It was once said that the end of a man would always be his own lasciviousness, but few remember the rest of such an idiom. It goes like this: the end of a man would always be his own lasciviousness, the end of a woman would always be her own benevolence, but the fall of mankind would always be their own greed.
In the Northwestern Steppes, by the small forest of Khongrad, situated at the very edges of Valthorne territory, Khulan Muren remained seated on his sturdy steed, wrapped in tight furs and thick cotton. His lovuuz had been pulled down tight to give his ears some shelter from the unforgiving, frosty wind. His gloves and boots were lined with wolf pelt, and his vest was topped by a heavy mink coat that rested on his shoulders, clasped with thick gold chains to the leather work beneath.
Khulan Muren stared with a solemn face at the passing carts, tied tightly with thick sackcloth and ropes to protect against the elements. He watched as the merchants explained each cart, each item, making sure all goods and people were accounted for.
To pass by the main roads of the Valthorne tribe, any merchant must have received a permit from an allied tribe. As there was no merchant guild, clear passage wasn’t always guaranteed, especially if the tribe that provided the permit was of neutral standing. For this merchant, their permit had been given by the Nri of Tarsyn.
They were a seemingly neutral tribe; without any major wars or battles in the last decade, they lived a peaceful existence, unbothered by the unrest in Oblivia. Usually, they did not send merchants this far, especially not en route to the territory of the notorious warlord—Orda Naiman.
“Open the carts,” Lord Muren ordered, his patience waning with each passing second. It was far too cold to stand there listening to the words of such petty men. Usually he would delegate men to attend to inspections, but the convoy was too great. Fifty carts at the very least, filled to the brim with unknown goods he had to inspect personally, especially since the battle in Tarsyn. The Great Khan had made it clear that they were essentially at war with Orda Naiman; a full-blown outbreak was only a matter of time, and with the coming of the hot season, there would be blood.
His men unsheathed their daggers and cut the ropes of the first cart, exposing the items. Lord Muren watched coldly, his hands gripping the reins as he wrinkled his nose in an attempt to stop the spreading numbness.
“Nothing of concern, my Lord!” the soldier checking announced.
Lord Muren glanced at the merchant; he seemed calm, not a single emotion escaping his eyes but that of patient understanding. Lord Muren withdrew his gaze and spurred his horse onwards, trudging through the cleared snow.
“To the next,” he announced, and his guards turned back to confirm.
The weather was bitter and harsh. No one quite appreciated the idea of checking each carriage along the convoy.
“My Lord, there are at the very least sixty carriages! Surely you do not mean to check them all.” One particularly spunky guard asked, trying to hide his exasperation. They had been awake since dawn, and unlike Lord Muren, who could sit on his horse, those lower in rank were left as mules, running around and inspecting as ordered.
Lord Muren’s gaze snapped to the man, who shrank back immediately, his courage vanishing with whatever heat was left amongst the loitering bodies.
“In case you have forgotten.” Lord Muren tugged on his reins, turning his horse to the rest of the men surrounding them. “The Great Khan’s orders were clear! Each passing merchant must have a verified permit, and each cart must be checked thoroughly! We cannot allow that bastard to receive weapons from anyone beyond the Blood Sea or the Orkhon River! If that means we stay here till twilight, then we must do so to protect our people! Understood?!”
“Yes, my Lord!” the men chorused, standing at attention.
Lord Muren turned his attention back to the merchant, finding his lips pressed in a slightly tighter line.
“You seem displeased with this arrangement; surely you understand the situation at hand?” Khulan Muren sneered, looking at the small man. Pitch-black hair and oddly pale skin. Lord Muren might’ve considered the man a Bacchalian if his accent weren’t so hard to pin down.
“Of course, my Lord.” The merchant bowed his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips. “I had enquired previously about the conditions of the main road to the Orkhon main crossing. I understand the stakes completely.” The man’s eyes narrowed at that, and his arms slid inside his sleeves. “I also understand you sympathise with a merchant’s plight. After all, you are a Thessaran, are you not?”
Lord Muren stilled; it seemed locks of blonde hair had been seen past his lovuuz. Thessara was an old empire, but for much of history, it had been rather closed off from the other kingdoms of the Main Continent, so its blood had strong ties to such an appearance. Thessarans were also the only people who dared trade with the beasts on the other side of the Endless Sky.
Lord Muren said nothing else, instead motioning for his second to speak on his behalf.
Naturally, Lord Muren was to be diligent and obedient, but that did not mean he wouldn’t place his own interests first. There was little a large amount of gold couldn’t do for one’s ease of passage, and it seemed this merchant had plenty of it to spare.
By the time the convoy had passed, night had fallen and fires had been lit along the inspection post. Khulan Muren returned to his tent, taking off his hat, then his cloak, and then the leather strapped to his chest. He inhaled deeply, letting the warm, sweet air flood his frigid lungs. His fingers sought out a brazier, and only after he had acclimatised to the new temperature did he face the bed warmer awaiting him.
Her eyes were wide and clear, like a fawn’s; her deep brown hair fell around olive skin in waves, and her gaze beckoned him.
The man let out a small laugh; his second was becoming increasingly competent in attending to his needs, to the point of understanding his preferences. The man had only been assigned to him on his mission to watch the main road to the Orkhon River crossing, and though he had been wary at first, it seemed he was not too bad after all.
The night trickled by, and Lord Muren lost himself in the embrace of a woman. His heart was content; though the work was gruelling, his pockets had been lined again and again with the gold of passing merchants. The man hadn’t considered Orda Naiman much of a threat; the warlord was an old man, having sat in his position longer than most of the Khanvaaris had even been alive. Such a man, senile—practically decaying—would require an act of god to win against the Great Khan. A few weapons smuggled here and there would do him no good, after all; Lord Muren deeply believed that Ragnar Valthorne had been appointed by Ukhel himself to unite the Steppes. All other things, all other powers, would ultimately have to bow. That was the only reason he remained a member of the Khanvaaris, the only reason he bothered to keep up this farce for as long as he did.
“My Lord, are you not tired?”
Lord Muren watched the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of laughter from his men as they drank; he heard the sound of music and wondered what idiot brought a flute on their assignment.
“What ails you?” the woman asked again.
Muren craned his neck to look up at her. She had a smile on her full lips and kindness in her eyes that almost made him believe she actually cared for his plight.
He understood she was a common woman; it would be a miracle if she was able to understand his words past their superficial meaning. Yet he spilled his concerns to her.
“There have been a great many refugees from Orda Naiman’s territory in the past year.”
She hummed, her fingers working through his scalp, massaging. “I have heard of them, my Lord.”
“Heard of them?” he asked to clarify. “You have not seen them?”
The girl shook her head. “I work in a small brothel east of Khongrad; even if some passed my village by, I’m afraid I was not allowed to leave long enough to see them.”
Lord Muren only replied after a few beats of silence. “It is strange to me; the merchants that passed by the main settlement made it seem as though they came in thousands. But no one was able to explain what had displaced them.”
“Perhaps the warlord himself had driven them away.”
“But why?”
The girl opened her mouth to reply but found herself unable to speak. Lord Muren felt his heart drop a little. Hiding his disappointment, he closed his eyes and sighed. “I have asked more than you are capable of.”
“I apologise, my Lord.”
Lord Muren kept his eyes closed and deepened his breathing. His mind wandered; there were many mysteries in this world, and perhaps if she were here—if Nyraxa were here—it would be easier to speak on such matters. But women like her, in this world, were two a penny. Replacing Nyraxa would simply be impossible.
As the ash fell from the incense stick, Lord Muren’s consciousness faded until he was fast asleep.
***
Lord Muren’s second in command glanced up from his cup, eyes hazed with alcohol. The fire before him blazed so brightly, he winced. The sounds of merriment felt like distant murmurs in his ears. He stood, shakily, and made his way with small, sluggish steps to the main tent where Lord Muren rested. If the whore had done her job, he would take her before daylight. He had stayed long enough to understand that Lord Muren loathed waking up in the arms of a woman despite his ease falling asleep in them under the veil of night. He was a strange man with even stranger infatuations, but his Second wasn’t paid to question his superior. The man arrived at the main tent and met the eyes of the guards, who nodded. They had heard no sounds in the past two hours and were more than certain the Lord was fast asleep. The Second swirled his cup and downed whatever was left inside. With a shove, he handed it over to the guard and swaggered in, pulling open the tent flap, going past the outer entrance into the inner ger.
He was quiet, his body flushed from wine. He inhaled the sweet scent of Tubescan chamomile. It calmed his inebriated mind, lulling him into a sense of comfort, of safety.
It was new, a gift from the black-haired merchant, the Bacchalian, and was worth many coins of silver if sold at auction. Such precious herbs, on par with a hundred-year-old ginseng, had landed in the hands of the Lord. Perhaps the Great Khan himself did not have access to such finery.
The Second searched the space, venturing deeper towards where the Lord slept. He sniffed, and the faint scent of something familiar, something metallic, overwhelmed his nostrils.
Blood.
“My Lord?!” Snapping into forced sobriety, he picked up his pace, rushing to the other end. His heart raced at a dangerous thought that crossed his mind, a thought that—if true to reality—would end with his head on a spike. “My Lord—!”
The Second stopped, his eyes widening as pain spread sharply through his abdomen. He bucked. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, liquid rushing up and eventually out. Red stained the carpet below, splattering at a set of small pale feet. The Second tried to speak, but the blood bubbled in his mouth, gurgling as his eyes reddened. He tried to touch the sword impaling him, but to no avail. He fell to his side, eyes fixed on the feet of his assaulter. They were perfect, small and slender, as if made of fine jade. From where they had come and to whom they belonged, he would never know.
***
The laughter around the fire had grown loose by the third hour, the kind that needed no joke to sustain itself. One of the soldiers—a younger boy, on the cusp of adulthood—had long since stopped listening to the others. His chin rested on his fist. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on nothing. He had yet to get used to the drinking habits of his fellow soldiers and so was one of the first to give up his cup, unable to take even one more sip.
In his foggy state of mind, something moved beyond the treeline.
He squinted.
The darkness between the pines shifted and thickened. The soldier sat up slowly, not yet afraid. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes against the dark and then against the fire’s glare, tilting his head as though a different angle might make sense of what he was seeing.
A shadow.
It grew bigger with each passing second, its shape making more sense the closer it got.
Just then, the shadow seemed to still, and the boy struggled to comprehend what he was witnessing.
Then a burst of red consumed the sky, hot, angry, and utterly magnificent. The world blazed as though morning had just broken.
It came fast upon them.
Inevitable and utterly destructive.
The boy’s eyes widened as he too was engulfed by the sun.
***
There were ways that seemed right to men but ultimately led to destruction.
Her father’s words echoed senselessly. Once they might’ve meant something to her—not anymore.
Chidinma took a deep breath as rain battered down around her. She closed her eyes, letting herself sit in the moment as her lungs filled with the breath of life. She’d been in such a rush to catch a passing boat—so few merchants travelled up the Udamili River this season—that by the time she finally found one, she’d grabbed only what she could of her things, leaving her cloak behind.
She was soaked from head to toe, her curls sticking to the back of her neck. It had rained incessantly the entire journey; even after she’d got off the boat and continued on land, it hadn’t let up. Her body rattled as the wagon moved onto more uneven terrain. She shifted back, propping her legs up to avoid the gravel.
She’d travelled this way for a few months, going as the wind directed. The only money on her person was coin she’d stolen or jewellery she’d taken with her when leaving the Borjigin. Sometimes she thought of home, of her mother, who had been left a widow without honour, for her husband had been declared an enemy of the tribe after his death. Perhaps after hearing the news, her mother had drunk and danced for her freedom. After all, there was no longer anyone who would hit her, who would choke her, or who would threaten to kill her should she forget to warm his food on time. But knowing her mother, she was probably weeping pathetically at the death of her beloved husband. Dwelling on such thoughts never ended well for Chidinma—sometimes they would end in tears, sometimes in a fit of anxiety.
“Not many people go this far. I’m surprised to see a woman travelling to the heart of the river, especially alone. You have no fear?” The merchant asked with his back to her, directing the horse that led them through the forest paths. Chidinma turned to look at him, finding only curls of brilliant gold swaying freely in the wind, protected by a wide-brimmed hat that hid most of his face. She’d been in such a hurry she hadn’t even registered what he looked like. Perhaps he was right—she clearly had no fear.
Not of the elements, anyway. And her fear of man had long been worn down by her growing apathy.
“I have no need to fear,” she gloated. “I have good discernment. My Chi told me you are a good person.”
A laugh escaped him; it was hearty like an old man’s, but his voice was young still.
“Tell me then, young lady, who is your Chi?”
Chidinma fell silent. Did she have a Chi? She knew her family—her mother, her brothers—worshipped Ikenga, admiring his strength. But she was never quite religious. Still, she supposed she had to say something to pacify the man.
“Anyanwu,” she said finally, a sigh escaping her lips.
The merchant made an inquisitive sound, humming in deep thought. “Little liar.”
She flushed. “I’m not lying. What does my Chi have to do with you anyway?”
He clicked his tongue, clearly taking amusement in their conversation. “Fine. Not many people past the borders of Kemet worship the sun god. So you must tell me, just why are you drawn to him?”
“Everyone is allowed to choose the Chi of their legacy. I too am allowed.” She replied, irritation gnawing at her voice. “You are Anyali, and you do not even know he is your god. Anyanwu is not the sun god—he is the eye of the sun, protector of all who wish to walk under the sun but must hide from the loathing of men.”
Anyanwu was considered the god of misfits, of children despised by their family, of the outcast and the scorned. Anyali, like him, like Azul, were often treated with one part reverence, one part disgust. For reasons unknown, they were born with light hair and eyes; many were mistaken for Djinn. If they were unlucky enough to be born in tribes that despised Djinn, they would be abandoned promptly in the Igbele forest or killed as a sacrifice to their god.
The god of people like her: widowed, unwanted, and stupid. Her arms clenched around her knees. The gold around her ankles jingled as the wagon passed over a few larger rocks. Her skin had cooled considerably, fingers beginning to wrinkle.
The merchant himself was clearly Anyali, yet he’d made such a mistake as though he were a foreigner.
“You misunderstand me,” the merchant said, unbothered, as though her irritation were no more than a change in the weather. “I know exactly who Anyanwu is. I simply wished to hear you say it. There’s a difference between what a man knows and what he lets be known.”
Chidinma frowned at that. It was a strange thing to say, stranger still the certainty with which he said it.
“Who is your Chi?”
“Ala,” he said. “Though these days she is more interested in swallowing men than blessing them.” He gestured, almost lazily, at the water rushing alongside the wagon path, swollen well past its banks. “The Udamili is upset with us. She has been for weeks. All this rain is a result of her tantrum, not the Tengri’s doing.”
Tengri?
Chidinma frowned; it seemed he must be well-travelled to worship the Steppe gods.
“The river doesn’t control the rain,” she spat. “The rain has been heavy all season. Every river from here to the coast is swollen. That isn’t the Udamili’s doing.” The goddess of the river had no such power.
“Is it.” He said it not as a question. “And who told you that? The Chi who abandoned you, or the winds you’ve been letting choose your road for you?”
The words landed somewhere they shouldn’t have been able to reach, and Chidinma’s mouth went dry.
“You don’t know me.” She was uncharacteristically quiet, as though all vitriol had been forced out of her with just a few words.
“No,” he agreed, easily, cheerfully even. “I don’t.”
She said nothing more after that, only turned back to face the road ahead. What use would it do her to speak to crazy men with uncertain dispositions? It was best she mind her own business, lest she end up dead in a ditch by accident.
Though she consoled herself, a bitterness had formed at the back of her mouth, one that would not easily leave.
They made camp as the light began to fail, rain still falling in that thin, tireless way that had marked the whole season. The merchant didn’t so much as glance at his canvas or his poles; instead, he led the horse toward a shallow overhang in the rock some distance off the path, ducking beneath it and beginning to unload his things into the dry. It seemed he had taken that route before, for he worked with such ease as though he had done so a thousand times.
Chidinma was quick to make herself scarce, leaving the merchant to his own devices.
It was only once he’d finished that he realised how long it had been since his travel companion had wandered off to find drinking water and that she had not yet returned.
He stood up straight, cracking his neck as he watched the dense forest through the small opening partially hidden with vines.
“Humans are troublesome,” he muttered with a sigh. Taking a wooden staff, he went out after her.
The rain had eased to something closer to mist by the time he heard the faint sounds of a stream. He followed until he could see the treeline. He slowed as his ears picked up sounds of faint splashing. They were violent, as though the girl were thrashing around furiously in the water.
He couldn’t help but smirk in amusement. How much anger could a mortal woman carry that his simple words had provoked her so much?
Still, it was best she returned before it became too dark to see past one’s feet. The Igbele was no place for humans to roam so casually at night lest they be eaten by spirits.
As he broke through the treeline, he came to a stop.
The girl lifted her arms, balancing on one leg. Her eyes were closed; she wore nothing but simple white cloth around her bust and hips. She took a breath in and let herself fall back into the water. This time, she made no sound. The splashing he’d heard had vanished, replaced with silent, elegant movements. She emerged from the water, spinning in utter silence, droplets spraying around her from her hair. Her arms moved, intertwining and lifting towards the sky as she tensed her belly and arched her neck.
This dance he recognised.
The dance of Ekesi. A dance the Borjigin did not take seriously; they thought of it as a children’s game, and so they played at it in the rivers, trying to be as silent in their movements. As they turned, as they dropped, as they moved under the water. It was a dance; no one still used to seriously worship any gods.
And yet.
The girl’s brows were furrowed, as if deeply concentrating. She let her hand take the water, letting it fling in a beautiful arc, droplets spreading enough to vanish into the stream without a sound.
It was a dance that focused on balance and solitude and so could never be performed as beautifully by children who, by their nature, could not achieve such enlightenment.
A breathtaking dance, too lowly for royalty, yet performed with such quiet mastery.
A dance that could only be considered worship to the god forgotten to time.
The Unknown.
The merchant’s lips settled into a small smile, and he turned to leave.
As he walked, his steps seemed to vanish. His skin began to glow, translucent. Locks of golden hair lifted in thin strands, taking on a supernatural glow. The clothes on his back flickered, burst into flames, and faded, revealing a glowing gold mark beneath.
As long as humans live, there will be mercy. As long as they thrive, there will be injustice. Anyanwu, the eye of the sun, was a god that would always exist, for the nature of man remained capable of great kindness and great cruelty.
It seemed he was worried for nothing.
There was no need to descend after all.
Anyanwu mused, thinking of a prayer spoken to him, the voice of a girl who knew she would die.
To Anyanwu, eye of the sun, see me.
To I who was abandoned, you offer comfort.
To I who have no tribe, you offer shelter.
To I who have no Chi, you take mercy on.
To I who will die, you offer your blessing.
Such blessings, when they come to pass, would always be unknown. For time, to a mortal, would always be linear, but to a god, time was simply as a drop of rain, falling all around, thousands and millions of moments happening all at once. All to achieve a greater end, no matter how bitter.
A/N: I must have this illustrated; I ship them so bad.
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