Chapter 21

The tour has only just begun and already I want it to be over. Exhaustion scratches at my eyes—trying to close them—forced to constantly fight its efforts. Despite Solaris beside me, I find no peace in rest and it seems neither do the others.

Solaris and I share a cushioned bench at the base, and the other two opposite each other are occupied by the Herems. Three on the one side and four on the other. Each of them an island, sitting upright, shoulders in a stiff set. All except Vince who nodded off hours ago and has yet to wake, his burly arms are folded, legs spread wide. The unending clatter of many hooves pound on the gravelly road. The carriage shakes intermittently, jostling us all. Something that I learnt to tolerate.

"Adalia... you should see this," Solaris says dazedly. His eyes enthralled by the view outside, straightening in his seat, leaning forward as if to focus on whatever caught his gaze.

Heeding his suggestion, I slide over to sit right beside him. I crane my neck and surprise is like an energy stimulus that revitalises me with fleeting vigour. Fascinated, I slant closer to the window hole, my chest pressed up against his back, my hand dangling off his shoulder.

We have reached the Ane of the Fallen. A momentous territory where history itself dwells, remnants of fallen kings and the ruins of old, all a relic of time itself. The carriage passes through the amorphous border of a colossal valley where ancient ruins sprawl across the land. Dawn breaks over the horizon, the orange yolk of the sun spills across in all of its brilliance, bleeding into it. Casting everything under the blood-orange sky with a spectral illusion of the past. The blood that was shed thousands of moons ago. After the Age of Sovereignty.

This was where the heart of Urium used to beat. A place said where gods and kings alike resided. My eyes venture through the derelict scenery of temples and edifices that were once glorious in sight and great in stature. That much is evident by the size of the debris and rubble. Weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by dead clumps of grass, half-crumbled buildings, cracked blocks. And stones broken up by meandering tree roots.

Dust-laden spires crushed to large fragments. Caved-in roofs weighed down by vines and other foliage, sculpted archways stained by mildew that has run rampant. Rock walls, embattlements scorched by blast marks from the scourge battles of Pavelia. Ropy vines breaking down stone and encroaching through window holes and doorways.

Symbols and primal inscriptions of any kind eroded by time's chisel, erasing the memory of what was. The desolation reverberates through the ancient valley, a deafening silence that hums with the muffled wails of the dead. Slain as the casualties of prehistoric wars, victims of those who had an insatiable hunger for power. Further on the reminiscent trail of history. Decrepit castle walls rise from its aged ruin. Battered grey stones clamber to reach its former glory but are left beaten by the enormous faceless stone statue that has ruptured into the walls. Its severed head is several metres away from its body.

"I assume the Hera of Valwa has heard the stories of the Age of Sovereignty," Solaris says and turns his head. Our faces are inches apart.

Alarm tears through me. I return to where I was.

"Yes, a time before the realm was governed by a High king."

Before this place was named the Ane of the Fallen, it was first called. The Sanctum. Famously known as a king's haven because of the untainted magnificence that it was. The realm was once controlled by the Sanctum; the council of old that represented the twelve tribes of the people of Urium.

In concept, a world order that would ensure peace because every voice was heard and every life mattered. But their differences proved to make it difficult but not untenable. Many on the council loathed species that differed from theirs. They saw them as inferior, their ways barbaric and some believed their magic to be dangerous. The division was caused by the prejudice in beings' hearts, ignorance in their minds, hatred and gluttony that stains their nature. This is what led to Urium being fractured. The first High King rose and conquered with the aid of the Emikrol Empire. From there, kingdoms separated and people were split up. Not only geographically but socially as well. Some beings valued more where others mattered less.

"Adalia?"

I inhale a quick breath, blinking back to reality. "Sorry." I run a flattened hand down my head. My hair pulled into a low bun that is surely dishevelled. "I was...thinking."

He nods thoughtfully. His own golden waves disturbed as he ploughs a hand through them, resting his head against a body of pillows.

"Of your family?"

To make things simple. I nod.

"I'm sure you miss them a great deal, particularly your sister, the Baroness. You and she appear remarkably close by what I could tell from the solstice balls and Count Vern's garden parties."

Ah, the social season.

A soft smile touches my lips. Not for the events, but the memories of it shared with my sister.

"My heart splintered the moment I learnt I had to set sail for the Pantheon. More so when she was forced to leave me at the harbour. So yes, we are very close, two sides of the same coin."

Solaris nods with polite interest. "Intriguing," he says enigmatically.

"What is?" I ask, almost defensively.

"Nothing. Merely that..." he dawdles off. The words stuck in his throat.

My head tilts downwards, my eyebrows raising, encouraging him with an imploring look. But it yields no answer.

"Why—"

A sudden bump in the road rocks the carriage. The belligerent shock even jolts Vince awake. I clutch onto the headboard of the bench.

"—my sister and I are close? You believe in the enmity that exists between a pureblood and a half-blood? That I bore resentment towards my halfling of a sister?"

Solaris looks back at me remorsefully. His mouth opens to speak, but because the absence of words, they close back again. I do not begrudge his assumption, that kind of attitude is common amongst the nobles. Since Seliah and I are unmistakably unalike in our appearance, it makes father's infidelity all the more blatant. Which I'm sure made us the topic of hot gossip amidst the other Heras and Herems, wagging their foul tongues about us.

"Do not look so contrite. I understand where you come from. I love my sister. I even forget that she's a half-blood and a bastard. I have only seen her as one of my own."

A room-grabbing smile illuminates his face, one that comes so easily to him. "Forgive me for ever asking. I should have known better than to ask, seeing how genuine and kind-hearted you are."

I try to replicate his smile. "By the way. I happily accepted my sister as our own. My mother, however, did not. When my father was going to have her legitimised, with the honour of bestowing her the title of Baroness. My mother refused and claimed that having her reside in the Regnum was honour enough. To elevate her was to praise his indiscretion."

Cinders of old anger rekindle into a small flame. "Without a noteworthy title, she cannot make an advantageous marriage and wed beyond her station. The label of a bastard half-blood is a deadweight that anchors her, socially."

Solaris makes a disagreeable sound. "Well, to whom she will wed such triviality should not matter. She is, after all, a descendant of Regnum Valwa. She is well-spoken, well-versed in the arts, and despite her...genealogy. She is admired by many of the nobles."

Well, someone has been paying close attention.

"Not to mention she is a sight for sore eyes. I think any Nobleman fortunate enough to have her heart will eagerly liberate her from the discriminative burdens of our society."

My lips dangle a smirk, my head nodding too many times.

"What?" he asks warily. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I shake my head like my neck is broken.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking."

***

My boots hit the sloshy brown ground. I nearly sink. Devoured by the clumps of the soggy mire, my legs are like liquid, incapable of sturdiness. We cut through the Ane of the Fallen to avoid passing through Bronwadia. A settlement perforated with delinquency, a cesspool of corruption. And a hotbed of anti-monarchist movements.

Now we have finally reached the grassland region of Shamburn. Ahead, there is a large tribal erection protected by a fence of wooden stakes fixed into the ground. Fortifications that consist of earth banks and a palisade with a primitive watchtower that bedecks the tall fencing. A few gatekeepers patrol the paling. A few of the pacing figures vanish, probably to report our advent.

The erection stands on the expanse of a flourishing prairie. The waning orange of the westering sun beams down on the land. Molten light winnows through every blade of grass. Far up north, the treeline of the woods borders the prairie with dense, dark, lush foliage. A chain of silver-plated mountains; a milieu silhouetted by encroaching shadows. The summons of nightfall.

The tenacious odour of nature loiters unabatingly. The smell of manure and cattle dung invades my nostrils, smells that are all too familiar. The Valwa holdings own many prized vineyards in Armathis, and we have a manor house in Akotia. Just outside the Prime. Which our family visits religiously in the bloom season. Seliah and I would spend most of our time amidst the wineries.

The Herems and I are lined up in front of the carousine. I push down a laugh once my gaze skims down the horde of Herems. Most of them pinching their wrinkled noses shut, repulsed grimaces rotting their faces. From the front and rear of the carousine, the soldiers dismount from their horses. They crowd around us as Primus Kelan marches to stand before us all. His fingerless gloved hand rests on the pommel of his sheathed sword.

"I am Primus Kelan, the Commander of the squadron that will be escorting you throughout the Trials. As you may or may not have noticed Duce Merian's absence. He is delayed by a day's ride from here, per the High King's demand. We received word that the wolvers were sited near our previous route. We had to change it at a moment's notice. That happened often during the planning of the Trials."

His gaze is sharp, scouring above us aloofly, rejecting direct eye contact.

"The wolvers are one of the many threats to the realm's already frail stability. Bandits have become bolder, nomads; more aggressive and other terror factions; more daring. Your lives will be at risk every moment on this journey, so with every location. Do not stray far from the encampment. The times that you must, ensure that I or one of my soldiers accompany you."

I look at the tribal compound. Its doors heave upwards like a ligneous portcullis and once it reaches the peak. Two rows of ethnic soldiers troop out, making their way to us with tall wooden spears, the necks decorated with bound red feathers.

"All in the realm know of the Vasilias Imperii, but not the mandate. Once we advance in our travels it will become known. If you all perished. It would only fan the flames of discord. That is why many of these rebels will seek your deaths."

The corner of his lips twitches upwards in the emptiest of smiles. "Welcome to day one of the Vasilias Imperii. To the Orombuc tribe, my Herems, and a Hera," he says with a distinct note of derision in his tenor. "May only the worthy rule."

Of course, the Orombuc tribe of Shamburn. I read extensively about them back at my Regnum. It was documented that they are docile people. The Orombuc practise an insular and deeply spiritual culture with an emphasis on animalism. Caves in the mountains are believed to harbour spirits and are respected and even feared. Once every New Moon, they will go to the caves to perform rituals of sacrifice in order to make sure the spirits would not interfere with the community's general well-being. Their beliefs also centred on the general veneration of the moon, the stars, the seasons, and their god, Warongwe.

Primus Kelan sweeps aside so all of our attention is on the two short rows of Oromian soldiers. All of them are hairless with desert yellow skin, much thicker than the average. With flat features, their noses and ears do not protrude and their dark eyes are shaped like vertical ovals.

The only piece of clothing they wear is a lengthy, ruby-red material that only covers the front and back part of their legs. Leaving the sides completely bare as their chests. The Orombuc tribe classifies their social status and prestige of each being by the tribal markings on their body. With each group, tattoos are a unique design to show nobility or peasantry.

The Orombuc soldiers have a sleeve of crimson tattoos on their arms, complex in the design with some abstract shapes shaded and others left bare. They are formidable, some with outlines of bestial figures.

Suddenly an Oromian walks out from the rear. He is adorned in an ankle-length, chasuble-styled robe. Silk-woven, bright orange with intricate designs that run down the embellished channel; a straight-line from the neckline to the hem. His arms folded in front of him, encased in the voluminous sleeves. He moves to take Primus Kelan's stead. Oromian tattoos are synonymous with face tattoos, with the head being a sacred part of the body, as they believe. His face is honoured with serpentine black markings that are symmetrical to his face, solidifying the impression of his prudent, all-knowing outlook.

He stares at us all for a long, assessing moment. Indigenous tribes throughout the realm are not accustomed to... developed provincial customs and languages. Most of them despise foreigners and their blasphemous ways. And I'm quite surprised that they agreed to...host us.

"You are welcome descendants of the Decuria," he says in fluent Arkian. One of the universal languages in the realm.

I hear a scathing snort. "Oh, it speaks," Markiveus says.

"In twenty different languages and twelve dialects of your primitive tongue," he throws back.

And even the other Herems sneak in poorly stifled snickers.

"The savage calls the noble, primitive?"

Deaf to Markiveus's remark. He inclines his head and his gaze roams the line until his eyes find mine. "My name is Oam, your guide. But... I see that your own isn't present?"

"He was held back," Primus Kelan informs. "He should arrive by the noontide."

He nods back at him royally. "I hope he will not miss the great hunt tomorrow. For now, let me give you all a brief tour of Oromian society and introduce you to my people. The fire will be lit soon. I'm sure you all starved from your journey here."

He turns his back on us to face the soldiers. "Nyere ha aka ịkwụ ụgwọ ụgbọ ha," he says, rotating his head to gesture to the two coachmen that stand idle at the front of the carousine. "Nyeere ha aka ịchọta ebe ha ga-esi nweta ịnyịnya." Then his hand slips out of the sleeve to point at the horses.

The soldiers cross their spears across their chests simultaneously.

He looks at Primus Kelan. "The Chieftain's soldiers will help you dislodge your carriage and move it within the safety of the compound. Then we will make a temporary living space for your fine stallions."

Primus Kelan nods curtly in gratitude, then makes a hand gesture to the sky that has all of our guards rallying around him.

"All you candidates." Oam twists his shoulders to glance back at us. "Please, if you will, follow me."

He straightens and slides his hands back into his sleeves, strolling towards the open compound. Reluctantly, we all follow. Vince pioneers ahead with an entourage of four behind him, then Solaris and I, and the three other troublemakers at our rear.

The area surrounding the compound is like a quagmire. My boots squelching with each step I take until we reach the entrance. There the ground stabilises into flat solid rock. We pass through the threshold and the pathway opens up to the tribal village. A series of round huts flank the wide paths. Huts with a conical foundation and peaked thatched roofs, most of them made from a plastered type of dry mud bricks. All built as homesteads alongside enclosures for livestock with modest plots reserved for agriculture.

Along the paths, the compound teems with life. Oromian people walkabout. The colour scheme is warm with materials dyed a variation of reds, oranges, yellows and brown. Most of the males and boys wear garments that cover their rear and front, like the soldiers. And the females wear floor-length skirts with dual leg slits. I narrow my eyes, and as soon as I do, they explode wide open.

Oh, dear.

The only thing to cover their breasts are layered necklaces with multicoloured beadwork that boasts creative artistry. Other than that, they are practically nude, letting it all...hang free. And the males are completely...unaroused, blind to it as if they are completely clothed.

Shocking.

I hear a familiar, irksome snicker. "I think I might grow fond of this place after all," he says from behind me. Buoyed by the surrounding chuckles that inflate his ego further.

Argh. If only Herems could be that mature.