The tolling of the city bells ripped Princess Nasiriya Zhargari from her slumber. Toll… toll… toll… rang the city bells.
She had dreamed of floating in a garden with dahlia blossoms and white rose bushes, a gallant hero by her side. Where is he? She scanned her room in all directions, but he was nowhere to be found. She saw only the flowers, yet they were but the blue rose bramble drawings plastered on her bedroom walls.
Her eyes strained at a flash of light as she sat up. She rubbed them gently, ridding them of sleep. Sunlight filtered through the curtains of her balcony, she spotted, eyes squinting. The bright beams glossed over the marble floors, accenting the greyish patterns on the floor as if a black widow had laid a magnificent web.
Toll…toll…toll… clanged the bells again. Why are they sounding the bells? And it suddenly came to her. That’s right, Father’s returned!
She fumbled out of her satin bed sheets and rushed to her balcony. She pried the scarlet curtains apart, and the booming sun slapped her across the face as a cloth of white light. Once her eyes settled, she peered over the balcony and the city of Shanghala spread before her eyes. The buildings glowed with a golden sheen from the morning light. Tall towers reached toward the sky, their slender forms standing proud sentinels against the dawn. Its streets and alleys wound around the sandstone buildings like a dark labyrinth. Some were squared, others round with cupolas for roofs, yet all meshed to create a lavish city full of life and history. Cutting straight through the city was Victory Road, a river-wide path connecting the Skin and Sea Gates. The vista met a harsh end at Hadryad’s Wall, however: a colossal wall, eighty feet tall, the histories say, of a deep orange colour. Nasiriya had once traced the wall’s outline on a map with her father’s dagger—until he caught her and laughed. She couldn’t wait to see him again.
What lay beyond the wall remained a mystery to her, but from the tales she’d read and the maps she’d studied, the Desert of Skin was a place she was glad to stay away from. Its sands are ashen grey, her mother had once read to her, the decaying flecks of trespassers’ skin. Just thinking about it sent shivers down her spine.
Toll…toll…toll… the bells continued in song, now much louder that she was outside.
A host of soldiers began flooding through the Skin Gate. They ebbed onto Victory Road endlessly. Men on foot, men on horseback, men in litters. Rays like bright darts poked at her eyes. Six iron-clad warriors trotted down Victory Road. Each bore plate different than the other, as a rainbow would, but of whites, greys, blacks, and golds. She knew her father was amongst them; he had to be. Only the Blessed Immortals and the Khah wore such impressive armour.
“Princess?” called an unfamiliar voice from within, though its tone was sweet and kindly. It was a woman’s, though. No doubt.
“Shamima?” asked the princess, looking back into her chambers, doubtful. A feminine figure peeked through the curtains, though taller and rounder than Shamima ever had been.
“Forgive me, I’m Fatima.” A palace wife, Nasiriya judged from her appearance. She was dressed in a cream-white dress, plain as a sand dune. The palace wife smiled at her, her chubby cheeks scrunching at their edges. “Shamima is shickly today.”
What is that horrible sound? It was as if something crawled inside Nasiriya’s ears.
“Shall we get you washed and pretty, my princessh? I’ve brought the warm water.” There it was again. That hiss each time she called her princess. No, not just then. Whenever she spoke a word with the s sound. Nasiriya noticed Fatima was staring at her blankly.
“Oh yes, erm,” the princess began. “Well, Shamima usually begins by picking out a dress for me.”
“Oh.” The palace wife’s smile fizzled away. “Of course. Shall we take a look?”
Nasiriya nodded.
They fished out four kaftans from the chest. Two of them were white with golden threads, one patterned and one plain. The third was maroon damask. The final one, however, was…impeccable. She’d worn it once before, or twice. It’s mint-green dye called out to her from the hanger. Even Fatima gazed upon it in awe—in envy. “I’ll wear the maroon,” she said, testing.
“A brilliant choice, my princessh.”
Ugh, have some backbone, thought Nasiriya. “I’m only messing with you, Fatima! Of course, the mint dress. We both know there could be no other option.” The palace wife laughed courteously. Fatima stood still for a moment, staring blankly. Nasiriya glanced at her. Fatima seemed taken aback.
“I’ll d-draw the bath now, princessh,” she said, hurrying to the bathtub.
“Yes, Fatima. I would appreciate it.”
Steam rose from the buckets Fatima brought. The water made a satisfying splash when she poured it into the tub. Nasiriya slipped out of her night garments and stepped inside the warm water. Her toes sunk into the warmth, the soothing feeling rising through her body.
“The water is just the right temperature, Fatima” mentioned the princess as she submerged the lower half of her body. The water enveloped her like a warm blanket. Fatima seemed pleased at the compliment, smiling briefly as she soaked a sponge. “Did you hear the heroes are returned from the west?”
“Yes, the bells! I’m sure you’ll be excited to see your father returning. Is that why you were looking over the balcony?”
“I was looking for my father, but I didn’t see him. I hope he’s safe.” Last time she’d seen him he was all fearsome and warry, just as Hadryad I was depicted in the telling of his rebellion, Liberation. The tales of old battles came to her mind. Of brave soldiers, triumphant heroes…and slain kings. He is the Khah of Gorhad, the most powerful man in all the Four Faces, said to be a seamster with the spear. Not a soul alive could match him in a duel, she was sure.
“That’s a shame. His Valour will be excited to see his little princessh, now blooming into a young lady.” Only then did she notice Fatima’s hiss again. It didn’t bother her so much anymore.
“A lady, yes. My mother says that I am to be a lady. A beautiful lady. Just like Princess Scheherazade.” ‘Of jet-black coils and citrine skin, Princess Scheherazade was the divine incarnate.’ Her mother had read her the story of The Princess and the Bull every night for as long as she could remember.
“You are well underway!” Nasiriya’s face lit up with joy, and the two shared an exchange of smiles.
Fatima rubbed Nasiriya’s arms with soap and oils and scrubbed them with the sponge. Slim jets of water oozed from the sponge as Fatima squeezed it, burbling as they merged with the bathwater. The sponge was slightly rough on her skin at first, but she soon was pleased at the scratching that came with it.
The hot water soon ran out. She was bored in the bath, anyway. Fatima didn’t talk as much as Shamima did, and nothing she said really piqued her interest. As she climbed out of the bath, her wet skin caught a cold draft coming from the balcony. Fatima swiftly covered her with a towel and dried her.
She slid into the dress by the mirror. The light linen fabric ran softly between her fingers, and the mint green simply washed over her caramel skin.
“So pretty.”
“Radiant,” Nasiriya whispered, gazing back at her eyes through the looking glass. Just like Scheherazade.
There was just no improving at swords. No matter how hard he trained, who trained him, how many times he trained, he simply hated it. Every day, he ended up beat, bloodied, and purple. His body ached all over when he lay in his bed at night, and the agony when he turned was almost unbearable. But whoever sang about a swordless king? Prince Maxirus Zhargari had yet to hear such a ballad.
The chill morning air caressed his cheeks as he stepped onto the sand pit, a wooden sword in one hand, a round shield in the other. His opponent was Hari Dadan, a boy of nine, round as a cartwheel, thick as a lead block. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, its blue hue was uninterrupted as if painted in broad strokes.
“Ready your arms!” shouted Sur Garlein, his voice trailing off at the end. “Begin!”
Maxi approached his opponent tentatively, his shield firm and readied. Hari waddled to him, swinging his sword in a nonchalant manner. The prince swung for Hari’s head, but the blade merely brushed the tip of his nose. An overswing.
The stout boy lurched his sword against Maxi’s shield. Wood bounced off wood. The prince found sturdier ground and thrust at Hari, but his blubber cushioned the blow. It only served to anger him. A powerful force banged against his shield, knocking him backward. And another. The shield flew.
“I yield,” the prince cried. “I’ve yielded, boy! Move!”
“No, my prince,” said the instructor, his voice raspy, shaking his head in disappointment. “If a warrior’s life was tied to that of his shield’s, many and more would perish in battle…ehem, ehem…” Sur Garlein held his chest as his coughs subsided. “We’ll have Mohem spar Karlos. The trials of the Blessed are soon, my prince, and they need practice.” The instructor waved to them, watching from the sidelines. “Oh, and, well done…Hari,” he said, his hand shaking as it rested on his cane.
“Huh,” the boy spoke, saliva drooping down his chin and to the collar of his tunic, damp and black with grains of sand freckled on the wet fabric.
And to think I squirmed like a little girl before that halfwit. Sur Cartwheel the Dim, triumphant over Maxirus Zhargari, Prince of Shanghala, heir to the Seat of Liberation and the kingdom of Gorhad.
“I yield, I yield,” mocked his cousin Mohem, stomping his way to the middle of the pit, his grass-coloured trousers glowing in the sunlight. “Maybe one day you’ll fight as well as you squeal.” He sneered to Karlos, both chuckling as they walked onto the arena.
“Shut up, Mohem,” said Sur Garlein, his voice was sandpaper. “Someday he will be your Khah. Keep that up and you’ll rue the day you lost your tongue.”
Damned cousin Mohem. Ever since Uncle Jafar had been appointed the Lord Speaker, everywhere he went, there was his cousin Mohem. The Green Sword, they called him. A prodigy, limitless potential, soon to ripen…all hogwash. Of course he looked good at swords. He was older, taller, and bigger than everyone else, but Maxi knew better. Pit him against a man of his size, and watch his green pants turn brown.
The two boys commenced their bout, their blunted steels kissing as they clashed. With each strike, both edges met again, and again, masking any and all noise in their vicinity.
As Maxi watched the match intently, he felt a sequence of bony fingers tap him on the shoulder, from small to large. “Minister Askul!” The prince jolted around, weirded out by his actions. The two hadn’t exchanged more than pleasantries. He meant to say: Do you forget yourself, Minister? But perhaps physical contact was more common in his homeland.
“Strong fighters, these boys,” stated Askul, Minister of Heritage, Archaic History, and the Mythos. The dark circles around his eyes widened as he spoke, his sharp jaw piercing through his skin.
“I suppose,” said the prince, shifting his eyes from the bout.
“You do not fight, my prince? I hear kings and war are destined as hammer and its smith.” The minister’s question made Maxi pause, briefly. He couldn’t quite pinpoint whether Askul spoke how he did because he meant to confuse, or because the Obrian tongue bent awkwardly on his lips. The prince stared at him with sceptic eyes, wearing a worn battle tunic, leather cap and sword and shield in hand. Looks lie, though.
“I try my best.”
“Ah, good, good. Keep to it. I never learnt to fight.” Maxi tried to picture the slender minister with a sword, and every time it sank in Askul’s hand and hoisted him to the ground. “Not with steel, anyway.”
With fists? Maxi glanced at the advisor’s knuckles. They looked sharp, yes, but a stick could be sharp, too, and brittle as bird’s bones.
Mohem’s victory roar pulled Maxi back into the arena. Karlos wheezing on his knees, his sword and shield halfway across the pit. The Green Sword threw his weapon down on the sand, his hairy shoulders bursting through his sleeveless undershirt as he celebrated. Shout a bit louder, Mohem, I don’t think your ape ancestors heard you.
“Brawns better serve the likes of him; I shall treasure my brains.” Askul crept around to Maxi’s other side. “Are you much for brawns, my prince?”
Once again, he looked at his arms, they were little else than skin stretched over bone. “I’m no Dreoclys Sunsabre,” Maxi remarked, shrugging his shoulders.
“Ah, so brains it is, then?” Askul clicked his tongue. “A wiser choice. Muscles dull; brains only sharpen. How did you come about the story of the lord Sunsabre, my prince?”
He welcomed the sudden whiff of the old leatherbound books he stored under his pillow. The feeling of the parchment pages as he would flick through them in the night. “I heard about it, somewhere.”
“Humility. An admirable quality. The sign of a good historian.” If only he knew the truth. “Dreoclys Sunsabre,” Askul began, “Foreclaw of Joster. No mortal ever could wound his skin of alabaster…”
“…no matter the number of soldiers the enemy could muster.” He’d read that chapter many times. Its words were near ingrained in his mind.
“Very good, my prince! Have you ever considered studying the histories? I could have a word with His Valour, once he’s returned from the stormy Roc.”
It had been his dream for as long as he could remember—but he was the heir. Scrolls are for servants, swords are for leaders, his father once said. If only I’d been born a common boy. “There’s no need, really. And my father would never allow it.”
“Believe me, the Khah values my input highly.”
Could it really happen? Maxi’s face light up with a smile at the thought of it.
“Minister,” croaked Sur Garlein. The instructor approached them rapidly, his face red with effort, the muscles in his arms tensed like taut rope above the cane. “If it please you, minister, may I ask what brings you to the sand pits at such an early hour?”
“The sun helps me calm my thoughts before I sleep, Sur. When the hawk sleeps the owl is king.” Maxi, much like the instructor, looked at him perplexed. “It was a pleasure to speak to such a keen mind as yours, my prince. May the Winds aid your sword’s trajectory as you train. Good morrow.”
“The pleasure is all mine…” Before Maxi could finish his sentence, Askul had bowed and strutted away into the palace with an abrupt and insectoid gait. What an interesting man, thought the prince.
“Beware the Prying Mantis, my prince,” Sur Garlein said, coldly. “He’s a trusted member of your father’s Ministry, but the dahns know to keep their distance with him. Whatever he says, you must think on it thrice over or…” The sudden tolling of the city bells interrupted Sur Garlein before he could finish his thought.
Toll…toll…toll… rang the city bells. His body froze. Maxi knew exactly what that meant.
Sur Garlein tried to continue speaking, but the bells muffled his words. He gave the prince a brief smile, and turned back to the other boys yelling inaudible commands.
But the itch still pestered him. Could Askul make it happen? Would he finally study the histories and leave these planks and sticks behind? He could see it—the possibility hovered before him like a silk thread. ‘How would you like your son studying the histories?’ But each time he tried to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers, and all he saw was his father’s face redden with rage.
Toll… toll… toll… the city bells sang through the atrium’s high windows as Shanghala’s noble men and women had gathered in the Sand Hall to welcome the Khah’s return. All eyes were on the princess Nasiriya as she paraded down the aisle leading to the dais. The palace guard stood vigilant behind the Seat of Liberation and the chairs for the Khanum and the princes. She was led by the hand of her mother, Cassadana, and her brother also walked with them—lagging behind, as always. They said they were born only minutes apart, but she figured Maxi had never quite caught up.
Zhargari banners draped from the upper levels of the atrium—the tiger wielding the Black Scimitar—and a percussion ensemble drummed a cheerful rhythm to welcome their leader back into his home. The children of the palace danced and played by the ensemble—Nasiriya recognised Fero Labaksh, Hari Dadan, and Dunya Jaidani. A lady would not dance like that, she thought, watching Dunya bouncing around the boys and moving her hips like a dancer on the street, though a part of her was thankful that there were girls who behaved in such a way. It would only better others’ opinion of her when she acted as a lady would.
The men wore kurtas of thin white silk and golden threads, but the older men bore a sash stretched across their torso of varying colours and patterns, each representative of their kin’s colours. The ladies each dressed as they liked—some in vibrant dresses, others in simple robes. Dahnum Ranni Jaidani stood out from the others; her teal dress moulded to her figure as if sculpted by an artisan from Tagaldir.
Their mother greeted the hall with a graceful wave and a courteous smile before she sat in her seat beside the throne. Maxi took his seat, alone, on the opposite side of the throne, and Nasiriya shared her mother’s side on a chair that was too big for her. From there, the great dahns and dahnums of Gorhad looked like miniatures at a market stall. Her favourite miniature was her Uncle Jafar, who sat opposite her and Mother dressed in his charcoal kurta with silver threads in a great arabesque pattern. Garments deserving of a title such as his. She was beaming when he waved at her, smiling, wiggling his fingers. His eyes shifted to Maxi and his smiled dimmed, only for a moment. They exchanged subtle nods, and their looks diverted to opposite edges of the room.
The drums softened and were fast replaced with padding hooves from the hall’s archway. One of the guards came forward, put a palm-sized seashell to his lips, and blew a note akin to the call of a whale. “Gorhad’s heroes are returned from the Roc!” Hulking men entered on war-steeds, clad in black armour, each helmet modelled after a different beast. The guard followed to announce their arrival:
“Vice Mandar, Dahn Plait Jorras.” Nasiriya stared at the hippo helm, fangs biting down as if swallowing his face, unsure whether to laugh or shrink behind her mother’s skirts.
The next soldier bore a rattle at the crest of his helm that clattered with each stride of his horse. “Mandar, Dahn Lekker Osman,” the guard called.
“Mandar, Dahn Chanes Gurabura.” The hump of a dromedary bulged from the back of his gorget.
The last soldier wore no such helmet. Instead, his face was wrapped in rags, with circles of blood around the eyes and a lather of yellow pus at the mouth. “The Plague,” the guard said. “Mandar, Dahn Brigandin Attila.” All these men were generals of war, but Brigandin Attila appeared the most estranged in the company of nobles and courtiers.
They lined up before the dais, facing the crowd. The noblepersons bowed. The mandars then turned to face Nasiriya, Maxi, and Cassadana, and bowed from atop their mounts—save the one they called the Plague. He moved naught but for a curt nod that might have been a twitch or a silent sneeze.
The drummers once again rallied in a forceful beat, and Father trotted into his hall riding a white stallion. His armour shone like melted gold in the midday sun. “His Valour, Darius II Zhargari, he blessed by the Winds, Khah of Gorhad, Lord Guardian of the Four Faces, and Liberator of Men.”
He dismounted before climbing the dais, and as he reached his throne, he turned to Nasiriya. With one quick thrill, he hoisted her with onto his shoulder. Her heart raced as she looked out over the Sand Hall from such height—just as she did with her dioramas of Father’s court.
“Dahns and dahnums of Gorhad, I bring to you great news. After months away in the wretched Roc, we return victorious. Today marks not merely Gorhad’s triumph, but the dawn of my father’s dream. On the fourteenth day of the tenth month, in the year 1381, After the Whirlwind, I hereby declare the establishment of the Obrian Empire. Glory be to Obria!” he roared.
Nasiriya beamed, giddy, as the noblepersons stood, raised their arms to Father, and cheered for the newfound age of prosperity that awaited the Four Faces.
© Jaime Abad 2025