The Storm
“In the twilight of the Second Exatai, during the rise of the Jahanid Dynasty, there was a brief time when Sataran Princes, long dependent upon the Macrinids, were directly responsible for the survival of Exatas in the Sesh. With the longstanding Accan protections of the state stripped away, the Satar found themselves, as before, alone. Into this gap stepped the Prince of the Arrow, Satores-ta-Yashidim.”
-Sesin Taracco,
The Cycles of Exatai
"There is no greater anguish than victory in battle."
-Satores-ta-Yashidim
---
During two months of the year, a great storm comes down from the north.
It rises over a cold, nameless ocean of endless ice, driving schools of pale pink and gold fish into the dark depths, where they are consumed by the darker creatures that wait below. It covers the valleys of the Einan [1] in a thick mist, curling blankets of vapor obscuring the small, darting boats that ply their trade across the smooth grey waters. It enters the Rath Satar, first lashing down the sparse grasses, then leaving a carpet of sparkling, tiny flowers, soon to die, in its wake.
Usually, this is where the storm ends, trapped by the mountains.
But the greatest storms continue further south, overwhelming the Kothai. They fall as snow upon the high peaks of the na-Tashal, luring out the white winter rabbits and the grey mountain lions that prey upon them. Then they cross the Rath Tephas, where an unusual amount of lightning cracks and blasts the few trees that choose to grow on this unchangeably green grassland. A few tent-dwelling men cavort amongst the vast echoes of the thunder, chanting praises carried off as fast as they are spoken by the wind.
And at last, the storm comes to two young rivers, swollen and churning from the rain, cutting through the red rock. The rain falls upon a great city at the rivers joining, a city of walls and secrets, of bastions and chains. The streets and buildings turn dark red, the color of old blood. Women dart through the streets to collect fresh water from the cisterns, wearing ancient, intricately carved masks of indigo and ochre. The silver runes upon them speak of the last seven or eight generations of women that bore their mask, women who darted through the same streets to the same cisterns. In time, their daughters and granddaughters will do the same.
The rain falls upon the thick, high walls where weary guards watch the scrubland. It falls upon the cliffside monasteries, whose monks retreat into the tunnels to practice their forms by lamplight in secret caverns. And it falls upon the dome of the Metraxas.
---
Satores gazed blankly at the rain falling in sheets through the circular hole in the dome. It was a column of water, surrounded by air. His mind was elsewhere, in a memory that took place, days earlier.
Endless rain created a circle of mud, where the princes gathered. There was an angular pavilion nearby, and a smoking brazier from which six metal poles extended. They were not cooking meat. Yet.
The body of a naked man lay in the midst of them, curled up in the position of a scared child in the night. The five tall, armored figures gathered around him, rain pattering on their steel skin with a thousand tiny clinks.
Satores dismounted from his horse, for he had come at the summons. Three days earlier, they had given him command. He had denied them three times, and agreed the fourth. In two days time, they were to ride downstream to meet the army. It was Zephtalik of the Spear who greeted him. Satores hissed under his breath. Zephtalik was a bloody-minded man.
“Prince-
artakasa [2], we have a gift for you. Some of the servants of Sarturro [3] entered Jania by stealth. Dressed as slave men, they found one of those who opened the gates our brother Sword tried to defend. And they have brought him back to us.”
Satores stepped back, horrified. “Then kill him for his treachery, if you must. Or turn him to our purpose. He is no use to us weeping like a child!”
The Spear chuckled, softly. “You are innocent in some things, Satores. No. We will show the slaves the price of treachery to their lawful masters. Take up your brand, brother.” He held up one of the glowing poles from the brazier. Now Satores could clearly see their purpose. The Satar runes for ‘arrow’ were there, in glowing, red iron. Each of the other princes claimed their own, bearing their tribe’s name in burning metal. Below their iron-shod feet, their victim sobbed, covered in mud and lashes.
The mask was impassive, but the face behind was a rictus of anguish. “The Silver Fist never knew defeat. And he never knew hatred. You are vicious children if you do this.”
Zephtalik merely paused. “Take up your brand, Arrow.”
The Prince of the Arrow made a short, brutal cut with his hand, a gesture of total negation. “
Shan se katan dev nakar se vaxalai.” [4]
“Then go,
artakasa. Think not of how the slaves butchered your brother Prince. Think not of the festering wound that killed your Redeemer. Think not of what they will do to our women and children if they win. Your mercy has a price, Arrow. It is a price I will not pay.”
“No,” Satores replied. “No.” He broke the circle, gray cloak swirling behind him. Zephtalik shrugged, wielding Satores’ brand in his other hand. “For Itarephas.”
A wet hissing sound, and the first of many screams, pursued the fleeing Prince of the Satar into the night.
Satores gritted his teeth as his horse galloped for the city across the windswept plain. Half way back, his legs lost their strength, and he fell from his horse. He screamed his wordless rage into the night, tearing at the muddy ground with gauntleted fists, roaring at the thunder in boundless sorrow.
He walked back to the city.
---
“He cared for them as you do, the Silver Prince.”
Satores was jarred out of his recollection by the quiet, patient voice of the High Oracle, who was a thin, tall man. Evidently he had snuck up on him while he was lost in thought.
The eyes of Elperion-ha were black pools behind the mask. “Atraxes said that slavery should be but a passing effect of our conquest. As he aged, he desired to give any slave who wished it a mask, and send those who did not away. But the Princes, and his High Oracle, did not agree."
Satores looked up at the small square of grass, slick and wet, shining brightly in the moonlight. “How do you know this?”
But the High Oracle was gone. And the rain fell.
---
[1] Evyni transliteration of Weinan.
[2] Artakasa – Equivalent to captain, or commander. Used here in an informal sense.
[3] Tarkas Sarturro, Second Censoratta. Governor-in-exile of Acca, influential nobleman and bureaucrat.
[4] “Pain without purpose is an end without redemption.” Famous quote from the Kaphaiavai.