorded as devastating settlements. Human encroachment into a clutch's territory can lead to difficulties with lesser wyrms attacking parties or consuming livestock.

Dominant females in a clutch will attack the broods of lesser females. The attrition rate of juvenile lesser wyrms is high due to this and the aggressive behaviors of the males. The alpha female mates first with the male and usually has the highest success rate in hatching and sustaining young. Lesser wyrms are oviparous. The shells of the eggs become progressively harder as the female matures. After first molting, female lesser wyrms will lay leathery shelled eggs. These eggs generally do not survive the brooding phase. Dominant females in a clutch will eat the eggs of subordinate females. Lesser wyrms have two broods every five years. Each brood starts out with between three to six eggs. After the brooding phase, usually one or two eggs remain for the hatching phase.

Juvenile lesser wyrms are hatched blind. They are dependent upon their mothers for nourishment for the first two years of their life. When the juvenile lesser wyrm has reached the age where their scales harden (approximately two and a half years old) the covering over their eyes is shed. This is known as pre-molting. Approximately three years of age, lesser wyrms begin to progress through puberty. This is when they experience their first molting.

After their first molting, lesser wyrms take on their adult coloration. The coloration of juvenile lesser wyrms is dark grey to mud brown. Adult lesser wyrms range in color from an indigo color to a sandstone yellow. Lesser wyrms that inhabit colder climes tend towards darker coloration that allows them to blend in better with the stony ground they live on. Lesser wyrms that inhabit warmer climes, such as the desert lesser wyrm, have a coloration that matches the ground they are found on.

Greater wyrms have a resemblance to their lesser counterparts as juveniles. Unlike lesser wyrms, greater wyrms have true wings and are capable of flight. Greater wyrms are solitary creatures that are considered to be highly dangerous like their lesser counterparts. Greater wyrms, however, tend to view 'thinking' life as something to be cultivated. Greater wyrms are creatures of pure magic, where as lesser wyrms are animals.

Greater wyrms have the capacity to shapeshift. They have been known to move amongst humanity and the elves in disguise. Greater wyrms, in their homid form, are of a higher core temperature. This is a reflection of their capacity to expel plasma (though it is commonly considered to be fire). Greater wyrms in their true guise look like the winged dragons of European mythos.

They favor meat but are omnivores, unlike lesser wyrms that are strictly carnivorous. Greater wyrms are of indeterminate lifespans. All known greater wyrms are adult, though of varying ages. Rumors that this 'race' is dying out have begun to pass through the regions where they are still known to be present. Greater wyrms have not expressed any indication as to if this is the case or not.

Greater wyrms are of varying temperament and personalities. Their reclusive nature does not keep them from interfering in human affairs. The influence of greater wyrms, however, is something seen over the course of generations and the rise and fall of nations. In the great war of the first age, the greater wyrms stood on either side of the conflict. Those that were in support of the deamons were driven into isolation by their opposition but they still exist in the world. Those that were in support of the elves have withdrawn from the world, for the most part, to allow humanity to 'develop on their own.' The notable exception to this is the patron of the royal lineage of Ranyth and the one who lives within Dakon-Bar, sister to the patron of Ranyth.

The General Zalaz

General Zalaz was a wiry man with stick straight black hair. Where others had their shorn close to the skull, Zalaz wore his long. Few dared to declare this to be a womanish affectation, to do so would be to incur his anger and fewer still had survived that. Zalaz was in the midst of having that waist long hair braided when the servant came into the room with the message that Marcos was waiting for him in the courtyard. While Marcos was king of the city and considered to be the highest man of the empire, Zalaz felt no qualms about making him wait.


"I will come when I am ready," Zalaz said, waving a dismissive hand. The servant bowed and left the room. The woman braiding his hair paused for a moment. "Yaeli, what troubles you?" Zalaz said, knowing his concubine would not have ceased in her efforts for an idle moment or for the minor distraction that her servant provided. The woman with olive skin and auburn hair said nothing as she continued her braiding of her lover's hair. "It is Marcos, yes?" he said. Of all four of his concubines, it was Yaeli who had shared his confidences and come closest to being like a wife. Zalaz often considered making Yaeli his wife but knew the scandal that came from such a marriage would have been problematic.



He had enough chatter from the other council members over the fact that he had given Yaeli her own house in the city, complete with servants to attend her needs. While it was his in name, Yaeli was the one who lived there and attended his business. The other three concubines came to her when Zalaz returned from his diplomatic visit to Selath five years ago. They had been a gift from the governor of Selath and supposedly a sign of his good will towards Dacia. Zalaz tolerated the three women but was fairly certain the lavish 'gift' was intended to keep his attention focused on something other then Selath's reluctance to sign the accord.



"He comes bearing news of trouble," Yaeli said after a long moment of silence as she finished Zalaz's braid. "The king and emperor of Dacia does not go to the council," she said, setting a cautious hand on Zalaz's shoulder, "The council goes to him. Something is wrong." Zalaz sighed. He wanted to tell Yaeli that her worries were nothing but his gut told him that she was correct. Of all the council, Zalaz thought he was the last whom Marcos would come to in a time of trouble. Unless that trouble was one that required an army, which Zalaz suspected might be why Marcos had come to him.



"The sons of Omurath have been a thorn in Marcos's side for almost three years now," Yaeli continued, "It may be that they have raised an army..." Zalaz raised his right hand and Yaeli fell quiet. He looked over his shoulder at her. In the light of the fading evening sun, Zalaz wondered where the lines had come from on Yaeli's face. He questioned how it was that age had come upon her and then briefly considered if the stiffness creeping into his bones was perhaps signs of his own age before pushing such melancholy thoughts aside.



As he stood, Zalaz said, “Do not trouble yourself over the sons of Omurath. They are fools who think they can win the Empress by force. Julara's will is against them as it was against their father. When this business with Marcos is finished, we shall walk the gardens before attending your sisters.” Yaeli did not smile as Zalaz had hoped she would at the prospect of visiting the gardens kept by the wealthy of Dacia city and the village beyond the walls, Asser. Zalaz shook his head ruefully. “Better we are not wedded,” he said with a smile, “Or I think my bed would be cold tonight.”Yaeli rolled her eyes at the general's old jest. Zalaz considered putting on his sword belt and then decided against it, for he did not deem Marcos to be either a threat or a match of strength.



Dressed in his white tunic and full pants, Zalaz was a study of contrasts as he walked into the courtyard. His apparent air of carelessness was denied by the unconscious lethal grace with which he moved. His black braid stood out starkly on his shoulder as he approached Marcos. Zalaz offered Marcos a smile that would have been charming if it was not for the suspicion in his eyes. In the shade of the courtyard walls, Marcos seemed smaller and more timid to Zalaz. The general would have been amused if it weren't for the fact that the priest-king had only speak a word and Zalaz's life would be forfeit.



“You honor my house,” Zalaz started when Marcos looked at him. A mixture of dread and concern shone in the priest-king's eyes and Zalaz's pleasantries died on his lips. “You did not come to speak of happy things,” Zalaz said and Marcos looked away. “Do you seek me as general or councilman?” Zalaz asked.



“Both,” Marcos said quietly, motioning to the chair beside the table he sat at. Zalaz sat and noticed that Marcos' refreshments were untouched. Zalaz frowned. “Althar has gone to the sons of Omurath and, if the report is accurate, is raising an army,” Marcos said. He did not want to mention the second reason for his coming to the general, as much as Sorenan insisted it was vital he did so. Marcos rubbed the stubble on his jaw with the back of his left hand and hoped that Zalaz would seize upon the news of the raider's activities and forget the matters of his role as councilman.



“The raider's army merits a general's attention. That is not all you are here to discuss,” Zalaz said, turning to take the cup of spiced almond milk from the servant who came forward as he was sitting. “Nor is that what you are troubled by,” Zalaz continued as he set the cup on the table at his right hand, “We have discussed the raider and the sons of Omurath. There are plans in place if this is coming to bear. What drives the king of Dacia to seek out his servant?”



“Rumors,” Marcos answered so quietly that the general had thought he misheard him at first. Zalaz leaned forward slightly. “They speak of Mina in the marketplace,” he said. Zalaz started to open his mouth to state something derisive about gossips when Marcos said something that stunned him. “Some of those rumors are true,” Marcos said, “She has taken another in her arms.”



Zalaz stared at Marcos for a moment, not fully comprehending what his lord had just said. For as long as the Dacian empire has stood, the high priestess of Julara was wedded to the priest who had been chosen by lots from all who served the stern god Ashur. It was tradition that was steeped in antiquity. Tales of false priestesses who betrayed Ashur's priests were whispered in the dark, most often ending with the tragic woman torn apart by Julara's priestesses. The stories of the false priests who betrayed Julara's daughter were more grisly.



Zalaz looked at Marcos. “You would have me bring this before the council? They would see her hanged,” Zalaz said, watching Marcos' face closely. At the mention of Mina's possible death, panic shot through Marcos. “This lover,” Zalaz continued, “he is the warrior from the north, if the rumors are true. And, if the rumors are true, you have welcomed him in your bed.” Marcos said nothing but looked at the cut pieces of melon on the plate at his left hand. Zalaz gave a small sigh and leaned back in his seat.



“What would you have me do, Marcos?” Zalaz said, “The priestesses would kill you both. The council is powerless against them. If this were some small garrison town, there may have been hope.”



“The priestesses know,” Marcos answered, lifting his gaze to Zalaz's face, “They have known for the last three years.” Zalaz's eyebrows went up with amazement. “It is Julara's will that we have come together,” Marcos said.



“And Ashur?” Zalaz said. Marcos looked down at the plate again. “The gods have willed this,” Zalaz said slowly, “You are sure of it?” Marcos didn't answer and Zalaz leaned forward. He gripped Marcos' left wrist hard and the priest-king looked up. Terror and desperation warred in the priest-king's eyes. Zalaz frowned. “Tell me,” he said, “What were the signs of it?”



“The stars,” Marcos replied, “It was the stars.” Zalaz let go of Marcos' wrist. “When Mina became high priestess, the three stars aligned,” Marcos said, a curious sense of lightness stealing into him as he spoke, “The book of Ashur spoke of a lion coming to the couch of Julara and Ashur a year later. That was when Sorenan took my place in Mina's bed on the journey to Malath. It was a ruse to deceive Omurath's assassin. Somehow, on that journey, he became more then a shield between Mina and Omurath. He...” Marcos' words failed him and he dropped his head into his hands and wept.



Zalaz regarded him solemnly. He knew that the other council members would be furious. As much as he disliked Marcos and his timidness, Zalaz couldn't help the sense of compassion that rose in his breast for the situation Marcos was in. If he was honest with himself, Zalaz would admit that he felt a measure of envy for Marcos, Mina, and Sorenan. They were at least living true to their hearts' urgings. Zalaz sighed.



“The council will not be pleased,” he said tiredly. Marcos's tears moved Zalaz as much as they made him want to shake the timid man and demand he snap out of it. Zalaz thought of Yaeli. She would not forgive him if he turned away from Marcos in this hour of need, especially under these circumstances. “I will do what I can,” Zalaz said. Marcos lifted his head, gratitude shining in his face. “You, however,” he said, “Owe me a debt of my choosing.”



Marcos opened his mouth to thank Zalaz when the general lifted his hand. “Do not thank me,” he said as he pointed to the woman who stepped into the doorway across the courtyard from them, “Thank her.” Zalaz stood, disregarding proper manners and waiting for Marcos to rise. As the general stepped away from him, he said, “The king is not the only one with a secret. Go, return to your lion and bride. I will send word in three days.”