A Kingdom Without Song

Prologue

It was a bad omen, to be born at midnight. The Ro-Kha and his ritual-keepers had scoured their records in search of evidence to the contrary, but they knew the truth before they had even begun to pull the ritual tomes off the Archive shelves. His subordinates were sent to the Observatory to measure the position of the stars, which only validated their fears. The King's first-born son had been born at the exact threshold between dawn and dusk, to the very minute. Even worse, it was an "endless night," one of the only nights of the year when both moons had set and would not rise again until morning. This was a sacred night for the Astrellan belligerents, celestial fanatics that they were. What better time to relish in the power of the stars than under a completely darkened sky? For Ro-Kha, the darkness was loathsome.

The halls of Rasa-Fel'Hirar-the Citadel of Salt and Dust-were quiet, muffled by the heavy summer air. Many of the Astrellans were praying, and the ones that weren't would be drinking in the dark corners where they liked to lurk. None of them seemed to be interested in the birth of a prince who would rule in name only, but in time the news would make its way back to the Astrellan capital nevertheless. Ro-Kha listened to his footsteps echo as he traveled from the airy living quarters situated high above the briny waters of lake Fel-Tas toward the ritual chambers nestled at the heart of the Citadel. The lanterns flickered as he passed by but gave off little heat. It was a clever design, he thought to himself. The silks that powered them drew heat from the halls by day and converted it into light at night. Indeed, the import of silken technology had been an unwelcome benefit of the occupation.

Ro-Kha approached the Red Chamber, Ha-Deyim. The center-most ritual chamber was a circular, windowless room with two entrances on opposite sides of each other. A shallow, dusty conduit made of smooth stone traversed the floor, meandering around an altar. The chamber was carved from limestone like the rest of the Citadel, but a mosaic of rose quartz embedded into the outer walls imbued an unnatural reddish hue to anything moving within. Ro-Kha expected the King to be waiting there for him at the altar with his newborn son, but instead he found him slowly circling the platform along the outer edges of the room where ritual-keepers and members of the bloodline usually watched. Tonight, the blood auspice would be observed by no one but the King and himself. Not hours before, the halls had been bustling with activity, but as news spread, members of the household had snuck away. The people were loath to look an ill omen in the eye.

The King, who was closely examining the patterns along the wall, looked up upon the entrance of his senior advisor. There was a weariness in his eyes that, along with the streaks of gray hair at his temples, made him look older than his years. Ro-Kha had watched the King grow from a young child and these signs of age unnerved him.

"The Queen's breaths have quieted, Kha," he spoke in an impassive manner, but there was a waver in his voice that exposed his grief.

"It is good, Faydhin, she should not suffer."

The King stiffened and looked away. "Tonight, I am your king."

"Of course, Sa," he gestured at the bundle in his arms. "May I see him?"

The King looked down at the infant with surprise initially, as if he had forgotten he was there, and then he handed him over.

"They say a midnight child is cursed."

Naturally, the King had already heard. Ro-Kha looked at the soundly sleeping prince and saw nothing more than an ordinary infant with his mother's long, black eyelashes and his father's delicately arched upper lip.

"Only his blood can give us the answers we seek."

The prince stirred as he was placed upon the cold stone altar and his shearling wrappings were removed. Ro-Kha drew the augury blade from its sheath at his hip and nicked a small, horizontal cut just under the left collar bone. A few drops of blood welled to the surface and the infant began to wail and thrash his legs in protest. His wiry fingers clawed at his father's hands with paper-thin nails and searched in vain for the comforting arms of his mother. Ro-Kha lightly pressed the tip of his index finger to the infant's forehead and released a low trill that reverberated off the walls of the chamber. Slowly, more blood sprouted from the wound, vining its way to make intricate patterns on his chest. Layers of concentric circles spiraled to-and-fro and pooled like spilled ink over the sternum. Then, the flow tapered abruptly, the echoes stopped, and the two men stood over the whimpering child in silence.