Lord Tinian sauntered through the gardens at the Xanti palace. The Lord by his side. Amidst the opulence of the gold-plated palace, the gardens were a luxury of a different kind. Three long, rectangular pools with inlaid edges reflected the azure sky among a smattering of lotus blossoms. The large, white fish darted below the surface. Rows of palms and sycamores provided shade, and an unusual profusion of greenery. Jasmine hung near the shaded walkways, and the air was always redolent with the scent of roses and poppies.
Such gardens, needing as much water as they did, were luxuries few could afford. Tinian had taken pride in them—and in his place as the man who, for all intents and purposes, owned them.
He felt he deserved them. As the First Councillor of Xantos, he had led his people not only to prosperity, but also to an enlightened age of science and art. Davead had not always been friendly to Xantos, but at least the paranoid king had shown no fervent interest in war between the two countries, and Tinian had no desire to make war for war’s sake.
War could be a boon to trade, but the chaos it unleashed made profit a tricky thing to capture. No, Tinian had not been one of the foolish men who would start a war to stroke his own ego and make himself feel like a warrior. He had more refined sensibilities—unlike every man in recent memory to sit on the Estalan throne, he told himself a bit snidely.
Unfortunately, one of those men was now walking beside him, having conquered Gold Port easily and taken the entire Council hostage—including Tinian. For the entirity of his career, Tinian had sought to establish Xantos as a nation clearly superior to Estala. Estala was backwards, superstitious, overly religious, and hardly a beacon of art, science, or culture.
And yet, Xantos now appeared to be a pawn in the battle between Estala’s two heirs.
Tinian tried to steady himself. He realised that the Lord, as Stefan liked to be called, was looking over at him. Tinian met his eyes and wished he had not. He told himself firmly that he did not believe in ghost stories, and yet there was something in those eyes that did not seem entirely human, something the other councillors swore had not been there when Stefan first came to Xantos.
Childish nonsense, Tinian told himself.
“Do you know why I conquered Xantos so easily?” the Lord asked.
It would be equally childish to make a prideful retort now. Tinian was not a child, he was the First Councillor, and he was descended from merchants who had spent years swallowing their pride and saying the words others wanted them to say. Let other men squabble over the definitions of pride and truth, merchants always won in the end.
Tinian allowed no measure of his hatred to show. He bowed his head, showing every indication of respect.
“I do not know, Lord.”
“Look around you.” The Lord gestured to the gardens and the palace, even—Tinian thought—to the clear blue sky above. “Look at this luxury. Do you know what luxury is?”
“No, Lord.” Tinian was suddenly aware of the sounds of screaming rising from the city below. A chill went through him and he had the urge to run to the covered walkways and peer through the slit windows.
He had returned to Xantos the night before to find Stefan, or The Lord as he called himself now, in the council chambers, the city already conquered. It had been a bloodless coup, but that had only made Tinian wary. Stefan had many hostages, including Alberto, Davead’s youngest son—the boy Tinian had intended to keep as his own hostage of sorts.
He repressed the thought that he was no better than Stefan. Tinian would never truly have hurt the boy, but tales of Stefan’s cruelty were well-known. Still….
And now there were the screams in the marketplace, telling him that something was happening—the exact “something” he had feared since he saw Stefan sitting in the First Councillor’s chair.
The Lord seemed oblivious to the sounds below. He strolled along the pretty paths with his hands linked behind his back and what Tinian could see of his face, behind the mask, seemed at once serene and faintly disappointed by everything he saw.
“Luxury is a rot,” the Lord said, and there was a distant command in his voice that sounded very unlike the boy Tinian had once met. He was forced to remind himself again that gods were not reborn into human bodies. Such a thing was ridiculous.
“Luxury is a growth,” the Lord said. “The sort that grows, unseen, unnoticed in the breast, sapping the strength of a body and crushing the vital organs.” He held one gloved hand in front of himself, staring at it almost curiously, and clenched the fingers tightly on the last word. The leather of his gloves creaked slightly, and the Lord ran his tongue around his lips. It was still as red as the rumours had claimed.
The wind changed, and the sounds of screaming grew louder, undercut by what Tinian suspected to be the beat of a drum. Fear twisted in his gut. What was happening? What was this charade?
He knew better than to ask.
“Perhaps you disagree with my assessment,” the Lord said, tilting his head towards Tinian.
“No, Lord. I do not.”
“Truly?” The Lord said, the slightly higher pitch indicating amusement. “Then have you knowingly weakened your own country? I might have overlooked a valuable ally in you, Tinian.”
Tinian summoned all of his skill as a merchant and swallowed down the bitter dregs of his pride and ignore the Lord’s obvious jibe.
“I am a merchant, Lord. I supplied whatever the rich desired. In such a simple transaction, I believed I could find a certain moral equity. It was only trade, or a bit of silk, or a gold plate—where was the harm? And Xantos and Estala both flourished from it.” He lifted his chin, trying to summon that pride he had once felt so long ago. It was not there to be summoned. He continued with his false-flattery, “And yet, as you say, you conquered Xantos easily. There must be merit to your words.”
The Lord stared at him for a long moment and Tinian bowed his head. In truth, he was not certain his words were just an act. The Lord’s description of luxury made sense in a way. There were so many things a society needed: food, shelter, roads. If its energies went to frivolous items like silks and paintings, did that not starve the rest of it?
Tinian would have said no—and yet, here he was, a captive in his own palace.
“You would not be planning to betray me, would you, Tinian?” The Lord’s voice was soft, inviting confidence, and yet the cold hint of danger in it sent a chill down Tinian’s spine.
“No, Lord.” He spoke from fear alone, no longer the confident First Councillor.
“Good,” the Lord said, his voice still soft. “That is good, Tinian. I hope that together, we can build a new world. You will be able to explain to my Xanti children why change has come to Xantos. You will be able to explain why it is a kindness to purge them with fire.”
“With fire—” Tinian’s throat restricted.
“Come see.” The Lord climbed the stairs to the upper wall, his steps unhurried as Tinian fought the urge to push past him and run to the battlements.
Smoke billowed into the air from the marketplace. Tinian squinted to see the Lord’s soldiers throwing bolts of silk and scrolls onto the flames. People were screaming as they were held back from the fire, squirming against their captors. For a moment he did not understand what was going on. Goods were the lifeblood of trade, yes, but they could be replaced. The people should not draw the Lord’s ire yet, not for this.
Then the smoke billowed and he saw why they were fighting. His hands clenched on the gold-dipped stones. The Lord was burning the weavers and tailors along with their goods. Drums beat and a chant carried on the wind: Anios, Anios, Anios…
“Through fire they will be redeemed,” the Lord assured him. “In the next life, they will be shriven. And those left will see the truth and can be saved. Rejoice, Tinian—your people have the chance to escape damnation.” He smiled. “I hope they will embrace it. The world needs—I need—their worship.”
Tinian turned his head sharply towards the Lord, before he moved away again. He rid his face of any expression, remaining as impassive as he could despite the anger seething within.
For a moment, a fleeting moment, the veneer of the kindly god had slipped, and Tinian had heard the raw need in the Lord’s voice. It shook him to his core. What was this man now? Was he a madman, or was he something darker and more?
Tinian turned back to the pyres and felt fear choking him. Fear… and despair. He must help the people, he knew that—but he did not know how. He feared he was already defeated, and he very much feared he would watch the whole city burn, and be fed to the flames himself, and still the Lord would endure.
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