| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by William Knight / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Immutable |
Hamrick:
The pieces of pottery clatter into the shallow basin—each dull echo a signal of his waning power.
Hamrick’s time has come, and he is not afraid.
He sits atop the marble dais on a rough-hewn ash-wood throne. The throne is old, the arms weathered and
shiny from the sweaty grip of his forbearers. He wonders how many of them had to endure this ritualistic
farce.
The old men in their flowing, dingy white robes stand patiently in the long, protracted line. They move slowly
and with such reluctance, one could easily mistake them for statuary. The chunks of jagged pottery they hold
clasped in their bony hands are potent as daggers—their metaphorical cut is deep and death just as assured.
Some offer him a sympathetic smile as they cast their votes, more offer sneers and grimaces, but most offer
only weary indifference—they are swept along by the tide to whatever port of becalm is closest.
Hamrick forgives the cowards their fear. He forgives the sycophants their false platitudes. He forgives the
vindictive their spite.
Only one can he not summon the will to forgive. Only one.
He watches the long line of voters as it traces through the painted square, past the empty plinth still stained
red. Night has shown her stygian head in the eastern sky, and in the fast approaching gloom the line of white-
clad men turns ephemeral as a dream, as a fleeting memory of childhood.
Only one.
Her face comes to his mind as easily as the chords of a cherished song.
“Tenka,” he murmurs.
The whisper is lost to the clanking of settling masonry.
* * *
Tenka:
“We are honored by your presence, sire.” Her father’s voice is fawning, tinged with fear and eager greed.
“Tenka, come here at once, child. Be swift.”
Tenka pulls back the linen curtain and steps into the small shop. She frowns when she spots the man
standing between the low-hanging paper lanterns, flanked by his cumbersome royal guard.
Hamrick, First Citizen of Danzia. His prowess on the battlefield was almost as renowned as his debauchery in
peacetime. He stands tall and proud in the dusty air of her father’s shop; hands on hips, chin held high. His
gilded crown of fig leaves gleams under the flickering candle light. He presents the perfect picture of regal
decadence, no doubt carefully cultivated before viewing glass.
The last thought makes her smile, a gentle curving of the lips.
Hamrick, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, lets loose with a haughty sigh.
Her father is quick to presume. “Child, assist the First Citizen at once. Or it’s the lash for you tonight.”
The scars on her back become inflamed with the memory of the last whipping—the admonishing tone of her
father as the leather strop arced through the air with a cruel hiss. She had been forced to bite her lower lip to
keep from screaming. It drew blood which had stained the front of her plum-colored gown, a fact which
accrued additional lashes.
“Always daydreaming, that one,” her father says. “Let the stars twinkle from afar, I always say. And let the
driven ground beneath your feet be your anchor.”
“Sage advice, shopkeeper,” Hamrick says.
Tenka hears the sarcasm in the First Citizen’s tone, even if her father cannot.
Her father smiles, revealing a gapped row of yellowed teeth. “Many thanks.” He makes his way over to Tenka
and gestures her forward with knobby, impatient fingers. “Go, go,” he says with a his. “And for mercy’s sake
be proper.”
She walks over and stands in front of Hamrick. She keeps her head low, her hands clasped demurely at her
waist.
Hamrick deigns to offer her one lazy glance, before spinning one of the paper lanterns.
“Interesting scrollwork,” he says, gesturing to a framed piece of parchment. “What does it say?”
She studies the parchment. The calligraphy is sharp, precise. She composed the piece herself in her native
language. It told the legendary story of Nuatel, goddess of Saftria, the island home of her ancestors before
the conquest. It was such a beautiful song of heartache, of loss, Tenka had been forced to tilt her head away
from the parchment while she wrote, to prevent her tears from blotting the ink.
“I do not understand Saftrian, master,” she answers.
She looks back at the First Citizen. Tall, lean, and broad about the shoulders.
Their son will be strong.
* * *
Hamrick:
The Saftrian Quarter. The poorest quarter in Danzia. The Saftrians were not allowed the vote, so Hamrick
rarely had need to venture into the fetid district’s cloying midst. Built over marshland, the main thoroughfares
were often a muddy morass. The homes and tenements were constructed of cheap, moldering wood and a
patchwork of variegated colored stones mottled with lumpy moss and strips of lichen.
He relaxes as his litter is carried down the road, his men straining to find purchase on the rutted ground. A
standard bearer follows the litter, carrying aloft a banner displaying the crest of Hamrick’s house. All who see
the procession must bow.
They stop as they reach his destination. The shop of one Master Kryka.
The shop is small, low raftered, filled with the aroma of exotic spices. Chamomile, cedar, and lavender
intermingle enticingly. The light emanating from the hanging lanterns was soft, casting long shadows into the
corners.
He trades words with the tedious shop owner. The man calls forth his daughter.
In one quick glance Hamrick takes her in. Tall, graceful, large brown eyes and a gently sloping mouth. Nothing
extraordinary. He dismisses her easily.
The shopkeeper continues to banter aimlessly. Hamrick glances again at the silent girl. She is staring at him
boldly. A hint of a smile forms on her unpainted lips.
Hamrick is incensed. The girl lacks the proper humility befitting her station. She should be trembling, nervous
to be in the presence of the First Citizen of Danzia. It is an honor bestowed upon few.
The father chastises her. That was more like it.
He idly comments on a piece of framed scrollwork. The girl’s answer is unjustifiably brisk, furthermore curt. But
more than that, Hamrick can tell she’s lying. It is a talent he honed to a razor sharp edge in the political
arena. One didn’t become First Citizen, or for that matter, _stay_ First Citizen, without recognizing deception
and obfuscation.
He ignores it for now. The girl is not important. She is not even a citizen in the loosest sense of the word—a
woman and a Saftrian. Her olive toned skin is much too dark in complexion to be even remotely fashionable.
“I’m looking for a scented oil for a lady friend of mine.” He wrinkles his nose and looks around the shop
disparagingly. “She is a great admirer of Saftrian scents.”
“Any particular scent she appreciates?” the girl asks. She has a lilting tone, but the edges are harsh, almost
bitter. For some reason he lays a hand on the pommel of his sword.
“I’m sure any emulsion will do. Say two gills?”
“I will package it right away for you, master.” She bows her head in servility, but still her eyes betray
resilience. It makes him uncomfortable. He has to force himself to remain still, to keep his face impassive.
What was it his father used to tell him? Never trust a Saftrian.
* * *
Tenka:
He leaves the shop. He will be back.
The First Citizen does not yet realize this. But he will.
She has seen it.
She presses a hand against her stomach. A power will grow from her womb. It will rule with fire and bronze.
Saftria will be once more.
With the knowledge comes a warning, but it is easily ignored. She will not allow it to bloom, to find purchase
in her mind. It is already set. And once Tenka’s mind is set, she is as immovable as the mountains which hold
up the cresting sun.
* * *
Hamrick:
The defiance of the Saftrian girl. He should have her father’s shop razed to the ground and the girl cast into
chains. Insolence cannot be allowed to procreate. One spoiled grape can tarnish the entire vineyard, set it to
rot, fodder for the flames.
Is First Citizen Hamrick not benevolent? Does he not allow the Saftrian merchants to flourish? You would be
hard pressed to find a more accommodating city in all of the Dothan.
“You look troubled, my lord.”
Sowith creeps forward from the shadows. The old mage is crookbacked, decrepit; all sallow skin and
protruding bones. His fingertips are yellowed, the nails purpled from years spent brewing nefarious
concoctions. His voice is tremulous as a blade across whetstone.
But in Sowith’s palsied eyes one can see vigor, a restless threat. No First Citizen surmounts the venerated
ash without his say so.
“Just a minor inconvenience, Sowith. You can leave.” He dismisses the old croon with a lazy wave of his hand.
He will return to the Saftrian’s shop tomorrow. He will teach the girl some respect.
* * *
Sowith:
He is bitter. The young First Citizen should accept council from one as magnanimous as Sowith.
He walked the tilled earth of Danzia long before the great city had a name. He helped forge the city with
magic and blood.
His statue adorns the Square of Founders. It is perfectly situated to capture the sun at its zenith. The rays
sheath the statue of Sowith in a radiant golden nimbus.
His wisdom and intelligentsia formed the basis for the Danzian charter.
And yet he is dismissed like a common page.
It was a mistake to install the young warlord as First Citizen. A mistake he intends to rectify.
* * *
Tenka:
He returned, just as she foretold.
His face is rigid, he is not as self-assured as he was yesterday.
Tenka knows the title of First Citizen sits uneasily on Hamrick’s shoulders. He is a soldier. Like all men of war,
he found peace difficult.
Her father is worried. He can see the way Hamrick stares at her.
She approaches Hamrick and bows her head.
“I was dissatisfied with yesterday’s purchase,” he says. The anger simmers just beneath the surface of his
words. She will have to tread carefully. Tenka is not foolish.
“I am sorry, master,” she answers. “Perhaps I can interest you in something else, free of charge, of course.”
Her father shifts uncomfortably. But he is wise enough to remain silent.
“Of course.” Hamrick’s anger is increasing. He is a man who is used to being in control. And that control is
slipping. It is peeling like old render under a heavy rain.
Tenka will be his downfall. And he will be her rise.
* * *
Hamrick:
He leaves the Saftrian merchant’s shop. He is angry, confused.
He mounts his horse and sets off at a steady trot.
There is something about the girl. Tenka, her father called her. She possesses a power he does not
understand. He is a soldier. They little understand the power of sorcery and view it with equal parts fear and
contempt.
A stick-thin Saftrian hawks his wares from the back of a shoddy goat cart as Hamrick rides by. He is selling
what Hamrick can only assume used to be quince. They are blackened and smell ripe. A fine dusting of flies
swarm around the merchant like a flurry of black snow.
Hamrick wrinkles his nose and spurs his destrier to greater speeds.
It will not do. He cannot continue to traipse into the repugnant Saftrian Quarter.
If there is a problem with the recently acquired emulsion, he will simply have to summon the girl to his villa.
* * *
Sowith:
He watches from the obliging shadows of the thick columns as Tenka mounts the steps. She is dressed in a
translucent aquamarine dress. The sheer panels cling to her lithe frame.
Even from this distance he can smell her: sandalwood and sweet alyssum. An unholy alliance for unethical
purpose.
The impudence of the boy. He summons a dark-skinned whore to the Royal Villa?
The Council of Elders will have to be summoned. The boy cannot be allowed to impugn the office of First
Citizen.
Hamrick would’ve been wise to seek council with Sowith before committing such a hasty and politically suicidal
act.
Now Hamrick will never have a chance to know, to learn. That time has come to an end. His power will wilt as
a young oak sapling, stunted and refused the sun by its massive and majestic peers.
Sowith smiles as he makes his way slowly across the Square of Founders. The smile sends a pair of loitering
clerks scattering. Their sandals slap rigorously against the flagstone as they flee.
He pauses before his statue and looks up. The face is younger, with fewer lines. It stares out into the far
distance. The effigy exudes stoicism and vision.
Even if his eyesight isn’t what it once was, his vision is still impeccable. And for the moment it is fastened
upon First Citizen Hamrick.
* * *
Tenka:
The villa of the First Citizen sits atop a small rise, surrounded by aromatic cedars. It overlooks the River
Balnan as it snakes through the soft loam of the vale below.
She has never seen such opulence, but from afar. Even this brief taste sets her mouth to water, her ambition
to smolder. The flame stirs in her stomach where Hamrick’s seed will blossom.
She mounts the steps and passes between the sandstone colonnades. They are the color of her skin. She
lays a hand on the cool amber stone, soaking in its resilience, its intractability.
Tenka has the strength to do what must be done. She always has.
Still the warning echoes in the back of her mind.
A land scourged by fire, by the hand of desire.
She allows the warning to flicker like a dying candle, till it is nothing but pale smoke drifting into oblivion.
* * *
Hamrick:
She came as he knew she would. His word is law, and his summons compulsory. Especially for the lower
classes. A lesser merchant’s daughter, she will sit in awe of him before the night is through. He will cut
through her snide indifference.
He sits in a recessed alcove overlooking the Balnan. The sunlight washes over Tenka as she silently creeps
towards him. It prisms the sharp angles of her face into a violent topaz.
He is bewitched by her beauty.
Hamrick will have her tonight. He must.
* * *
Sowith:
The Council of Elders has gathered. They sit in a semicircle on high-backed chairs upholstered with shining
leather.
The chairs are arrayed around a marble dais, atop which sits a simple throne of ash-wood. The throne is
empty. Sowith runs his hand along the smooth arms in a symbolic gesture.
The assembly is populated with the rich and the idle. Their faces register confusion, suspicion, and anger.
Master Conwith’s registers nothing. Sowith is fairly certain the old copper merchant is asleep.
They are angry at having been summoned in the middle of the night; out of the arms of their mistresses, their
servants.
He will convince them of Hamrick’s disloyalty. They may be idle, but they are ambitious above all else.
They listen to his words, his lies.
“What would you have us do, Sowith?” Master Eglan asks, between noisy slurps of wine.
“Ostracism, Master Eglan, ostracism.”
* * *
Tenka:
He leads her to his bedchamber. A fire rages in the limestone hearth. Above it, a sterling sword is mounted on
a piece of lacquered wood. It is the rooms’ only adornment.
Hamrick pulls off his gilded circlet and lays it on a small, unpolished chest sitting next to the bed.
He lays his hands gently on her shoulders. They are the hands of a soldier—they should not be so gentle.
It stirs something within her. In a place she has locked up tight.
“You are free to leave, if you wish,” he says. She hears the truth in his words.
Tenka steps back. With a quick movement she slips the dress from her shoulders. It shimmers as it drops to
the flagstones.
He comes to her. He carries her to the bed. His lips, soft as feathers, trace along her jaw.
For a moment, Tenka allows herself to forget the flames.
* * *
Hamrick:
Hamrick trails his fingers over her soft skin, over the pallid protrusions on her back. The scars crisscross her
copper skin like ribbons.
Tenka sleeps—her head on his chest, her mouth partially open. Her hand is clasped in his, feverish hot and
damp.
He watches her sleep. He watches Tenka as the flames in the hearth flicker and die. It forces the room into an
impenetrable blackness.
Her touch is his anchor. His anchor to a world he no longer understands.
* * *
Tenka:
She pretends to be asleep, listens to the steady throbbing of Hamrick’s heart. The heart of a warrior, but also
the heart of a fool.
Her desire has sharpened, the warning dulled.
Perhaps things will not turn out as she has foreseen. Perhaps.
_No!_ It cannot be. Tenka is not foolish.
* * *
Sowith:
She leaves the villa in the dark, like a thief stealing away into the night.
Her hair is disheveled, and she smells of sex.
Sowith wrinkles his nose. He will deal with her soon. He will deal with her first.
* * *
Tenka:
She can feel his eyes upon her. They track her as she crosses the plaza.
Tenka places her hand protectively over her stomach, as if she could already feel the child growing within.
The wizard is dangerous, she will not underestimate him.
His magic is great. But Tenka’s is greater.
* * *
Hamrick:
He summons her the next night, and the next. He knows he is risking everything, but he can’t find the will to
stop.
Her touch is a tonic to his wearied soul.
He wonders if she has bewitched him in some way. The Saftrians are a mysterious and cryptic lot. He will have
to ask Sowith if such a thing is possible.
* * *
Tenka:
Tenka stares out the small dusty window, elbows on sill, face cupped in hands.
She doesn’t stare at the clouded, bubbled glass, or the pockmarked road, or the squalid gaggle of children
begging for spare coins out in the gutter. She stares into the future, at visions cloaked in hope, not misery.
“What are you doing, child?”
Her father finally speaks. He has been silently watching her for several minutes.
“Looking at the sky, father.” The sky is clear and vast, the color of the spring chicory which used to bloom in
the meadow near their cottage on Saftria. “It reminds me of home.”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
She does. She remains silent.
“We could both be killed. I won’t allow it.”
She turns to look at him. His mouth is set into a grim line, his eyes shadowed.
“Would you tell the First Citizen what he can and cannot do?” she asks.
He ducks under the low-hanging lintel. “You will not speak to me this way, Tenka.” His dark, calloused hand is
forming into a fist. “Be cautious.”
She returns his intensive glare as she stands. “No, father. You are the one who should mind your words.”
His face purples with rage. His hand comes up.
She presses her face close to his. She is smiling, though her eyes are steel. “Be cautious.”
His eyes go wide with fury. He lashes out.
She grabs his wrist in mid-air and squeezes. He lets out a squawk of pain and drops to his knees. He is weak,
his wrist as brittle as aged parchment under her grip, Tenka could crush it into dust if she so desired.
Instead she forces his hand to her swelled belly. “Feel his strength, father.” His tortured eyes flit to her
stomach. “This is power.”
“Tenka, please?”
She releases him and he crumples to the floor, whimpering.
Tenka leaves the shop. The suffocating presence of the Saftrian quarter crushes into her. She walks down the
road to the Royal Villa, ignoring the plaintive cries of the beggars.
She must make her one mistake. She could not do otherwise.
* * *
Hamrick:
Tenka falls hard. The sound of her head striking the inlaid marble reverberates throughout the antechamber.
She looks up at him. Her lower lip is split, the side of her face a mass of purpling bruises.
When she speaks, her voice is composed, cool. “This…this is not love.”
“It never was,” he tells her.
_It never could be_, he tells himself.
* * *
Sowith:
She is leaving. Her eyes are damp, red. This makes Sowith smile—less a smile than a baring of teeth.
She runs through the Square of Founders.
Sowith steps out from the shadow of his statue.
She stops, stares at him. Her eyes are unsurprised, unashamed. This sets his skin to burn, his eye to tic.
How he has prepared for this moment. The fulmination of his patience and cleverness. He is deeply pleased
with himself. He is worthy of the statue which bears his likeness.
Two words only. She deserves no more. “You dare?”
But she does not reply, does not deny, beg for mercy. She simply stares at him with an unfathomable
expression etched onto her face. A face carved of stone.
_She dares_?
“Whore!” he screams.
Subtly, for he is afraid now, he reaches into his robe.
Faithless moonlight gleams hot across the blade, betrays his intentions.
A sound like a crack of thunder, and Sowith flies through the air.
The statue of Sowith the Wise shatters easily as glass. The painstakingly carven face rolls across the square,
stops at the feet of the girl.
Blackness swallows Sowith as he lays fractured on the empty plinth, as his blood seeps into the jagged
cracks and fissures of the disassociated marble.
A face swims into his vision, a face of sharp lines, dark skin.
Still she does not speak to him.
_Is he so unworthy_?
He is left to bleed out on the undying stone.
* * *
Tenka:
She watches as life slips away from the old mage. It is fascinating to watch—an instruction on the
impermanent nature of all things breathing.
Tenka turns and walks slowly away from the bleeding plinth. She has made her one mistake. A regret—
Hamrick. Transient as the mage’s breath, he is easily forgotten.
She stares up at the watery moon, the color of gold. Rain drips down onto her determined face, washes away
the dried tracks left by her errant tears. Soon she will feel the biting sting of salt spray, see the scorched
earth of her forsaken isle.
She can feel the power blooming from her womb.
Her son.
Her vengeance.
* * *
Hamrick:
He stands on the summit of an outcropping of rock. It juts from the breast of the hinterland like the bow of a
mighty, displaced ship.
All about him is the vast emptiness of the Dothan interior. Fallow pastures stretch to the far, bloodied horizon.
Darvia is but a memory. He can never return.
Only one.
His hand still stings from when he struck her. “Tenka,” he whispers.
Her name is lost to the unyielding winds.
The pieces of pottery clatter into the shallow basin—each dull echo a signal of his waning power.
Hamrick’s time has come, and he is not afraid.
He sits atop the marble dais on a rough-hewn ash-wood throne. The throne is old, the arms weathered and
shiny from the sweaty grip of his forbearers. He wonders how many of them had to endure this ritualistic
farce.
The old men in their flowing, dingy white robes stand patiently in the long, protracted line. They move slowly
and with such reluctance, one could easily mistake them for statuary. The chunks of jagged pottery they hold
clasped in their bony hands are potent as daggers—their metaphorical cut is deep and death just as assured.
Some offer him a sympathetic smile as they cast their votes, more offer sneers and grimaces, but most offer
only weary indifference—they are swept along by the tide to whatever port of becalm is closest.
Hamrick forgives the cowards their fear. He forgives the sycophants their false platitudes. He forgives the
vindictive their spite.
Only one can he not summon the will to forgive. Only one.
He watches the long line of voters as it traces through the painted square, past the empty plinth still stained
red. Night has shown her stygian head in the eastern sky, and in the fast approaching gloom the line of white-
clad men turns ephemeral as a dream, as a fleeting memory of childhood.
Only one.
Her face comes to his mind as easily as the chords of a cherished song.
“Tenka,” he murmurs.
The whisper is lost to the clanking of settling masonry.
* * *
Tenka:
“We are honored by your presence, sire.” Her father’s voice is fawning, tinged with fear and eager greed.
“Tenka, come here at once, child. Be swift.”
Tenka pulls back the linen curtain and steps into the small shop. She frowns when she spots the man
standing between the low-hanging paper lanterns, flanked by his cumbersome royal guard.
Hamrick, First Citizen of Danzia. His prowess on the battlefield was almost as renowned as his debauchery in
peacetime. He stands tall and proud in the dusty air of her father’s shop; hands on hips, chin held high. His
gilded crown of fig leaves gleams under the flickering candle light. He presents the perfect picture of regal
decadence, no doubt carefully cultivated before viewing glass.
The last thought makes her smile, a gentle curving of the lips.
Hamrick, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, lets loose with a haughty sigh.
Her father is quick to presume. “Child, assist the First Citizen at once. Or it’s the lash for you tonight.”
The scars on her back become inflamed with the memory of the last whipping—the admonishing tone of her
father as the leather strop arced through the air with a cruel hiss. She had been forced to bite her lower lip to
keep from screaming. It drew blood which had stained the front of her plum-colored gown, a fact which
accrued additional lashes.
“Always daydreaming, that one,” her father says. “Let the stars twinkle from afar, I always say. And let the
driven ground beneath your feet be your anchor.”
“Sage advice, shopkeeper,” Hamrick says.
Tenka hears the sarcasm in the First Citizen’s tone, even if her father cannot.
Her father smiles, revealing a gapped row of yellowed teeth. “Many thanks.” He makes his way over to Tenka
and gestures her forward with knobby, impatient fingers. “Go, go,” he says with a his. “And for mercy’s sake
be proper.”
She walks over and stands in front of Hamrick. She keeps her head low, her hands clasped demurely at her
waist.
Hamrick deigns to offer her one lazy glance, before spinning one of the paper lanterns.
“Interesting scrollwork,” he says, gesturing to a framed piece of parchment. “What does it say?”
She studies the parchment. The calligraphy is sharp, precise. She composed the piece herself in her native
language. It told the legendary story of Nuatel, goddess of Saftria, the island home of her ancestors before
the conquest. It was such a beautiful song of heartache, of loss, Tenka had been forced to tilt her head away
from the parchment while she wrote, to prevent her tears from blotting the ink.
“I do not understand Saftrian, master,” she answers.
She looks back at the First Citizen. Tall, lean, and broad about the shoulders.
Their son will be strong.
* * *
Hamrick:
The Saftrian Quarter. The poorest quarter in Danzia. The Saftrians were not allowed the vote, so Hamrick
rarely had need to venture into the fetid district’s cloying midst. Built over marshland, the main thoroughfares
were often a muddy morass. The homes and tenements were constructed of cheap, moldering wood and a
patchwork of variegated colored stones mottled with lumpy moss and strips of lichen.
He relaxes as his litter is carried down the road, his men straining to find purchase on the rutted ground. A
standard bearer follows the litter, carrying aloft a banner displaying the crest of Hamrick’s house. All who see
the procession must bow.
They stop as they reach his destination. The shop of one Master Kryka.
The shop is small, low raftered, filled with the aroma of exotic spices. Chamomile, cedar, and lavender
intermingle enticingly. The light emanating from the hanging lanterns was soft, casting long shadows into the
corners.
He trades words with the tedious shop owner. The man calls forth his daughter.
In one quick glance Hamrick takes her in. Tall, graceful, large brown eyes and a gently sloping mouth. Nothing
extraordinary. He dismisses her easily.
The shopkeeper continues to banter aimlessly. Hamrick glances again at the silent girl. She is staring at him
boldly. A hint of a smile forms on her unpainted lips.
Hamrick is incensed. The girl lacks the proper humility befitting her station. She should be trembling, nervous
to be in the presence of the First Citizen of Danzia. It is an honor bestowed upon few.
The father chastises her. That was more like it.
He idly comments on a piece of framed scrollwork. The girl’s answer is unjustifiably brisk, furthermore curt. But
more than that, Hamrick can tell she’s lying. It is a talent he honed to a razor sharp edge in the political
arena. One didn’t become First Citizen, or for that matter, _stay_ First Citizen, without recognizing deception
and obfuscation.
He ignores it for now. The girl is not important. She is not even a citizen in the loosest sense of the word—a
woman and a Saftrian. Her olive toned skin is much too dark in complexion to be even remotely fashionable.
“I’m looking for a scented oil for a lady friend of mine.” He wrinkles his nose and looks around the shop
disparagingly. “She is a great admirer of Saftrian scents.”
“Any particular scent she appreciates?” the girl asks. She has a lilting tone, but the edges are harsh, almost
bitter. For some reason he lays a hand on the pommel of his sword.
“I’m sure any emulsion will do. Say two gills?”
“I will package it right away for you, master.” She bows her head in servility, but still her eyes betray
resilience. It makes him uncomfortable. He has to force himself to remain still, to keep his face impassive.
What was it his father used to tell him? Never trust a Saftrian.
* * *
Tenka:
He leaves the shop. He will be back.
The First Citizen does not yet realize this. But he will.
She has seen it.
She presses a hand against her stomach. A power will grow from her womb. It will rule with fire and bronze.
Saftria will be once more.
With the knowledge comes a warning, but it is easily ignored. She will not allow it to bloom, to find purchase
in her mind. It is already set. And once Tenka’s mind is set, she is as immovable as the mountains which hold
up the cresting sun.
* * *
Hamrick:
The defiance of the Saftrian girl. He should have her father’s shop razed to the ground and the girl cast into
chains. Insolence cannot be allowed to procreate. One spoiled grape can tarnish the entire vineyard, set it to
rot, fodder for the flames.
Is First Citizen Hamrick not benevolent? Does he not allow the Saftrian merchants to flourish? You would be
hard pressed to find a more accommodating city in all of the Dothan.
“You look troubled, my lord.”
Sowith creeps forward from the shadows. The old mage is crookbacked, decrepit; all sallow skin and
protruding bones. His fingertips are yellowed, the nails purpled from years spent brewing nefarious
concoctions. His voice is tremulous as a blade across whetstone.
But in Sowith’s palsied eyes one can see vigor, a restless threat. No First Citizen surmounts the venerated
ash without his say so.
“Just a minor inconvenience, Sowith. You can leave.” He dismisses the old croon with a lazy wave of his hand.
He will return to the Saftrian’s shop tomorrow. He will teach the girl some respect.
* * *
Sowith:
He is bitter. The young First Citizen should accept council from one as magnanimous as Sowith.
He walked the tilled earth of Danzia long before the great city had a name. He helped forge the city with
magic and blood.
His statue adorns the Square of Founders. It is perfectly situated to capture the sun at its zenith. The rays
sheath the statue of Sowith in a radiant golden nimbus.
His wisdom and intelligentsia formed the basis for the Danzian charter.
And yet he is dismissed like a common page.
It was a mistake to install the young warlord as First Citizen. A mistake he intends to rectify.
* * *
Tenka:
He returned, just as she foretold.
His face is rigid, he is not as self-assured as he was yesterday.
Tenka knows the title of First Citizen sits uneasily on Hamrick’s shoulders. He is a soldier. Like all men of war,
he found peace difficult.
Her father is worried. He can see the way Hamrick stares at her.
She approaches Hamrick and bows her head.
“I was dissatisfied with yesterday’s purchase,” he says. The anger simmers just beneath the surface of his
words. She will have to tread carefully. Tenka is not foolish.
“I am sorry, master,” she answers. “Perhaps I can interest you in something else, free of charge, of course.”
Her father shifts uncomfortably. But he is wise enough to remain silent.
“Of course.” Hamrick’s anger is increasing. He is a man who is used to being in control. And that control is
slipping. It is peeling like old render under a heavy rain.
Tenka will be his downfall. And he will be her rise.
* * *
Hamrick:
He leaves the Saftrian merchant’s shop. He is angry, confused.
He mounts his horse and sets off at a steady trot.
There is something about the girl. Tenka, her father called her. She possesses a power he does not
understand. He is a soldier. They little understand the power of sorcery and view it with equal parts fear and
contempt.
A stick-thin Saftrian hawks his wares from the back of a shoddy goat cart as Hamrick rides by. He is selling
what Hamrick can only assume used to be quince. They are blackened and smell ripe. A fine dusting of flies
swarm around the merchant like a flurry of black snow.
Hamrick wrinkles his nose and spurs his destrier to greater speeds.
It will not do. He cannot continue to traipse into the repugnant Saftrian Quarter.
If there is a problem with the recently acquired emulsion, he will simply have to summon the girl to his villa.
* * *
Sowith:
He watches from the obliging shadows of the thick columns as Tenka mounts the steps. She is dressed in a
translucent aquamarine dress. The sheer panels cling to her lithe frame.
Even from this distance he can smell her: sandalwood and sweet alyssum. An unholy alliance for unethical
purpose.
The impudence of the boy. He summons a dark-skinned whore to the Royal Villa?
The Council of Elders will have to be summoned. The boy cannot be allowed to impugn the office of First
Citizen.
Hamrick would’ve been wise to seek council with Sowith before committing such a hasty and politically suicidal
act.
Now Hamrick will never have a chance to know, to learn. That time has come to an end. His power will wilt as
a young oak sapling, stunted and refused the sun by its massive and majestic peers.
Sowith smiles as he makes his way slowly across the Square of Founders. The smile sends a pair of loitering
clerks scattering. Their sandals slap rigorously against the flagstone as they flee.
He pauses before his statue and looks up. The face is younger, with fewer lines. It stares out into the far
distance. The effigy exudes stoicism and vision.
Even if his eyesight isn’t what it once was, his vision is still impeccable. And for the moment it is fastened
upon First Citizen Hamrick.
* * *
Tenka:
The villa of the First Citizen sits atop a small rise, surrounded by aromatic cedars. It overlooks the River
Balnan as it snakes through the soft loam of the vale below.
She has never seen such opulence, but from afar. Even this brief taste sets her mouth to water, her ambition
to smolder. The flame stirs in her stomach where Hamrick’s seed will blossom.
She mounts the steps and passes between the sandstone colonnades. They are the color of her skin. She
lays a hand on the cool amber stone, soaking in its resilience, its intractability.
Tenka has the strength to do what must be done. She always has.
Still the warning echoes in the back of her mind.
A land scourged by fire, by the hand of desire.
She allows the warning to flicker like a dying candle, till it is nothing but pale smoke drifting into oblivion.
* * *
Hamrick:
She came as he knew she would. His word is law, and his summons compulsory. Especially for the lower
classes. A lesser merchant’s daughter, she will sit in awe of him before the night is through. He will cut
through her snide indifference.
He sits in a recessed alcove overlooking the Balnan. The sunlight washes over Tenka as she silently creeps
towards him. It prisms the sharp angles of her face into a violent topaz.
He is bewitched by her beauty.
Hamrick will have her tonight. He must.
* * *
Sowith:
The Council of Elders has gathered. They sit in a semicircle on high-backed chairs upholstered with shining
leather.
The chairs are arrayed around a marble dais, atop which sits a simple throne of ash-wood. The throne is
empty. Sowith runs his hand along the smooth arms in a symbolic gesture.
The assembly is populated with the rich and the idle. Their faces register confusion, suspicion, and anger.
Master Conwith’s registers nothing. Sowith is fairly certain the old copper merchant is asleep.
They are angry at having been summoned in the middle of the night; out of the arms of their mistresses, their
servants.
He will convince them of Hamrick’s disloyalty. They may be idle, but they are ambitious above all else.
They listen to his words, his lies.
“What would you have us do, Sowith?” Master Eglan asks, between noisy slurps of wine.
“Ostracism, Master Eglan, ostracism.”
* * *
Tenka:
He leads her to his bedchamber. A fire rages in the limestone hearth. Above it, a sterling sword is mounted on
a piece of lacquered wood. It is the rooms’ only adornment.
Hamrick pulls off his gilded circlet and lays it on a small, unpolished chest sitting next to the bed.
He lays his hands gently on her shoulders. They are the hands of a soldier—they should not be so gentle.
It stirs something within her. In a place she has locked up tight.
“You are free to leave, if you wish,” he says. She hears the truth in his words.
Tenka steps back. With a quick movement she slips the dress from her shoulders. It shimmers as it drops to
the flagstones.
He comes to her. He carries her to the bed. His lips, soft as feathers, trace along her jaw.
For a moment, Tenka allows herself to forget the flames.
* * *
Hamrick:
Hamrick trails his fingers over her soft skin, over the pallid protrusions on her back. The scars crisscross her
copper skin like ribbons.
Tenka sleeps—her head on his chest, her mouth partially open. Her hand is clasped in his, feverish hot and
damp.
He watches her sleep. He watches Tenka as the flames in the hearth flicker and die. It forces the room into an
impenetrable blackness.
Her touch is his anchor. His anchor to a world he no longer understands.
* * *
Tenka:
She pretends to be asleep, listens to the steady throbbing of Hamrick’s heart. The heart of a warrior, but also
the heart of a fool.
Her desire has sharpened, the warning dulled.
Perhaps things will not turn out as she has foreseen. Perhaps.
_No!_ It cannot be. Tenka is not foolish.
* * *
Sowith:
She leaves the villa in the dark, like a thief stealing away into the night.
Her hair is disheveled, and she smells of sex.
Sowith wrinkles his nose. He will deal with her soon. He will deal with her first.
* * *
Tenka:
She can feel his eyes upon her. They track her as she crosses the plaza.
Tenka places her hand protectively over her stomach, as if she could already feel the child growing within.
The wizard is dangerous, she will not underestimate him.
His magic is great. But Tenka’s is greater.
* * *
Hamrick:
He summons her the next night, and the next. He knows he is risking everything, but he can’t find the will to
stop.
Her touch is a tonic to his wearied soul.
He wonders if she has bewitched him in some way. The Saftrians are a mysterious and cryptic lot. He will have
to ask Sowith if such a thing is possible.
* * *
Tenka:
Tenka stares out the small dusty window, elbows on sill, face cupped in hands.
She doesn’t stare at the clouded, bubbled glass, or the pockmarked road, or the squalid gaggle of children
begging for spare coins out in the gutter. She stares into the future, at visions cloaked in hope, not misery.
“What are you doing, child?”
Her father finally speaks. He has been silently watching her for several minutes.
“Looking at the sky, father.” The sky is clear and vast, the color of the spring chicory which used to bloom in
the meadow near their cottage on Saftria. “It reminds me of home.”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
She does. She remains silent.
“We could both be killed. I won’t allow it.”
She turns to look at him. His mouth is set into a grim line, his eyes shadowed.
“Would you tell the First Citizen what he can and cannot do?” she asks.
He ducks under the low-hanging lintel. “You will not speak to me this way, Tenka.” His dark, calloused hand is
forming into a fist. “Be cautious.”
She returns his intensive glare as she stands. “No, father. You are the one who should mind your words.”
His face purples with rage. His hand comes up.
She presses her face close to his. She is smiling, though her eyes are steel. “Be cautious.”
His eyes go wide with fury. He lashes out.
She grabs his wrist in mid-air and squeezes. He lets out a squawk of pain and drops to his knees. He is weak,
his wrist as brittle as aged parchment under her grip, Tenka could crush it into dust if she so desired.
Instead she forces his hand to her swelled belly. “Feel his strength, father.” His tortured eyes flit to her
stomach. “This is power.”
“Tenka, please?”
She releases him and he crumples to the floor, whimpering.
Tenka leaves the shop. The suffocating presence of the Saftrian quarter crushes into her. She walks down the
road to the Royal Villa, ignoring the plaintive cries of the beggars.
She must make her one mistake. She could not do otherwise.
* * *
Hamrick:
Tenka falls hard. The sound of her head striking the inlaid marble reverberates throughout the antechamber.
She looks up at him. Her lower lip is split, the side of her face a mass of purpling bruises.
When she speaks, her voice is composed, cool. “This…this is not love.”
“It never was,” he tells her.
_It never could be_, he tells himself.
* * *
Sowith:
She is leaving. Her eyes are damp, red. This makes Sowith smile—less a smile than a baring of teeth.
She runs through the Square of Founders.
Sowith steps out from the shadow of his statue.
She stops, stares at him. Her eyes are unsurprised, unashamed. This sets his skin to burn, his eye to tic.
How he has prepared for this moment. The fulmination of his patience and cleverness. He is deeply pleased
with himself. He is worthy of the statue which bears his likeness.
Two words only. She deserves no more. “You dare?”
But she does not reply, does not deny, beg for mercy. She simply stares at him with an unfathomable
expression etched onto her face. A face carved of stone.
_She dares_?
“Whore!” he screams.
Subtly, for he is afraid now, he reaches into his robe.
Faithless moonlight gleams hot across the blade, betrays his intentions.
A sound like a crack of thunder, and Sowith flies through the air.
The statue of Sowith the Wise shatters easily as glass. The painstakingly carven face rolls across the square,
stops at the feet of the girl.
Blackness swallows Sowith as he lays fractured on the empty plinth, as his blood seeps into the jagged
cracks and fissures of the disassociated marble.
A face swims into his vision, a face of sharp lines, dark skin.
Still she does not speak to him.
_Is he so unworthy_?
He is left to bleed out on the undying stone.
* * *
Tenka:
She watches as life slips away from the old mage. It is fascinating to watch—an instruction on the
impermanent nature of all things breathing.
Tenka turns and walks slowly away from the bleeding plinth. She has made her one mistake. A regret—
Hamrick. Transient as the mage’s breath, he is easily forgotten.
She stares up at the watery moon, the color of gold. Rain drips down onto her determined face, washes away
the dried tracks left by her errant tears. Soon she will feel the biting sting of salt spray, see the scorched
earth of her forsaken isle.
She can feel the power blooming from her womb.
Her son.
Her vengeance.
* * *
Hamrick:
He stands on the summit of an outcropping of rock. It juts from the breast of the hinterland like the bow of a
mighty, displaced ship.
All about him is the vast emptiness of the Dothan interior. Fallow pastures stretch to the far, bloodied horizon.
Darvia is but a memory. He can never return.
Only one.
His hand still stings from when he struck her. “Tenka,” he whispers.
Her name is lost to the unyielding winds.
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William Knight lives, writes, and attends college in
Upstate New York, where he's pursuing a degree in
European History. When he’s not working, or ignoring
homework, he enjoys spending time with his three
nephews, Billy, Johnny, and Donovan.
In addition to The Lorelei Signal, his work has
appeared/will appear in Electric Velocipede and
Aoife’s Kiss.
He maintains an irregularly updated blog over at
www.williamknight1.blogspot.com.
Upstate New York, where he's pursuing a degree in
European History. When he’s not working, or ignoring
homework, he enjoys spending time with his three
nephews, Billy, Johnny, and Donovan.
In addition to The Lorelei Signal, his work has
appeared/will appear in Electric Velocipede and
Aoife’s Kiss.
He maintains an irregularly updated blog over at
www.williamknight1.blogspot.com.