Feather in the Void: The Farsian Trilogy, #2

By Valentino Mori

     After freeing her family from the palace dungeons, Zemfira herself has been taken prisoner.  Her captor, the Hellenic Hegemon, has scattered the Farsian army in battle, and intends to subjugate the entire kingdom. More concerning to Zemfira are the Hegemon's divine aspirations: he will sacrifice her in his quest to transcend mortality.

     Her friend Paniz wants to save Zemfira from the Hellenics, but royalists and monsters stand in her way.  In order to fight back and protect her friends, Paniz must learn to master her unusual powers before it's too late.

     Even as the final battle between Farsians and Hellenics looms, Zemfira knows the Hegemon's divine ambition will be far more devastating than any war between humans.  She must do more than escape his clutches—she must stop the Hegemon from ending reality itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Jul 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463353370

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

Feather in the Void

Book Two of the Farsian Trilogy

by Valentino Mori

ISBN (print): 978-1717850416

ISBN (ebook): 978-0463353370

Cover Design by Les Solot

Map Design by Samuel Busch

All Rights Reserved.

For Michelle,

who is generous, incisive, dedicated and sincere;

thank you for teaching me to keep character descriptions

to three adjectives max.

The Farsian Trilogy

Celestial Blight (The Farsian Trilogy, Book One)

Feather in the Void (The Farsian Trilogy, Book Two)

The Poet's Dilemma (The Farsian Trilogy, Book Three)

Map of Farsia

001yxx

Chapter 1 – The Patient One

The Scorpion Man enjoyed the screaming.  He held the Hindusian merchant between his pincers, pressing hard on the human's stomach to make the shouts of agony louder.  Beneath one of his arachnid feet, the Scorpion Man pinned another human—the merchant's daughter—to the jungle floor.  He would eat the larger morsel first, and save the younger, more vibrant soul as a dessert.

Please! cried the merchant, as if Scorpion Men had ever responded to human pleading. Please don't—

The Scorpion Man bit into the merchant's neck.  Blood gushed into his gullet, hot and invigorating.  The human gargled and died, but his soul still fought to escape devouring.  It was futile—as long as the Scorpion Man held the physical body, the ethereal soul could not escape into the abstract dimension.  The Scorpion Man sucked down the soul, like a mongoose sucking the yolk from a snake's egg.

It was a stale soul, its desired taste of terror undercut by an aftertaste of self-pity.  The Scorpion Man digested it and drew strength from the soul, but little pleasure.  He looked down at the younger human, whimpering pathetically.  The Scorpion Man licked the blood from his lips, lifted his leg pinning the merchant's daughter, and picked her up.

No! pleaded the young woman. No!

The Scorpion Man opened his jaws, pointed teeth dripping with saliva, and stopped.  The jungle around him was suddenly humming.  The vibration went through his whole body—it made his crimson skin crawl.  Then golden light flooded his mind and he gagged as it pressed on all his senses.  It crippled him.  He couldn't think.  He couldn't move.  He tried to bite down on the human trapped in his pincers, but even that was impossible.  His whole being was dominated by a golden presence.

Come to me. A soft voice drifted into his carnivorous brain and flowed through his veins.  The voice triggered his muscles, and his pincer opened against his will, dropping the merchant's daughter with a cry.  The power of the voice stiffened his tail and made him turn due east.

Now, said the voice, and the Scorpion Man, powerless to resist, scuttled forward, ripping through vines and crashing into tree trunks in his eagerness to obey.

***

A half moon was rising when the Scorpion Man reached the overgrown jungle temple.  Someone had once inscribed warnings into the limestone pillars, cautioning travelers about the dangerous being fettered within.  These warnings were illegible now, eaten away by moss and weather.  In the surrounding swamp, Delta Vipers slithered through the torpid water and Shifting Hounds stalked through the reeds at the swamp's edge, always hungry for fresh human souls.  They never got too close to the temple itself and the glowing, humming energy radiating from within.

As the Scorpion Man crossed the swamp, the Delta Vipers sank deeper into the mud; the Shifting Hounds cowered between the trees.  They did not stop the Scorpion Man as he pulled open the ancient doors and entered the temple.

He had to bend his head to fit through the narrow passage, his long barbed tail brushing up against roots and vines.  There were symbols embedded in the stone, symbols that flared as his arachnid legs clicked against the tiles.  The Scorpion Man hardly noticed.  He reached the broad staircase and descended toward the golden glow of the prisoner's chamber.

The prisoner was not contained by any normal cage, but a floating sphere of stone brick.  The light shone from the cracks, flickering over the symbols etched into the walls.  The Scorpion Man approached and realized he could no longer fight the golden influence—all his desires to consume and to destroy had been superseded by a far greater desire: to obey.  He sank into a bow—a strange posture for a creature without human legs.

The light glowed brighter, a hum rising from the revolving sphere.  Then, like a release of breath, golden liquid seeped between the cracks, dripping and coalescing.  The being within could not break free from her cage—the constraints were still too strong—but she could assume a coherent form, beyond the prison's confining powers.

Drvaspa, for that was the being's name, emerged from the glow as a silhouette of translucent gold.  She unfurled dripping wings and lifted her falcon head.  Golden threads still connected her to the sphere—marks of her continued bondage.

Welcome, she said, expelling the word in a slow exhalation.  It resonated in the bricks and echoed in the Scorpion Man's mind.  He shuddered, utterly susceptible to her Celestial power, and Drvaspa gazed into the creature's wicked memories.

She saw the temple, the swamp, the surrounding jungle, the dead merchant and his daughter, the road from the Hindus River, the monks slaughtered on the Farsian border, the village ravaged by his appetite.  Drvaspa siphoned the memories into her vast, submerged consciousness, careful not to stir up her centuries' worth of recollections.  It was like letting a single drop of water fall into a full cup, without letting the ripples spill over the edges.

Speak, she continued, once her new memories had settled.

The Scorpion Man gurgled and coughed, trying to regain his ability to speak.  Scorpion Men had functional tongues, but speech was rarely required in their quest to devour human souls.

I heard your call, he said. I obey.  I am your servant, your weapon.  Command me.

More light dripped from the sphere and Drvaspa felt herself approaching complete consciousness.  More than just a prison, the sphere divided her mind and impeded her thoughts.  The Celestial Ones had hoped if Drvaspa could not pursue her sworn objective, she might relent, transcend her immortal self, and unite with the creative force of the universe.  Transcendence was the only permanent solution against Drvaspa, but her captors had underestimated her tenacity.  She had been thwarted for centuries, and still she endured.

The girl, said Drvaspa, ever so slowly. You know the importance of the girl.

The Scorpion Man nodded. Zemfira.  The Lightcaster with Depravity.  The last piece needed to break your prison.

Precisely, said Drvaspa.  Her mind filled with images of the girl feeling on a river ferry, riding through the desert, and unleashing her rare powers to defend herself.  But despite those powers, Zemfira had been captured and imprisoned by the Hellenic Hegemon, the invader from the west.

Unlike the Celestial Ones, humans had to pay a price for their powers.  Most paid through physical detriment—Hunger, Thirst or Fatigue—but some humans could only use their Casting by twisting and damaging their soul: the Cost of Depravity.  Zemfira was a rare combination of Lightcaster, fueled by Depravity.  Her unusual Casting, if extracted within the temple prison, would release Drvaspa from her hated cage.

Shall I bring her to you, master? asked the Scorpion Man, pulling Drvaspa out of her thoughts. I shall carry her in my pincers, I shall feed her and protect her, until she is before you.

No, said the Celestial One. She is being observed and protected in the Hegemon's camp by my most faithful servant.  That servant will ensure the Hegemon brings Zemfira here and frees me from my fetters.

I can support your servant in this—

No, repeated Drvaspa, the effort of communication grating upon her. My servant is a Voidicant.  It needs no assistance.

The Scorpion Man bowed deeper, muttering a pointless apology.  Drvaspa ignored it.  Exhaustion gnawed at her.  She had spent centuries abrading her bonds, bit by bit, pebble by pebble, and each small erosion had cost her dearly.  The prison oppressed her, manipulated her, and punished her, but Drvaspa's resolve had never wavered.

For a long time, Drvaspa had served the creative force of the universe, the Spenta.  She had been loyal, diligent, and dauntless.  She had turned Devas and Shadow Beasts like this Scorpion Man to dust with her shining hand.  Never had she questioned the struggle between good and evil, order and chaos, life and death.  But that was before she discovered the true nature of things.

March west and gather Shadow Beasts to our cause, said Drvaspa. Begin your rampage in the Satrapy of Harauvatis: kill, slaughter, devour.  Target the rebel forces there.  Overwhelm them.  Turn their capital to rubble.  Ensure that the rebels cannot rescue Zemfira from the Hellenics.

The Scorpion Man raised his pincers. As you command, master.  I will summon my brethren from Putaya and Uvarazmis and Ebir-Nari.  I will leave no living—

Silence, said Drvaspa, her golden essence shivering.  The mention of Putaya, a small province in southwestern Farsia, sent a ripple through the vast caverns of her memory.  She recalled a fragment of information, buried so deep beneath other recollections that she had almost forgotten it.

Long ago, there had been rumors of a strange artifact crafted out of physical and abstract materials: a cage that could pierce the soul through the body.  Now, trapped beneath the earth, locked away from the sun, Drvaspa finally appreciated its importance.  She didn't need Zemfira's entire soul: she only needed her Casting.

For centuries, the monarchs of Farsia had deprived Drvaspa of the Lightcaster she needed.  By royal custom, the Farsians slaughtered children afflicted with the Cost of Depravity, to prevent their degeneration into rampant evil.

Zemfira had escaped that fate and might live long enough to free Drvaspa.  But she was also mortal, and mortals were fragile.  They were constantly suffocating, starving, or bleeding out.  And Zemfira, currently held on the western coast of Farsia, was a long way from Drvaspa's temple.

The Scorpion Man watched nervously.  Drvaspa had fallen silent and her light was dimming.  The stone sphere pressed harder on its prisoner, trying to pull her back inside, but Drvaspa emerged from her meditation and shone more brightly than ever.

Go, said Drvaspa, focusing on the Scorpion Man, who bowed and scuttled away.  

Her faithful minion in the Hegemon's camp had to be alerted.  It would cost Drvaspa dearly to send her consciousness so far.  In response to her action, the prison would tighten around her mind and block her from the world, but it was a price Drvaspa was willing to pay.  Her servant had to know.  Once the Hellenic army reached Putaya, Drvaspa's servant could harvest Zemfira's precious Casting and dispose of the girl.  It was a delicious notion. 

Drvaspa gathered herself back into her cell, condensing the light within the revolving bricks.  Centuries had been wasted.  The misguided Celestial Ones had delayed Drvaspa for so long.  But now, finally, the end was in sight.  Soon, this sham of a universe would come to an end.

This knowledge pleased Drvaspa as she sent her thoughts arcing across the continent, towards her servant on the coast of the Western Sea.

Chapter 2 – The Hegemon's Steed

Barbs of sunlight shone through the linen tent.  Zemfira lay on her back, gazing at the illuminated fabric through half-closed eyes.  The cloth canopy had become a familiar sight to her, over months of captivity with the Hegemon's army, and yet she still found herself looking up at it, hoping to see something new between the textile threads.

He says you have to come to the feast, said Berenike, sticking her head in between the tent flaps. Come on, enough wallowing.

With great reluctance, Zemfira turned towards her friend.  Berenike was not Hellenic by birth, as her name might suggest, but Skythian, one of many prisoners forced into slavery by Eskandar's conquests.  Intent on survival, Berenike had mastered the language of her captors, and by the time Eskandar had captured Zemfira, Berenike spoke Hellenic fluently.

The enslaved attendants were under strict orders not to hurt Zemfira since she was essential to the Hegemon's plan, so most of them avoided contact altogether.  Berenike was the exception.  She would look Zemfira in the eye and speak  without deference or trepidation.  That was a great relief to Zemfira.  When she had struck up the nerve to ask the Skythian girl for language lessons, Berenike had agreed, in exchange for regular payments of candied apricots.

I'm not going to the feast, said Zemfira, tongue thudding over the Hellenic syllables. I'm not hungry.

Berenike muttered something in her own language, which Zemfira assumed were obscenities. Don't be stupid, said Berenike, switching back to Hellenic. You know what happens when he is denied something.  It's not worth it.  You have to be strategic.

What's he going to do? asked Zemfira, looking back up at the linen. After a few minutes he'll get distracted and think of something new to entertain himself.  He's probably drunk already.

"So this is your resistance? asked Berenike. Lying in your tent, like an obstinate brat?"

What do you suggest? demanded Zemfira in Farsian, then catching herself, slowing down and repeating herself in Hellenic. "What do you suggest?  I am under constant Insightcaster surveillance, I am surrounded by an entire army, including the polycasting Hegemon—and I'm wearing this!"

She wrapped her fingers around the Iron Necklace on her throat and tugged it up.  More than a restriction on her Lightcasting, it was an insult.  Two years ago, the monks in Nebit had released her from the collar and recognized her as an adult.  Now, with the chain refastened, she had been reduced to a child again.

You have no imagination, said Berenike, running her fingers through her thick red hair as she always did when exasperated. "If I were you, I would sidle up to every one of the Hegemon's Companions, whispering in their ears, turning them against each other, against him.  With a little flattery and those eyelashes of yours, you could soon be free."

The hint of a smile spread over Zemfira's lips. Are you saying that you like my eyelashes?

Berenike's freckled cheeks flushed. I'm not the one you need to charm.  Ingratiate yourself with the Companions.  Just—just as long as you're careful around them.

Doesn't matter if I'm careful or not, Zemfira sighed. I'm not persuasive, Berenike.  Paniz was the persuasive one, not me.  I don't know how she did it, but people listened to her.  I should have paid closer attention at the time.

Berenike clicked her tongue. Stop being wistful.  Reminiscing about Paniz will not save you.  And why do you talk so much more about your friend and not your beloved Hami?

Zemfira didn't have a good answer to that.  After months of separation she still loved Hami, but she wasn't sure in what way.  Berenike chose to interpret Zemfira's silence as a snub.

If you'll excuse me, said Berenike with a sniff. I have other important matters to attend to, such as scrubbing vomit out of a courtier's chiton.

Wait, Berenike, I wasn't— began Zemfira, but Berenike was already gone.

Zemfira had tried to escape, of course.  As the army was leaving Issos, where she had been captured, Zemfira had drifted purposefully to one side of the procession.  In an instant she had knocked over a stableboy and mounted the boy's horse before the guards could grab her.  The steed had galloped forward, bowled over several philosophers and made for the eastern road.  But then the horse had slowed, then stopped.  Eskandar, though almost out of eyesight, had used his Obediencecasting to halt the horse and then return it to his side.

She had tried again, after their arrival in Halab.  After crushing the local Farsian garrison, the Hellenics decided to celebrate.  With Eskandar drunk on thick Makedonian wine, Zemfira had approached the river.  When her guards became distracted with the debauched banter between Eskandar and his Companions, she had dived into the water.  She had swum fiercely downstream, ignoring her damp chiton and the weight of her necklace, keeping her head beneath the water, determined to reach the fishing boats without being noticed.

But then the water started churning around her, and with a burst the river had flung her high into the air.  Just as she started to plummet, a gentle wind encircled her and wafted her down to Eskandar's inner circle.  The men had bellowed with laughter at the sight of her soaked and shivering.  Even inebriated, Eskandar had recaptured her without even getting to his feet.  Her cheeks had burned with shame.

After that, Zemfira stopped praying that her father, her brother, and Volakles would rescue her.  Instead she prayed they avoid the Hellenics altogether and go home.  Any rescue attempt would lead to death—not for Zemfira, but for her family and friends.  Zemfira could not allow that to happen.

Instead she hoped King Artashata would regroup the scattered Farsian army and defeat the Hellenics.  Zemfira didn't put much faith in Eskandar being outsmarted on the battlefield, but the chaos of warfare was her best chance to escape.

She knew what Eskandar intended to do with her—she alone could unlock Drvaspa's prison and she wanted no part of it.  She still recalled the warnings of Xavapar, the Celestial One: stop Drvaspa before she breaks free and destroys the universe.  When she had tried to explain this to Eskandar, he had only laughed, patted her head, and told her to come up with a more plausible argument next time.

Not hungry, eh?

It was Philotas, one of the Hegemon's Companions.  He stooped to enter the tent, bringing the scent of sweat and roast lamb with him.  On principle, Zemfira despised all the Hegemon's Companions, but privately, she hated Philotas the least.  He hadn't laughed after her failed escape into the river, but had offered her a towel.

"Did he send you, or did Berenike?"

Philotas took a seat next to Zemfira's sleeping mat and glanced out of the tent. Is that the name of the fiery-haired slave?  She's a fun one, isn't she?

Zemfira wrinkled her nose at his pleasant tone.  Philotas was not as brawny as Krateros, not as clever as Ptolemaios, nor as handsome as Kassandros.  Instead, he had a talent for being pleasant.  He was quick to soothe others and slow to take offense.  When the Companions argued, as was their habit, Philotas often defused the tension before Eskandar got angry.

I'm not going to the feast, said Zemfira, firmly.

Is that so? said Philotas, raising an eyebrow and shifting to Farsian. Is that the decision of an adult or a child?

She reached for the nearest object, which turned out to be a pouch of pistachios, and tossed it at his head.  Philotas caught the pouch and grinned.  She was less amused.

I know what will happen, Philotas.  He's going to mock me and the other prisoners, then he'll make a speech about how he's destined to rule the world and finally he'll pass out.  I'd rather be locked up like a proper prisoner, than paraded like some freakish amusement.

Ah, but you're forgetting the most important rule around here, said Philotas. Prisoner, soldier, or Companion: if Alexandros wants something, he will have it.  It doesn't matter if his demands are illogical or imprudent.  You obey Alexandros because you must.

Zemfira slowly sat up. Why don't you call him Hegemon?

Hm?

You and the Companions—you all call him by his Hellenic name but everyone else has to address him by his title.

One of the perks of being a Companion, said Philotas with a wink. We've known Alexandros since we were boys.  He was only the Prince of Makedonia then, learning philosophy, swordplay, and horsemanship while his father conquered the Hellenic States.  Did you know the Hellenics never recognized Makedonia as a civilized nation until we annexed them?  They treated us like Skythians with slightly better bathing habits.  And sure, we have some wildness in our blood—that's why we dominated them, then the Thrakians, and now the Farsians too.

Zemfira sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. If I attend the feast would you please stop talking about Makedonia's military prowess?

Philotas inclined his head. As the prisoner commands—shall I escort you?

No, said Zemfira. I'll manage by myself.

The Companion left.  Zemfira took a few deep breaths, mastering her simmering anger and anxiety.  She examined her chiton for blemishes, tightened the straps of her sandals and tied back her hair.  Her Iron Necklace would be fully visible, likely to inspire more jokes about her immaturity and powerlessness, but she refused to let that prospect daunt her.  She left the tent.

The Hellenic camp extended in every direction, a vast sea of dusty men and flapping banners, but the center of the encampment was reserved for Eskandar's mobile court.  The surrounding tents housed courtiers, wives, and the Hegemon's valuable hostages.

Zemfira could already hear raucous music, a bard's melody undercut by a chorus of drunken revelers.  The air was pungent with smoke, honey, burnt bread, and roasted mutton.  Steeling herself, Zemfira stepped out between two tents and approached the festive spectacle.

It was impossible to miss Eskandar.  He stood before the bonfire, recounting his hunting exploits to his friends while demanding more refreshments from the slaves.  His shaggy hair fell across his broad shoulders, the locks bouncing with his laughter.  Sweat coursed down his muscular torso, down his hairy legs to his bare, calloused feet.  Sometimes the Hellenic Hegemon wore clothing at his feasts, but this was not one of those occasions.

Here she is! roared Eskandar, to cheers from the Companions and muted acknowledgement from the various courtiers. My little Soulbreaker, already learning how to speak our tongue, you know.  Say something in Hellenic, Zemfira.  Go on.

I am not a curiosity to be laughed at, said Zemfira, but she slipped up on a syllable, which renewed the guffaws from the Companions.

These Farsians, whistled Eskandar. No sense of humor.  I knew that the Farsian royal family would be a solemn bunch, but I expected the peasant girl to know how to take a joke by now.

Zemfira didn't bother answering.  She accepted a cup of wine from a passing attendant and sat down beside the other hostages captured at Issos.  Zemfira would never have imagined she would see the Queen of Farsia, let alone sit at an equal level with her, but here she was.  Eskandar treated King Artashata's wife with the utmost respect, allowing the queen to keep her silks and jewels rather than add the valuables to the spoils of war.  The queen sat between her mother and daughter, imperiously ignoring Zemfira.

Sahin sat nearby, only drinking hot tea.  The former Captain of the Cleansers had failed to evacuate the royal family from Issos in time, and when the royals were captured he had been allowed to live and stay at the queen's side as her advisor.  Zemfira had hoped to make common cause with Sahin, since they were all prisoners and enemies of the Hegemon.  But Sahin, who had dedicated his life to the eradication of Soulgivers, still viewed Zemfira as an enemy of the Farsian state.

Well, what will you eat, Zemfira? asked Eskandar, jovially. You've missed all the prime cuts of meat, but the bones are just brimming with delicious marrow.  After that, we'll have honeycakes, stewed apricots, and grilled peaches, so pace yourself!

On the other side of the bonfire, Zemfira noticed Berenike guiding a drunken courtier away from the festivities.  He was calling for the Queen of Farsia, saying she was too beautiful, and Berenike clamped a hand over his mouth.  The Hegemon did take kindly to subordinates disrespecting his royal prisoners.

Zemfira grabbed a cut of mutton from a passing platter, despite having no appetite.  She listened to several Hellenic ballads, a chorus to the virtues of Makedonia, which met with a great deal of cheering.

Hello, Zemfira!

Zemfira turned.  Princess Drypetis had scooted closer, a basket of grapes tucked in her lap.  Zemfira smiled.

Hello Drypetis.

Princess Drypetis, the ten-year-old girl corrected her. Or Your Grace.

Sahin was glaring at Zemfira for this violation of protocol, but Zemfira didn't care.  Had the king not pursued a policy of exterminating children with the Cost of Depravity, Zemfira might have paid the royal family more deference.

You know, when I spent time with your sister Stateira in the Soulgiver sanctuary, we didn't call her princess, said Zemfira, taking a grape offered to her by the girl. We just called each other by our names.  It's much easier.

But you're a commoner, said Drypetis, confused.

True, said Zemfira. My father is a goatherd from Baxtris.  But we're all prisoners here now.  We're equals.

Enough, snapped Sahin, loud enough to catch the attention of several Companions.  He had risen to his feet. Princess Drypetis, please return to your mother's side.  That Soulbreaker is insulting your family, and insulting you.

You don't have to listen to him, Zemfira confided to Drypetis, even as the girl looked warily over her shoulder. You can do what you want.

Because I'm a princess, said Drypetis.

No, because he's a prisoner too.

Drypetis frowned uncertainly, and Zemfira suspected she wasn't going to instill egalitarianism in the child.  It didn't help that Eskandar regularly lavished the queen and the princess with new treasures and silks.  Eskandar addressed them by their royal titles, allowed them to ride in a carriage and surrounded them with loyal slaves.  He treated the royal family sometimes as his equals, sometimes as his favorite pets.

Will you tell me more stories about my sister later? asked Drypetis.

Sure, said Zemfira. As many as you'd like.

With a satisfied smile, the princess returned to her mother's side.

***

Slaves arrived with trays of cakes and fruit for the revelers.  They served Eskandar first, then the Companions, then the courtiers and prisoners.  Eskandar watched the slaves at work.  Then he staggered to his feet, swayed, and spilled wine down his torso.  He made his way, drunkenly, to the prisoners.  Zemfira pressed her eyes together, hoping he was going to speak to the queen again, and not her.  But no such luck.

Ah, Zemfira, he called, grabbing a honeycake from a passing tray and taking a bite. Still so glum.  Why is that?

She didn't want to answer, but remaining silent only increased the Hegemon's determination, and he had ways to impel her obedience.

Am I obliged to be a happy prisoner? asked Zemfira.

I suppose not, said Eskandar, scratching his chin contemplatively. It's just a shame.  Pretty girls are only half as pretty when they're scared.

I'm not scared, said Zemfira, coldly. And if my happiness is so important, release me.  Let me go free.

No, said Eskandar, still looking thoughtful.  Then his eyes widened. I have an idea.  Come with me!  The rest of you, keep eating and drinking.  If there's no music playing when I return, there will be consequences!

The Companions cheered, Eskandar grabbed Zemfira by the wrist and dragged her after him.  He ran barefoot and naked, rivulets of wine drying on his glistening skin.  He moved with mad euphoria; laughing, singing, and whooping.  With each drunken verse, Zemfira grew more angry.

Let me go, I'm coming already.

Suit yourself, said Eskandar, striding between the tents with genuine joy. Look at the sky!  My favorite time of day is when the afternoon meets the evening.  Can you feel the sea breeze wafting from the coast?  And just today, the city of Sidon capitulated and declared me King of Farsia and Lord of Asia.  What a beautiful time to be alive!

You're sick, said Zemfira, speaking in Farsian.

Sick?  You must refer to my mental state, because physically there is no one like me.  Krateros can rival me in musculature and Kassandros has that divine face—but neither are quite as alluring as I am, don't you agree?

Zemfira clenched her teeth, annoyed with herself for even engaging with the Hegemon.  He was a child, an overgrown and very dangerous child.  Everything was a game to him, and every game had to be won by Eskandar.

What?  What's wrong? demanded the Hegemon, glancing at his prisoner. "There's so much negativity radiating from your soul!  You dread the end of your journey, sure: death is frightening for ordinary people.  But remember: your death won't be in vain—it's a vital step for me in fulfilling my grand destiny.  I alone among mortals lead a life worth mourning.

You've had too much to drink, said Zemfira.

Of course I have, said Eskandar. Don't you understand?  To be great, I must revel in excess.  I must be great on the battlefield, great in celebration, great in emotion, enjoyment, and determination.  That is what it means to be king, Zemfira.

Not around here, said Zemfira. Our king observes balance and prudence.  That's how he keeps seven diverse Satrapies loyal to his crown.

And where has all this balance gotten him? asked Eskandar with a grin. "He fled!  Scampered back to Parsa, whimpering with fear and begging his soldiers not to desert.  It's pathetic!  My army marches through Lydia and Babirus unopposed, and your great cities are only too eager to supplicate themselves to my authority.  Who's the better king, Zemfira?  Who is the legitimate monarch now?"

Zemfira didn't answer.  Having made his point, Eskandar strode forward again. You'll like this, I'm sure.  I'm very protective of Bucephalas, but I think I can trust you, Zemfira.

They had reached the paddock reserved for horses belonging to the Companions and the Hegemon himself.  Eskandar leaned against the wooden post, clicking his tongue repeatedly.  A dozen horses, beautiful creatures with chestnut manes and flicking tails, stood on one side of the enclosure.  On the other side stood