THE three companions now stood in front of the steps leading to the palace. A magnificent sight it was, with no gate obstructing its view. Its golden roofs and walls glimmered in the light, and the various columns sculpted in due perfection made it seem almost like a temple. It was not as wide as the castle in Viprūtaram, yet its height was unmatched, and even Tūmbṃār misjudged what its pinnacle was from afar. Its large domes gave rise to high towers connected by buttresses from which archers positioned themselves. But the center tower was the most important for inside, near its pinnacle, rested the throne room which the three sought.
There were also three layers of steps: the base that led to the bottom entrance whose gates were swung wide open for various citizens to enter and exit; the intermediate that led to the higher sections where the quarters and studies for the King, his relations, and various aristocrats could be found; and the last set leading directly to the throne room. There was quite a distance between the palace and the rest of the city, and from the steps alone, one could see five towers containing Fiyukthi spread across the city, aligned concentrically to the palace.
Along the steps toward the bottom entrance stood many of the royal guards, still like statues whose faces were veiled from top to bottom, hiding all underneath. Armored black with spiral-tipped helmets, corselet breastplates, skin-tight chain mail, gauntlets, and scaled fhorlia, they held to various assortments of weapons, some with battle-axes, others with curved swords. But many more held maces, and their blunt heads were twice the size of their helmets. And each bore a sigil on their breastplate representing the god they held most in favor.
As Iḷēhaḥ put her foot on the first step, two swords on either end blocked her way. The two guards moved in front, and taking out their second blades, they struck the ground with one and placed the other atop.
“What business do ones such as yourselves have here?” said the two guards in unison as they struck the ground with their swords. “Has it not been heard by you that three levels of permission mustbe sought before approaching these steps, with no less an official to be your guide? While we tolerate those wishing to marvel at the sight of the palace, not one step further must be taken unless an audience has been granted. And we heard naught of it at this time. Begone!”
“We have a special acquaintance within our group and I shall relate to you her words: ‘The Autirsāh of fair skin, dark hair, and inverted horns seeks counsel with King Rṭyāshphaḥ; Feyūnhaḥ, for She is of That who Trudges Forward.’”
It seems she paid attention to the princess after all. She then displayed the ring in front for the guards to see, and the guards shook as if struck by a terrifying spectacle, and immediately bowed.
“Forgive us! We did not know the respected bride was your companion!”
“Bride?” asked Tūmbṃār.
“Yes, child, she is the bride to Prince Tretadunya! Alas, were he here, he could have made amends with her, and perhaps he could then take the seat of his father. Pray as we do, there is no sight nor word of him! Make haste to the King, for we are sure he would wish to hear of this.”
More questions it gave than answers, but they would have to have them answered later, for seeking the King’s help was of greater import.
They trod up the stairs to the throne room as Tūmbṃār and Nakthaḥm kept pace with Iḷēhaḥ. They did not dare to overtake her, for it seemed her expression had grown more serious as if to say she would tolerate neither haste nor mistakes in this regard. And if so, she would not be wrong to suggest it, for dealing with a king or lord was but a serious matter. And no meetings with one should be taken lightly, lest they provoke their ire, something Tūmbṃār had failed to consider before. And lucky enough was he not to have undergone any misfortune.
The guards at the bottom-most stairs had knelt to them as they passed by, and like an instrument—the strings of which were plucked—they rose in sequence as the three made to the next set of stairs.
Now, the three stood in the middle of the last set of stairs, and they each failed to see just how long it was. And it did not help, either, that the steps grew in steepness as they climbed higher. It felt as though they had climbed for miles, and perhaps they had, given how tall the central tower stood. Yet, as all things should end, they had reached the entrance, and after gazing at the large opening, they walked through the hall. On either side of them, they saw multiple capsule-shaped lifts, and this vexed Iḷēhaḥ but she would not let it show, for greater matters had to be attended to.
Huge stone statues erected into the wall could be seen on either side: imposing soldiers, warriors, and kings who had lived long past, many of whom were indeed related to the King of this realm. And the walls were carved exquisitely like the interior of a temple, many columns jutting out from their insets. These were all decorated and adorned with gold and silver, and with the red hue of hematite. And as they walked along that long passage and wondered how large this tower was, the carving and statues seemed to lift and move as if animated. They merged to a central point above the final entrance where the greatest of carvings was inset.
Lord Zūryaṃār held to his swords with the same stance as the guards of the palace, and the statues seemed to revolve around him as if to seek the blessings of a saint. But next to him, or rather behind, another man stood, and Tūmbṃār felt a sense of familiarity when he looked at him; his form greatly resembled that of the deathly being, and yet his painted image on the walls looked much more serene and gentle, a form cascading in brilliance, yet not terrifying to behold.
Perhaps Tūmbṃār mistook him for someone else, for like all others, he knew who stood beside Zūryaṃār: Lūshhaḥ, the Light of That One, and the closest and greatest of his friends. The greatest of beings too, who had descended during that time of Tribulation and who had not come back since. Dearly were the people of Ārhmanhaḥ desirous for his return, for they felt it was only he who could bring the Gods back to them. But just like the ones they sought, the Light seemed not keen to heed their calls.
Passing through that opening, light bathed them from all sides and from above, the tall glass windows and the great oculus that rested above filling the room with light. The guards bowed to the visitors. And the King, sitting cross-legged on his dais and conversing with the kneeling aristocrats, then lifted his head to see his visitors. His face was grim, and though he was already old, the veins and spots on his skin made him appear more elderly than he was. His form was ragged, and not even the opulence that emitted from his person with his tall crown, gold-laced robes, and scaled fhorlia could make the three see him as anything more than a decrepit old man whose time to abdicate had already well passed.
He lifted his hand to them and, with a commanding tone, said, “I remember no meeting being held for me at this time. Who are you three who seem to think you can stroll in here without due consent? I trusted my guards not to err, yet it would seem that trust was misplaced for what worth do three strangers have in this sacred temple of mine, dressed as you are? You seem not as aristocrats but neither as simple commoners, but that does little to assuage my doubts; it surely is by order of the kings of old that persons feeling a need to hide their presence should have no business here. Speak! Tell me your names, and disappoint not this frail man!”
“I see courtesy cannot be duly begotten regardless of what realm one goes to,” said Nakthaḥm in a low voice. “Perhaps we should show this king his place.”
The maiden looked to him with a fierce glare and he at once felt a growing pain from his heart. He fell to the ground, kneeling, as if a heavy weight had just been put on him. She then looked to Tūmbṃār, and her expression relaxed just a little, but Tūmbṃār quivered and did the same as Nakthaḥm. Both their heads hung low, wishing not to look the King in the face, much less Iḷēhaḥ.
She then turned to the King and, folding her hands, she too knelt. “King Rṭyāshphaḥ, descendent of Lord Zūryaṃār, Ruler of the Thousandfold line. Iḷēhaḥ am I, for I Adore all that is That One, and the boy who kneels on my right is Tūmbṃār, for He is They who shall Overcome All. And the man to my left is Nakthaḥm, for He is One who is of the Night. The guards who stood before this palace gave us leave to come here, for we had told them what the princess who accompanies us had said: ‘The Autirsāh of fair skin, dark hair and inverted horns seeks counsel with King Rṭyāshphaḥ; Feyūnhaḥ, for she is That who Trudges Forward!’ And to present to you this ring.”
She displayed the ring to him and on sight of that, the King’s eyes were sparked with life, and a great smile came over his face.
He arose from his seat with immediacy, but Iḷēhaḥ would not give him chance to speak and continued, “We have come seeking your aid on behalf of the Dehaḥṃār, who are said to have abandoned the Midworld. O great king who suffers us so, will you give leave to hear of our request?”
“Certainly! Rise, ye respected persons. You should have told me earlier that you were friends of Princess Feyūnhaḥ!” said the King Rṭyāshphaḥ as he laughed in joy, ignorant of the latter words the maiden spoke. Iḷēhaḥ nodded to both Tūmbṃār and Nakthaḥm and the three rose and met his gaze. “Happier news I could not have wished for and at such an opportune time! It shall be not long until we find my son and bring him back from whatever place he has been spirited to. Rise, ye aristocrats, today is a merry day! Hang not your heads low, for both your wish and mine shall be at hand soon.”
The aristocrats sighed and seemed content at their lord’s quick change in demeanor and laughed along with him.
But to Iḷēhaḥ, his words were suspicious, for she felt some level of malice attributed to them and said, “Pardon my asking, but of what do you speak, my lord? Have the prince’s whereabouts been ascertained?”
“Yea, they have! Though perhaps I spoke in a hurry; it shall still be a couple of years till we embark toward the Eastern continent,” said Rṭyāshphaḥ.
Iḷēhaḥ grew hesitant, yet she still persisted and asked, “Is it not said on account of the Zūryashhaḥ, that the kings and lords are not permitted to travel to each other’s lands regardless of reason? Do you intend to war?”
His face became solemn, but a slight smile crept onto it, and he bellowed a great laugh. “Seeing as you are Feyūnhaḥ’s friends, it would not do for me to leave you out of my plans! Indeed as you say, I am intent on war: I plan to conquer Pedyḷūr and perhaps the rest of the continent until Tretadunya is found. And when it shall have been annexed, I shall gift it to these here aristocrats with which they shall do as they please. It was they who ascertained the information that my son was most likely held within the domain of those shape-shifting witches from whom my runaway wife hails.
“And as you say, the Zūryashhaḥ have forbidden lords and kings across Ārhmanhaḥ from traversing into each other’s lands. But I say now, who is there to uphold such a contract? They, much like the Gods, have disappeared and have not been heard from, for oh so long. And I much doubt that obstinate King of Pedyḷūr, would care much for my troubles and help in my cause, so I see no reason not to take matters into my own hands.”
“But this will not do!” said Iḷēhaḥ, stepping closer toward him. “I did not jest when I said we had come on behalf of the Gods! Feyūnhaḥ included. You would do great ill upon the world should you choose to cling to this path, any hope in which shall completely fail!”
Now Rṭyāshphaḥ seemed vexed, and he went past the aristocrats and stood before Iḷēhaḥ. His large frame was something to behold, making the three reconsider their thoughts on his state. The light reflecting from his raiment gave a golden hue that encased him, and he seemed almost like a divine emissary, greater than the maiden who was indeed much closer to that role.
“The Gods have abandoned us,” he said quietly, but his voice quickly changed thereafter, and he shouted, “and you expect me to believe they chose you above all others to represent them! Nay, I shall not have it; nothing you could produce before me would have me believe otherwise. But that does not mean you are not welcome here. Speak not such things like madmen; I shall call for Feyūnhaḥ and any other companions you may have.”
Iḷēhaḥ then turned to Tūmbṃār, and she nodded to him. The boy stood and reached into his sack, pulling out the glowing arrow, and holding it aloft. The arrow levitated above his palm and radiated a glow that overpowered the King’s golden hue, making all avert their eyes.
“What sorcery be this?” asked Rṭyāshphaḥ. “Never have I beheld such a spectacle. Its glow is like the sun—nay, even greater. No jewel or item we have in this kingdom could compare to such luster. Tell me, maiden, what does this boy hold?”
“It is the Dvhaḥṣhtro of Dusdrahaḥ; given to us by the Lord of Cedars, Athruyam,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “One in your position should surely know what this means.”
The King took a few steps past Iḷēhaḥ and held his hands out, enamored by the allure of the Dvhaḥṣhtro. Much like Iḷēhaḥ at the time, he seemed to covet it, yet quickly pulled his hand back. The aristocrats standing beside him were equally stunned by its beauty and said, “The Gods have returned! The Gods have returned! King Rṭyāshphaḥ, would it not be wise to enlist them in our service? Perhaps using that weapon, we would not even need an army! The Dvhaḥṣhtro, alongside the Drasūvayeznd, should be enough to fell the whole of Pedyṃhaḥ!”
And a sense of despair swept across Iḷēhaḥ’s face, and she was filled with dread. To her at that moment, the light encasing Rṭyāshphaḥ was like that of a harbinger of doom, of likeness to the most powerful epithet of the God Īrshevhaḥ and his emanation of destruction. This was said to destroy all the demonic forces at the end of the world and bring all the Ārhmaht to That where they once belonged.
But she did not have the power to stop him as he now inched closer toward the weapon, pressed to do so by his foolish ministers. And with his eyes now filled with lust, he was intending to seize it for himself. Given how Tūmbṃār wanted to do as Iḷēhaḥ sought, he could at that moment relinquish it. But if she were to grab onto the King just then, she would bring ill upon the group, and forever would he chase them. She did not know if the prince dwelled in Pedyṃhaḥ, but even if it were the case, they should not have to bear the brunt of Rṭyāshphaḥ’s folly on account of her cowardice.
She mustered her courage to call to him, but just before she could speak, Nakthaḥm came between the King and his desire.
“You dare to stand between me and my deliverance, wretch,” said Rṭyāshphaḥ with a low voice that was cold like death. “I care not if you should be one of the princess’s friends; your life shall be forfeit if your insolence shall not abate!”
The demon smiled and his teeth grew sharp, darkness emerging from him and blocking the light, dimming the Dvhaḥṣhtro amid a haze of dark miasma, reeking of the rotten flesh of corpses. The nails on his hands grew long and his eyes turned a deep red, darker than blood. Nakthaḥm’s smile morphed to a scowl and he felt disgusted by what he saw before him. Enraged he said:
No matter where one goes, the fickle hearts of those contending with power always succumb to its allure. Be they lower, middle, or higher – never do such things change. I see in thee the same madness that overtook that vile God of the South. Thou greetest us as friends when thou hath heard the princess’s name, but thou would go back on that word to harm us if we should serve as obstruction to thine wretched goal. Does shame not come when thou takest such actions? Does it take the words of a ‘demon’, one whose kin are ever filled with malice toward thy kind, to have thee reflect and weigh thy mind upon thyself and see if this is how thou desirest to live? Should this prince of thine ever be found, I suspect he shall be more than displeased by thine actions. But I shall not give him the chance to behold thee!
And rising into the air with the aether forming into the likeness of wings on either side, he roared:
NOW KNEEL BEFORE ME, THOU CUR OF THE ṂĀRHAḤN FOR I SHALL SHOW THEE WHAT IT MEANS TO BE ABANDONED BY THE GODS!
The King, the aristocrats, and the guards were pushed to the ground. They wailed in distress as their feet cracked the floor beneath them, and their bones shook with great tension as if at any moment they would snap, to let fall their bodies like dregs in the muck. Yet their deliverance came, when the boy who before had stood still and afraid, rose.
Grabbing onto the demon’s tattered cloth, he called to it, “Nakthaḥm, stop! Don’t do this! Don’t break your promise with me!”
The darkness at once receded, the space once again returning to normal, and the demon, whose shackles had bound him by will of the maiden and boy, lowered himself, his head hanging down. The disgusted expression on his face left him, and only a solemn look of melancholy remained.
He turned to Tūmbṃār and said, “I should not have shown such a side to you, child. Forgive me, Tūmbṃār.”
Tūmbṃār shook his head and said, “You didn’t harm anyone, so all is good! You kept your promise.”
He gave a large smile to him, and Nakthaḥm was glad in heart to the boy.
But the King, the aristocrats, and the guards were still in a state of shock. Iḷēhaḥ could do nothing but simply watch as the events unfolded before her. Had Tūmbṃār not stopped Nakthaḥm, he would likely have slaughtered all in that room, save his two companions. Iḷēhaḥ broke from her daze and turned to Rṭyāshphaḥ with a heavy sadness about her.
“I dearly apologize for what has been done here, but we cannot let you have the Dvhaḥṣhtro. The Drasūvayeznd you also hold in your possession should also be relinquished to us; we cannot afford a person of your stature going to war and causing instability. Whether your cause be righteous or not does not matter here, for a greater threat now comes our way. You yourself have just witnessed a glimpse of what terror should arise, and within less than twelve years, the Yavhaḥṃār from the Lower Realms shall invade Ārhmanhaḥ after having left for many an age. And we, alongside Feyūnhaḥ, have come seeking your aid against that threat. We would encourage you to rally the lords of this continent to such a cause and bide time, waiting until we have collected all the Dvhaḥṣhtro that resides in the Midworld. What say you, O King Rṭyāshphaḥ, will you aid us in this endeavor?”
Rṭyāshphaḥ looked to her with fear, but his expression quickly changed when he recovered his bearing. Now a face of deep-seated rage overcame his senses, and he grabbed the maiden by the neck with just one hand and held her high. Tūmbṃār then ran toward the King but was stopped by the guards in the room. Nakthaḥm likewise was grabbed and thrown down.
“Lord, do not do this!” called the aristocrats. “Perhaps we would do well to listen to them.”
The aristocrats did not do this out of mercy for they had other interests at hand, and fearful were they of Nakthaḥm. Rṭyāshphaḥ however, would have none of it and shouted, “Quiet, ye fools!”
And the aristocrats shut themselves up and stood still. The King turned his attention back to the maiden, tightening his grip over her throat, and she did all she could to bear the pain.
“You speak as if you hold more power than me,” said Rṭyāshphaḥ. “Yet here I am, holding you high with one hand and feeling just how frail you are. Strange it was to see a maiden in a wedding raiment traveling with a child and a surly ‘man’, and to hear her speak of Feyūnhaḥ in such a direct manner. Why, anyone could have been fooled and thought you an aristocrat. But I know better than that and can see for myself how wretched the princess must be to have sent folk like you to converse with me, demanding that to which you have no right! Your questions seemed more like threats for my approval. But I suppose I shall ask the ‘man’ over there what he thinks of all of this. I wish not to hear any more from you.”
He threw Iḷēhaḥ to the side and put his foot on the demon’s head, stomping on him many times as if to crush his skull beneath his feet.
“You, demon! Why is that you travel with the princess? Has she made a bid or pact with your kind? Has she sent you to usurp me?”
“The words go in one way and come out another,” said Nakthaḥm. “Did you not listen at all to what the maiden had to say? Speaking of demands and when all we came for was aid. I have my own reasons for traveling with them, but now knowing the madness that wells within you, I shall dispense none of it! But the maiden does not lie when she speaks of the invasion; you would do well to heed her–” His words were stopped by a greater stomp that pushed his face into the floor and cracked the surface.
“I believe not a word of what ye say!” shouted Rṭyāshphaḥ, exasperated and afraid. “Why should the Gods side with those taking the aid of a demon? Why should they even give them their attention? Nay, you do lie; you must have cast an illusion on that item you held, yes. Yes, and Feyūnhaḥ must have betrayed us to have brought such an entourage with her, no less with you. Alas! How saddened my son shall be to know of this.
“I know he never meant harm to the princess, though they had known each other for so long. To this day, I cannot say why it was he refused her hand. He had desire in his eyes for something more, but would not speak of it to me, not until he had found what it was. He did have a fancy for other women, but none like he did for the princess, yet he still would not accept her. But perhaps that was for the best if she would choose to betray in such a fashion. No need do I have in seeing her now. Keeping her hostage shall be enough to obtain her brother’s support.”
He gave a great laugh, and the aristocrats laughed along with him as their cacophony of madness resounded in the hall. It was as if all they had witnessed had never happened, their fear altogether vanished.
Nakthaḥm knew, however, it was not so, for he could still sense it within them. He could feel the quivering of the King’s foot atop his head, and that of the guards who held him down. It would take no more than a second for him to use a single nail to kill all around him in one sweep. But he refrained. Enough trouble and commotion had been caused, and he had grown tired of it. The shackles on his hands had unknowingly strengthened in their grasp, and he could not move them. And the shackles on his heart tightened too, sending a great agony welling within his chest. His eyes closed, and he responded no more for that time, drifting off into a deep slumber.
Rṭyāshphaḥ stomped on his head a few more times and thereafter kicked him. No response. He clicked his tongue and spat on him. “Have them chained and their hands bound with the gauntlets. Verily they must hold the powers to conjure such illusions, and no risk should we take. Look for the princess and any other who might be their companions!” He then took from Tūmbṃār’s grasp the Dvhaḥṣhtro and twirled it in his hands.
“Hey, give that back!” shouted the boy. The guards that held onto him pushed his face to the floor and bade him be quiet. Desperate he was to invoke his powers, but when he turned his eyes toward Iḷēhaḥ he could see her slowly moving her head from side to side as she coughed. She did not want him to save them, and he knew why, but ever the temptation welled within to release all that laid dormant and take flight from the palace, and to never set foot in such an ill-foreboding place again. But he did nothing and remained still as the King fiddled with the arrow in his hands. Rṭyāshphaḥ did not see anything peculiar with the arrow, and its form without the golden luster looked flat and dull to him. He threw it to the side and yawned.
“All this shouting and incessant intrusions have made me tired. Take them away! And you, my ministers! we have much to discuss.”
