Chapter 3

Chapter 3

“Emperor Shiyar,” A voice called out to Shiyar as he descended the garden steps. Its tone was gruff and smokey, yet filled with compassion.

The speaker was none other than King Diomedes of the Mylitan Kingdom. The human king stood patiently at the bottom of the stairs with his hands folded behind his back as he waited for the emperor to join him. As Shiyar neared, the king's face crinkled slightly to form a sad smile as he greeted him. He stood alone there with no sign of his guards anywhere.“My friend.”

As Shiyar descended, he remembered the words the Sages of the Thousand Gods spoke. Your body is a sea and your emotions are the rivers that flow into it. It is what drives us and sustains us as elves. There are times they must flow freely to the sea, but other times where they must be dammed and contained.

With those words ringing in his head, the emperor took a deep breath and damed up the emotions which threatened to flood through his body. When his eyes opened, he kept his face calm and looked over to the human king.

“King Diomedes, I thought you had already left for the theatre. I saw your entourage leaving from the palace.” Shiyar said, mildly surprised. He had seen the rest of the king's men heading for the theatre from the balcony.

The king shook his head. Like the rest of his kingdom, Diomedes was a human. He was already pushing in his forties and although he looked only slightly younger than Shiyar, the truth was that the difference was closer to a century. While already in the middle years by human standards, he remained handsome in a rugged sort of way, boasting a stocky frame with a rich black beard, and hair remained mostly black. Under his white toga, he wore a knee-length chiton without accents or ornamentation to symbolize his grief. “I sent my men ahead to the theatre while I waited here. I worried about you.”

Shiyar nodded as he reached the final step. Now at the same level, the king looked much larger, wider but not still taller than him. Shiyar clasped the king's hand with both of his and squeezed it. “You are a good friend to worry about me, but you are my guest here and it is I who should be worrying about you.”

“Why must you elves be so damn stoic all the time.” Diomedes shook his head with exasperation from a conversation that he had been expecting but hoped to avoid. “I may be your guest but you are still the one who lost someone.”

Diomedes’s expression changed once again, becoming softer as his gaze grew distant as he found himself lost in a time long past. “My grief is yours, my friend. I know the pain you are going through now, of having to say goodbye to a woman you shared your life with. Neha was no exception to that. A woman like that is one of a kind.”

“I remember how happy you and Gorgo always looked,” Shiyar muttered, looking down at his feet and trying to deflect the conversation. The talk of Neha struck him hard in the chest as if the wound he had so desperately tried to stitch began to break.

He remembered that he had visited their lands several times with Neha. The royal couple of the Mylitans had seemed like two halves of a perfect whole. The two did not seem to leave each other’s side for the duration of their visit and when they spoke it almost seemed like a single mind.

“We were.” Declared Diomedes, his voice thick with emotion. “And I know how hard it is to have to go through that without your family by your side.”

Shiyar guessed. “Fear not on that account. My sons are already returning home as we speak. Both shall arrive within a day or two and Zuri has offered ample company.”

“Ahh Zuri, she has always been a dutiful child, hasn’t she? Your sons though, truly?” Diomedes said, puzzled. He spoke cautiously and tried to hide his surprise, as he was approaching a viper pit and did not wish to get bitten. “Belram I can understand. But I was of the impression that Virayaj was living with the Nexus Confederation.”

“He is, the Confederation has made him part of the delegation they sent to pay their respects to Neha,” Shiyar explained.

Now Diomedes truly looked amazed. He let out a low whistle. “It seems so much has changed since I was last here. You are at peace with the Nexus, your family reunites. Perhaps we shall even have Chahinga here once again.”

The last sentence was meant to be said in jest, Shiyar knew that well enough. Yet that knowledge did little to cool the sudden fury which exploded in his chest. He felt his hands close into a fist as he recalled his eldest son.

Before anything else, he reached out towards and groped the scarlet prayer beads at his throat and let his anger simmer. When he spoke, his voice was deathly calm. “Chahinga will not be attending this ceremony, unfortunately.”

Diomedes noticed the change of tone and nodded stiffly. “Of course, my mistake. But it will be some time before they arrive, I assume. If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to ask, my friend.”

Shiyar tried to make himself smile. When he looked at his friend, he found it coming out as genuine beaming. “Well, not that you mention it, I have been missing the hunting grounds for some time now. It would be nice if I were to have some company when I visit.”

“Hunting!” Diomedes roared and slapped Shiyar with a meaty hand hard with nearly enough force to knock him over. “Now that is something I can certainly do. I’m sure it’s been too long since you’ve had a true hunter in your party.”

Shiyar straightened himself and rubbed the spot where he was struck. “Let us discuss it further a bit later. We should get going now, otherwise, we are simply two old men trapped in the memories.”

This time Diomedes chuckled. “I am sure our absence has already been noted. By now they have probably already scrambled the guards to look for us.”

The two royals made their way along the Blossoming Path of the palace gardens. All along the walkway were rows of flowers and bushes that rose higher than any man. The types of flowers changed at regular intervals to ensure that whoever passed was able to experience every one of them. Lilies. Lotuses. Chrysanthemums.

Each in full bloom and striving to outdo one another. Their bright colors catch their eye while filling the air with their fragrance. As he stopped to take in the garden, he took his time to pluck one of each flower and took a whiff of their smell. They almost succeeded in masking the smell of death which hung in the air.

“So how is the Mylitan Kingdom? I hope that your presence here will not cause trouble for your subjects.” Shiyar said, attempting to make some conversation.

“Bah, you now fuss over my kingdom as well.” Diomedes clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Very well, if you must know we face some problems with raiders attacking our border towns. Apparently, the fools believe it is a moment of weakness with me out. Thankfully Ajax has been more than happy to correct that notion.”

“Sounds like quite the nuisance, nothing that Ajax could not handle though, I’m sure,” Shiyar said, referring to Diomedes’s only son.

“Of course not. He would have more of a challenge from the mountain clans in the high peaks of the Battered Mountains. Those men are never satisfied with whatever we offer them.” Diomedes looked ready to go on but stopped himself. “But I would not wish to bother you with such stories.”

“No, no please go on.” Shiyar insisted and shook his head. “I would like to hear more of this.”

The talk of his kingdom helped distract him and take his mind off Neha. Diomedes seemed to sense this as well. He looked at Shiyar, his expression changing from uncertainty to understanding. As they walked, the conversation now shifted towards talks of quarrels between mountain clans and landed lords, raids from nomadic tribesmen along the borders, territorial disputes with the Yuandong Empire regarding trade routes.

Shiyar watched as the king’s brow furrowed as he went into detail about each problem. His voice continued to rise and he threw his hands up in frustration. He looked as if he could complain about it for hours. After he finished talking about each problem though, a sardonic smile formed on his lips and simply said. “But that is simply how the Mylitan Kingdom is. I would not have it any other way.”

By the time he finished describing the latest border skirmish between Mylithan and Yunadong troops, they had reached the theatre where all the delegates and nobles had gathered for the play. Instead of being a building, the theatre was carved on the side of a hill, built in the Mylitian fashion. Two tiers of stone seats rose in a semicircle at the side of the hill, offering ample room for all the guests. At the end of the seating area was the performing area. Behind that was a simple two-story building reserved for the performers and any additional staff that might be needed for the play.

At once they were greeted by a flurry of guards and attendants who approached Diomedes. Among them was a man wearing a red sash with a purple border who Shiyar assumed was the king’s steward. He walked over to the king and began to explain something to him though he did not quite hear what it was as several of his Elven guards and servants were upon him, asking where he was and if there was any trouble.

He offered them an apology for his tardiness before they shuffled him off to his private box in the theatre.

His area was right in the middle of the semicircle, offering a perfect view of the play in front of them. Shiyar closed his eyes and remembered when his grandfather's engineers and masons had built this whole area. They had offered to create an entire pavilion for the royal family’s enjoyment. A smile formed on his lips as he recalled that memory. Instead, his grandfather had humbly declined their offer and opted for a much more simple structure.

In the place of seats, a marble foundation had been erected for them, offering a perfect view of the play directly in front of him. Lining it was low lying bushes and flower plants that were carefully selected so as not to cover the view of those behind them. They cut-off their little section from the rest of the seats by three sides.

Unlike the rest of Shiyar’s grandfather’s works which his father repealed, he kept it as it was. The box was filled, though that was not much. Those who were there were his most powerful and influential lords, generals, and nobles. Among them, he spotted his daughter Zuri darting through the press of men.

She was in the middle of a conversation with one of his generals who laughed at something she said. Shiyar did not interrupt and instead watched at how graceful her arms were when she gestured around how refined she was when she answered the general's questions. She seemed perfectly comfortable with it. For a moment, Shiyar felt his emotions calm and become tranquil as he watched his daughter work.

Like him, his only daughter was dressed simply. She wore loose, flowing cream-colored robes that offered enough freedom of movement that she navigated through the crowd. It was made of cotton instead of silk and was without any design, yet she looked every bit a princess in it.

As she turned to gesture towards the stage, their eyes met. Neither one said anything but both instantly knew what the other was thinking. Her gaze saw right through the dams Shiyar had built up and saw the grief in his eyes. Shiyar saw the same in hers and offered the faintest of nods.

That was all that was needed. He watched as Zuri’s lip trembled, but just as quickly she composed herself and a glimmer of gratitude crossed her eyes. She then turned back to her conversation, a pleasant smile on her face. The moment lasted only a moment, but Shiyar now found himself satisfied. He made his way over to an empty spot in the center of the box.

A servant rolled a simple red mat out for Shiyar as he took his seat. The servant bowed his head and backpedaled away just as he offered his thanks. He began to look at those gathered around the theatre.

The rest of the central seating area was taken up by his elfkin. He saw elves gathered from nearly every walk of life from every corner of the Chakram Empire. He saw feudal warriors, sages, city dwellers, and lords big and small from the Mithras Lowlands mingling amongst warriors and tribal chieftains of the Pyramid Highlands or with traders and merchants from the Desert of Tears.

To his left, he saw the humans had taken up seating in that part of the theatre. Unlike Shiyar, Diomedes had no special box for him to sit in and had instead converted his palanquin to serve as his private seating. He was surrounded by the massive train of retainers he had brought with him: servants, soldiers, orators, poets, performers, heralds, and nobles.

Yet Diomedes was not the only human monarch in attendance as Shiyar noticed the banners of High-King Rama of the Chiptut kingdom whose realm bordered his eastern frontier. Along with the king was his vassal, young God-King Champa IV of Sryeva. Both men had brought a smaller, but still respectable contingent of followers with them.

Though Rama had not brought any long and friendly conversations like Diomedes. He did bring gifts and condolences though. Gifts and condolences as well as the request for aid in controlling his newly won vassal. It was, after all, Rama who had permitted his Chakram sages to preach in his lands.

Lastly, to his right were the men of the Starap Horde. At first, they might have passed off as human men, but a closer look told otherwise. The hairs on their heads resembled the fur of a wolf than the hair of a human. They flowed down well past their backs in wild and shaggy manes, like the animal pelts. Their eyes were a beady yellow, looking almost bestial. For their fingers, they had sharp, elongated nails that seemed perfectly suited for raking flesh.

They sat together, grumbling loudly for the show to start. With their deep, bellowing voice, they could easily have talked for all three groups. Shiyar noticed many of the Staraps looked more like they were preparing for battle, dressed in full suits of leather and steel armor. Some even wore war helms. Still, he supposed he should be grateful that they wore that instead of the robes they looted from their raids.

Unlike the elves and humans, there were no separate kingdoms, vassals, or client kings amongst them. They may have had lesser chiefs to rule smaller tribes, but owed absolute allegiance to a single ruler. What they did have was a Great Khan who was not heard now and was instead ruled by the saddle and bow as their people always had.

Instead, the Great Khan sent his middle son Jobe to attend in his place. The young warrior was terse and did not mince words. He offered no honeyed words of kindness but did renew the elves and Staraps alliance as well as punish any stray Starap raiders who thought to attack their lands. For a Starap, those were the kindest words they could give.

The trumpeters at the side of the performance area suddenly unleashed their instruments. A single, unified burst fired from their instruments, cutting through the clangor of the patrons and bringing silence onto the theatre.

All those who were just a moment ago conversing with one another now fell quiet and quickly took their seats. Among them was Zuri who found her spot beside Shiyar and offered him a smile. Her hands gently squeezed his own. He noticed that both her eyes and smile were tired. He gave the same gesture in return.

A single figure appeared on the stage. Instead of being an actor in costume, it was a bent-back elder in the simple livery of the sages. He doddered onto the center of the stage and cleared his throat while a page kept close to him. “I give my greetings towards my emperor, to his royal friends, and the beloved guests here. I welcome you all to this performance.”

His voice was hoarse and sandy. Yet the theatre was built in such a way that even the faintest voices would still carry across the seats for all to hear. Still, Shiyar found himself leaning over to listen, reminding himself to control his emotions.

“Before we begin, we remember that this gathering is not about making us forget about the dead, but to remind us of what we have and what we lost.” The sage said, raising his head and voice just a little bit higher. “This is why we have put together not one, but two performances for you.”

None of his elves showed any surprise at this along with Rama and his men. They remained seated and continued to watch without breaking stride. This was their tradition after all. Shiyar did notice that there was a change with Diomedes and the remaining humans as well as the Staraps. He could see the intrigue and surprise in the way they shifted around. The sage noticed this as well and smiled patiently.

“A great soul has departed and we must allow ourselves to feel for it. Let us grieve and mourn for her passing as well as pray for her life beyond.” He paused and raised a hand in the air to signal that he was not done speaking. ”However, one cannot remain grieving forever. This should also be a reminder for us. We must remember that we are still amongst the living, and thus we must go on living. We must cry, love, and laugh while we still can, for the dead will never have that chance.”

With that said, the elder sage bowed his head respectfully and hobbled off. As he left, his page ran up and offered his aid to the old man, gripping his arm tightly and escorting him off the stage. Once he was gone, a pair of actors came marching out, holding their hands together. They wore colorfully gaudy clothes and masks with highly exaggerated features. Behind them came half a dozen or so men dressed in identical white togas with plain masks.

The small troupe took a bow on the stage before beginning their show.

Shiyar could not bring himself to watch the second show. He could manage to finish the first one. Yet everyone else seemed enamored with the play. It had left everyone watching so avidly that no one had taken notice of him discreetly slipping out once the actors emerged to take a bow.

Now he found himself walking along the stone paths of the garden with his hood over his head and careful to keep his head down so that none would notice him. He walked slowly towards the great mausoleum in the center of the garden and stood directly in front of the palace. The Mausoleum of the Ancients it was called.

In truth, it was nothing truly special. The actors and their chorus were decent enough. They knew their role but there was nothing truly great about them. The masks seemed well made, though it was hard to tell from that far back. The story was nothing new, a tale told a hundred times in the past.

It was simply about a warrior who returns home to find his wife had passed away while he was away fighting at war.

Yet it still somehow unmanned him so.

It was not so much what they were talking about, but where it took place. The warrior came fresh from the Battle of the Red Mists.

The battle was commanded by his father, Emperor Jin’thalor against the people of the Pyramid Plateu. Although Shiyar was too young to have fought or even witnessed the battle, his father had told and retold the story so many times after he drank his cups that he knew what took place well enough.

He spoke about how his newly formed army marched out against a coalition of tribes from the Pyramid who had thought to resist his advance. The lands made up the center of Chakram on a series of mountains and plateaus.

Nearly every tribe from every corner of the land sent fighting men. There were Swamp Tribes who hunted frogs for food and dressed in the trees and shrubs they dwelled in, the men of the Golden Plateu who worshipped a sun-god by blessing their weapons with his runes, and the Men of the Temple who were led by mad priests instead of kings and generals and rode on chariots made from wood and elephant tusks. Lastly, there were the Clans of the River Bog who were yet to discover fire much less metalworking but were said to be one of the only people to be in contact with the ogre tribes of the Isles of the Giants.

His father had always boasted about the battles' savagery and bloodiness as his men armed with swords and spears and riding elephants and horses cut through the tribesman lines. And bloody it was as, by the end, the sages had reported that the dead numbered somewhere around seventy thousand.

It became the second bloodiest battle ever fought between Elven kinds. Second only to the destruction he had wrought at the Sorrowful Hills.

He sighed to himself as he now stood at the front of the Mausoleum of the Ancients. Its square oaken doors were tall enough to allow an elephant to slip through with room to spare. Normally there would be a cadre of guards stationed here to greet any visitors who showed up, but Shiyar had allowed them to join the festivities with everyone else.

Now he stood there alone, looking up at the door. With a grunt, he began to push his body against it to try and move the door open. Even with his full weight, he had a hard time getting the door to budge. After a few more tries, Shiyar heard a soft groan and felt the door slowly begin to give way for him and slide open.

The emperor stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. His feet rang out loudly against the marble floor. Save for the sages who maintained the mausoleum, only the royal family were permitted to enter. Though with tonight's events, most if not all of the caretakers would be out assisting in the mourning rites. This meant that the mausoleum that he was entering would be empty save the dead.

Shiyar always seemed to feel alive when he was surrounded by death. As he moved deeper into this resting place of the dead, he felt his heart pound in his chest. A tidal wave of emotion crashed over him as he looked around.

The Mausoleum of the Ancients remained another one of the few things Emperor Jin’thalor had chosen to keep the same, and thus it remained as simple and undeveloped as the day it was raised. The building was a simple hexagonal structure with a single tower protruded up above the building like a candle on top of a cake.

The smell of incense mixed and wafted through his nose. He squinted his eyes as he moved deeper. The entire mausoleum was lit only from four small windows that came from the tower in the center of the chamber along with the occasional candelabra on the sides. This meant he had to look close to make out the details.

It was that center in which Shayir felt his legs carrying him. The movement was almost purely instinctive, like a moth being drawn to a flame. He stopped short though, leaning on the marble rails that separated him from the light. Running his hand across the stone, he reached one of the four great pillars which held the dome up. Yellow grooves spiraled along with the white stone and rose into the air like a gold serpent.

In that center, a small garden had been planted. Seemingly unaware of the death that surrounded them, the grass grew rich and green, rising to Shiyar’s ankles. Just a bit of the center of the garden was a single fig tree starting to grow under the sun’s watchful gaze. The first leaves had recently begun to appear, light green like an emerald. It was scarcely a foot and a half tall now, but one-day Shayir knew it would shade those who dwelt here. For now, however, he would need to make do

Closing his moist eyes, he sucked in a deep breath. He felt the air entering his nose and mouth and then forced it down to the pit of his stomach along with the symphonic emotions that were building up in his body. It was at his stomach that he forced it shut like a cork from a bottle.

As Shayir approached the light, feeling cracks begin to form in his dam. He took another breath, trying to force those feelings back, but the cracks were already there. Before any more could form, he began to walk into the garden.

His booted feet sunk into the soft grass, feeling his spirits break even as he drew closer. Shiyar looked at the slab of stone at the centers center. Unlike the rest of the room which was ornately decorated, the table was kept bare. On this was the person whom all of this was built for. Empress Neha was beautiful even in death. She was never a large woman, but in the great mausoleum, she looked positively tiny. A gentle expression was etched on her face while her eyes remained shut. A single pink lotus blossom rested snuggly in her hands.

Had it been up to Shiyar, he would have showered Neha with the most beautiful jewels and the most splendid gowns to mourn her passing. But he knew at the end of the day that Neha would not have wanted that.

She would have chastised me for wasting the jewels on a dead person. A sad smile tugged at his lips as he thought of that. So instead she would go into the afterlife simply. She wore a sleeveless white robe that went down to her ankles and with silver trimmings along the lapels and collars of the robe. Although bare of any ornamentation, it was made of the richest silk.

Seeing her like this caused the final cracks to form in Shiyar’s dam. His demeanor shattered and his eyes moistened as he blinked. The emperor reached his empress’s side. He reached out towards her with a trembling hand but hesitated in touching her, as if afraid that his touch would crumble her to dusk.

Slowly, he summoned his courage and swallowed a sob. His hand began to reach out and gently caressed her olive skin. He reached out and smoothed a stray hand of dark hair, tucking it behind her ear. And then Shiyar fell to his knees, letting the tears spill onto the stone beside her. Resting his head on the table Shiyar allowed the sobs to flow freely.

He was only dimly aware of the sound of doors opening and closing behind him. His long ears twitched sloghtly, yet this did not stir him and he kept his face buried into his hands. Slowly, the footfalls grew louder and louder until that was all that could be heard.

“Father,” a voice called out, breaking the deafening silence.

The words were spoken politely enough, but there was uncertainty laced in it. That voice enough to rouse Shiyar from his weeping. It caused him to pull his face up from the stone and look up towards his empress. Slowly, he began to climb to his feet. He did not remember the voice’s hands moving to help him, but by the time he was standing, they had now fully embraced him. Zuri slowly looked up at him, her cocoa-colored eyes regarded him with unshed tears.

She has her mother’s eyes. Shiyar thought as he embraced his daughter, his hands gently caressing her dark hair. When she finally found it in herself to speak, she said. “I’m sure she would have loved this place.”

Shiyar pulled away long enough to examine the room with fresh eyes. It was as if he was seeing it again for the first time. The weight on his chest began to feel a bit lighter as he spoke. “Yes, I’m sure this would have pleased her. This is the place for the empress.”

The emperor rose to his full height, now towering over his daughter by a full foot and a half. She had taken after her mother in more than just her eyes. Zuri also shared her mother’s dainty build. But Shiyar saw a bit of himself in her with the same auburn hair and button nose. He leaned down to kiss her on the forehead, smiling and tussling the long braid she tied until the peacock feathers she used were now slanted.

“Should I give you two some time alone?” He asked, stepping aside so Zuri may see her mother. It was a genuine offer and prepared to leave them alone.

However, Zuri simply raised her hand and shook her head. She grumbled as she began to fix her braid once again. “It’s alright, I visited her this morning. I realized that the mausoleum is better when you have company.”

Shiyar could certainly agree to that. The room felt too dark and quiet most days. He bowed his head to his daughter before turning back to his wife. Zuri stepped beside him and the two simply stood there in quiet company. They offered a quick prayer for her soul before beginning to make their way out of the small shrine. Zuri placed a hand on her father's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. ”I miss her too.”

He loved her for that. Shiyar took her hand and squeezed it tightly. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be comforted for a moment. When he opened them once again, he looked down at her. “Thank you.”

“How long will she be here, I mean, out here and not below with our other ancestors?” Zuri asked and looked towards the archway which led to the crypts below.

“They will bury her once the sages believe her spirit has left,” Shiyar said, remembering that Zuri was not yet old enough to have been around when they buried her grandfather. The two of them began to make their way out. “In the meantime, she will remain here for all to see and pay their respects.”

“Everyone?” Zuri said slowly, turning her inquisitive gaze towards him. “Does that include Chahinga as well?”

The mention of that name caused Shiyar to stumble on his next step. His foot slammed on the marble and echoed across the room. “You know I cannot allow him to return to this palace. Nor will I dishonor Neha’s memory by doing so.”

“I am not asking you to reinstate him, but doesn't he have as much right to pay his respects as anyone else? I do not ask him to return as a prince, but as son.” Zuri shook her head and pressed on. “A son who also grieving for his mother.”

“He has been exiled.”

“And you can lift his exile.” Zuri insisted. “You are the emperor.”

“And I can also have him executed for his crimes. But I choose to let him remain in the monastery in peace. ” Shiyar countered. He recalled the day his son had turned against him and raised an army in defiance. “I sentenced him there to teach him humility.”

Had that been the end to that Shiyar might have brought himself to forgive himself, yet the prince was never satisfied with his station and continued to resist.

“And what good is a lesson if he cannot even show he has learned it.” When he looked into her eyes, he saw there were no thoughts of his rebellion in them. Instead, there was only despair and pleading. It was the desperation of a sister to see her brother once again. “I don’t ask that you restore his position as an heir or even prince. I only ask that he be allowed to see his mother.”

He looked back towards the body of his wife, thinking of everything he had just heard. Finally, he turned to his daughter who was trembling with emotion, yet in her eyes was a steely determination to make herself heard. “Very well, I will consider what you have said.”

Shiyar meant that too. A decision like this was one that needed much consideration. He watched as she deflated and her shoulders slump. She looked as if she was preparing for another argument, but decided against it. Instead, she offered only a clumsy bow. The look on Zuri’s face nearly broke his will, but he armored his heart instead. “Come, I will not discuss there here with the dead.”