Inheritance of Sorrow: Haniman's Judgement
Fate, power, and the fall of a royal house in a speculative fiction tale
What happened in Part I:
Haunted by a prophecy of his son's premature death and his kingdom's ruin, King Haniman is consumed by fear after the birth of his long-awaited heir, Aleyshan. To make things even worse, his wife, Queen Kiora, falls ill with the deadly childbed plague.
Many turnings later, Haniman becomes entangled in political intrigue as Emperor Fedromir of Morynthia and High King Yumænor of Erlen each seek to marry their daughters to Prince Aleyshan, offering alliances that could strengthen or destroy his realm.
Caught between loyalty, love, and fear of fulfilling the prophecy, Haniman faces an impossible choice that may shape not only his son's fate, but the future of his entire kingdom.
Unable to sleep, Haniman paced his study. With every step he took, his already unbearable headache increased. Finally, he collapsed onto his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and opened his notebook.
His quill danced effortlessly across the paper, transforming all his worries about the choices he needed to make into a veritable cascade of words.
You will call down doom on your son and all his descendants for generations to come.
Yumænor’s words spun like a whirlwind inside his mind, a relentless refrain.
What if the old Erl was right? What if this prophecy really was about a marriage between a Dalanthian prince and a Morynthian princess? Between his Aleyshan and Fedromir’s Dalenka? What did he really know about the girl, anyway?
He put the quill down and blew absentmindedly on the ink. His fingers took on a life of their own and started drumming restlessly on the edge of his desk.
Who was Dalenka of Morynthia? Was she healthy? Would she be able to give his son an heir? Could he trust Fedromir? What was the man’s game? If what Yumænor had told him was true… A shiver ran down his spine.
“Guard!”
The young man by the door sprang to attention. “Your Majesty?”
“Bring me Master Ezhkahar, the historian.”
“Immediately, Your Majesty.” The boy clicked his heels together and hurried away, his footfalls fading rapidly.
Haniman dipped his quill in the inkwell once more, but his words had dried up, and now he sat staring into the void. Waiting for the old historian to show up. That could take a while. He might as well get himself a drink.
Ignoring the pounding in his head, he strode over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a firebrandy. Careful not to spill a drop, he returned to his desk and set the goblet down before sinking into his chair. He leaned back, purposely delaying the moment he would take his first sip.
Finally, when the need became too strong, he lifted the glass and watched the amber liquid catch the light as he swirled it around. The slightly sulphurous aroma rose to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply. Only then did he allow himself a small taste.
Intense heat seared his throat as he swallowed, but soon, a pleasant warmth bloomed in his stomach and spread through his limbs like flames of liquid fire. His strained muscles relaxed, and his eyelids grew heavy.
A knock on the door rose him from his near-slumber. Suppressing a yawn, he ran a hand through his hair and straightened his clothes.
“Enter!”
“Your Majesty.” Lanky, white-haired, and bent with age, the historian bowed as deeply as his deformed body would allow. “You called for me?”
“Master Ezhkahar, I need you to share your insights regarding Morynthia with me.” He beckoned the man closer and gestured at a straight-backed wooden chair. “Sit, and tell me, what do you know about the Imperial family?”
“The short version, or the long one, Your Majesty?” Though the old man’s voice was thin, Haniman knew better than to judge him by his apparent frailty. His mind was still as astute as ever, and his knowledge of global affairs vast.
“Short first, then long. Indulge me.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” The man sat up straighter, and his eyes shone just a little brighter.
“Emperor Fedromir, the first of his name, married to Marselma of Undoria, is rumoured to have had a hand in his father’s untimely demise. He has but one son, Bogdamir, a sickly young man who probably won’t last many more winters, and two daughters, Dalenka and Yovonda.”
Old Ezhkahar stroked his beard and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and resumed, “shall I give you the long version now, Your Majesty?”
Haniman said nothing, but gestured at the old man to continue. Clearly, he didn’t know nearly enough about Fedromir and the Morynthian Empire, but one thing was certain: Emperor Fedromir was, indeed, a very dangerous man.
After a night of tossing and turning, Haniman disregarded his morning devotions and skipped breakfast. He stumbled into his study, bleary-eyed and with a headache so fierce, he feared his head might implode.
He’d been overjoyed when Fedromir offered his daughter’s hand in marriage to Alyshan. It had seemed like the answer to all his prayers. The strained relations with Morynthia would finally become a thing of the past.
Moreover, with Fedromir’s only son being such a sickly young man, the likelihood of the lad’s premature passing was almost tangible. Then, when the emperor’s time on Sor was up, the Morynthian crown would pass to Dalenka.
It was almost too good to be true.
That alone should have given him pause. Like his beloved father—might he dwell peacefully in A’harat’s Eternal Gardens—used to say, too good to be true is the kiss of death.
As he recalled old Ezhkahar’s discourse on Morynthian politics from the night before, his own thoughts scared him. He’d never been a violent man, but now he wanted nothing more than for the entire House of Morynthia to be annihilated. It seemed like the only way out.
He couldn’t refuse Fedromir’s offer and not expect the man to retaliate. It would mean war, and war with Morynthia… they had dragons! And didn’t everyone know what happened to Vykaria just five turnings ago?
But then there was High King Yumænor’s offer, and nothing would make Aleyshan happier than to be allowed to marry Shælam. As a father, he wanted his son to experience the same love he himself had shared with Kiora.
And, the Erlen king’s dubious nature notwithstanding, he would never engage in any of the unsavoury practises those Morynthian hoodlums habitually partook in. It was a shame the man always spoke in riddles.
Yet, what worried him most, was that curse. Why had Yumænor brought that up? Had it been honest concern, or sly manipulation?
As happened too often these days, the high priest’s words resounded in his mind.
Through your deeds…
In a vain attempt to drown out the sound of that too-familiar voice, he clamped his hands over his ears.
“No more!” he shouted into the empty room.
Empty, save for his guards who, thankfully, knew better than to show their confusion at their king’s sudden outburst. His new vizier, however, looked at him with ill-concealed concern.
Anger bubbled up inside his chest. All those lashings, yet still the man had not learnt his place? Haniman gritted his teeth. He could not afford to send him to the whipmaster right now. There was no time.
“Get me the high priest.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The vizier—what was the little man’s name again?—bowed deeply and retreated backwards.
Haniman smiled. The lashings had accomplished that, at least. He turned and studied the map covering the entire wall behind his desk. It was beyond time to find a suitable husband for Shaldira. He had indulged her for long enough.
Twenty-three turnings and still unmarried. It was unheard of. If he waited much longer, no sane man would be interested.
Maybe, if he could marry her off to Insfarhin of Andishun’s oldest son… The man had to be nearing forty. No great catch, but as the saying went, the thirsty don’t ask for wine.
Now, where was that high priest? What took the man so long this time? He walked over to his bookcase, selected a random book, and leafed through its pages aimlessly, until a movement in the garden caught his attention. He went over to the window to take a better look.
It was Aleyshan, sneaking about, obviously on his way to see the Erlen princess. Again. The impropriety of the boy—something his tutors should have beaten out of him when he was a child—was worrisome.
“Guard, bring me my son.”
One of the guards by the doors clicked his heels together. “Yes, your Majesty. On my way.”
The man hastened to the garden and soon returned with a sullen-looking Aleyshan following close behind.
“What did you think you were doing, son?”
“Peacefully minding my own business, Padr.” Anger flashed behind the boy’s eyes and made him look like he was about to explode. He really should have learnt to control that foul temper of his by now.
“On your way to see that Erlen girl again, weren’t you?”
“They prefer to be called Sylphans, Padr, and I love her.”
With effort, Haniman resisted the urge to lash out at his son. As a king, he should exercise self-restraint under all circumstances.
“Prince Aleyshan of Dalanthia, mind your tongue.”
“My apologies, Padr.” The lad managed to look abashed, though not for long. “However, I know what her father told you. About the curse. Would you really marry me off to this Dalenka and call down this horrible fate on me, your own flesh and blood, Padr?”
Aleyshan’s words felt like a punch to the gut, and Haniman gasped for breath. Immediately, he composed himself.
“Look at me, son.” He held Aleyshan’s gaze, determined to make the boy feel the full weight of his paternal authority.
But Aleyshan didn’t give in easily, and stared back, an unspoken challenge in his eyes.
The tension in Haniman’s shoulders returned and the throbbing in his head intensified, but he refused to break eye contact. Only when Aleyshan finally cast his gaze down, did Haniman speak again. Softly, so Aleyshan would need to pay close attention to his father’s words.
“Do you know me so little? I always have your best interests at heart, my son, but you cannot do as you please. And neither can I. I have sent for the high priest, so I can consult with him. This is not a simple matter.”
He watched as the expression on his son’s face became apprehensive.
“Aleyshan, has it not occurred to you that the Erlen king might be mistaken? You stay away from that young lady until I have made my decision. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Padr.” Aleyshan’s hands were balled into fists, and fire burned in his eyes, but at least he no longer voiced his objections, and right now, Haniman would take even the smallest victory. Anything to boost his spirits.
“Good. Off with you then. Back to your duties. And son… don’t force my hand to have you chastened.”
Haniman turned to study his map again. He was still tracing the outlines of the Andishuni Empire with his eyes when a knock on the door announced the high priest’s arrival. And about time, too.
He took his place behind his desk. “Let him enter.”
“Your Majesty.”
The high priest inclined his head. He never bowed. Though it irked Haniman, he knew better than to berate the man. Priests didn’t bow, and there was nothing he could do about that. It was, apparently, some sort of religious dogma.
“Tell me what you know of the Gloomfather’s Curse. If there even is such a thing.”
“The… the Gloomfather’s curse?” The man fidgeted with his tassels. “I… I…” He wrung his hands and directed his gaze to the floor.
“Those prophecies are extremely complicated, My King, and it’s been a while since I studied them at the seminary. With your leave, I would need to—”
“Tell me. Now.”
Did that incompetent priest really think he had time for his weak, ludicrous excuses?
“It’s something to do with… I apologise, Your Majesty, sir. My memory isn’t what it once used to be. I beg of you, please, give me one day to study the Scriptures on this subject, and I promise I will be able to tell you more tomorrow.”
Senile old fool. “Tomorrow, and not a day later.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Anger bubbled beneath Haniman’s skin as he watched the high priest incline his head once more, turn, and shuffle out of the study. If only he had the power to tell the clergy how to behave in front of their king.
He opened his notebook, picked up his quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. But when he put pen to paper, he had forgotten what he was going to write. Again, the high priest’s words—spoken all these turnings ago—haunted him.
Choices. Now that the priest’s mind was so clearly clouded by old age, could he still trust the man’s council? To his horror, a treacherous little voice whispered in a dark corner of his mind, what if some ill fortune befell the old man?
The next morning, after yet another sleepless night, Haniman was up long before daybreak. Not wishing to rouse his manservant, he put on a simple white silken robe over an equally plain pair of cream-coloured trousers and went to the chapel.
After he lit the candle and said the blessings, he tried to empty his mind. Yet, as he watched the delicate dance of the flame’s flickering shadows on the white marble walls, worries invaded his mind.
Yumænor’s warning, the high priest’s haunting words, Master Ezhkahar’s disturbing discourse on Morynthian politics… All of it melded into a single jumbled chorus inside his head.
The Father of Gloom… your son’s life cut short… dragons yield to Fedromir’s desires…
Releasing his breath with deliberate slowness, willing to calm his racing heart, he seated himself on a soft purple cushion on the floor. He folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and concentrated.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. There is only now. Let your pulse slow, and become one with the Essence of the Divine.
As his breathing slowed, a comforting serenity descended upon his mind. It lingered for a fraction of a moment, then fled, only to be replaced by the memory of Alyshan’s anguished accusation.
Would you call down this horrible fate on your own flesh and blood, Padr?
His heart hammered inside his chest, and sweat beaded on his brow as he gasped for breath.
Mother of mankind, he sent up a silent prayer, don’t leave me alone in my trials and tribulations. Guide my heart, my hand, and my mind with your wisdom and love.
But the Lady remained silent as always. Had she taken his measure and found him lacking?
As he rose to his feet, that unsettling thought burrowed deep inside his mind, eating away at his conscience. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow. Was it true that his every attempt at doing the right thing was doomed to fail?
He took one faltering step towards the exit. Then another. Duty called. He could not linger in the stillness of the chapel any longer. Too much time had already slipped through his fingers.
By the time he arrived at the training grounds, the sun already painted the sky a breath-taking pink, and Aleyshan was sparring with one of the younger guards.
Haniman watched his son for a moment, then went looking for the Head of Guards. He winced as the clang of metal on metal rang out like a discordant symphony, exacerbating his already intolerable headache.
Distracted, just like the other day, he made one mistake after another. Too much force behind his blows, or too little, and when he failed to deflect yet another strike, Darzhan drove his blade into the sand and confronted him.
“Your Majesty, I understand your concern about the current political situation, but your enemy won’t give a donkey’s dropping. Not in a fight to the death.” He crossed his arms, his gaze sharp and piercing. “If you wish to survive, you need to focus.”
With uncharacteristic ferocity, Haniman threw his sword on the ground beside Darzhan’s weapon.
“Lady’s grief, Darzhan! Let’s not even go there. It’s an utter nightmare. Much worse than you could ever fathom.”
Darzhan’s eyes narrowed, and his voice carried a hint of a challenge when he said, “You mean there could be war?”
Haniman took a few steps away from his sparring partner, kicking up dust as he went. “If I don’t accept Fedromir’s offer, yes. Quite likely.”
A strong fist clenched around his arm, and Dazhan rasped in his ear, “All the more reason to focus on your training.”
“You don’t understand, Darzhan. A war with Fedromir is a lost war, no matter what.” He picked up his sword and pointed it at the sky. “The man has an army of dragons. Fierce, fire-breathing monsters. How could we even hope to defend ourselves against that?”
Like the previous day, he skipped his bath. His breakfast, too. The sour stench of his own sweat, and the itchiness of the dust that caked to his skin made his stomach churn in protest. Yet, that was nothing compared to the sense of foreboding that loomed over him like a dark cloud.
As he entered the Royal Office, the vizier had just finished piling a large stack of documents on his desk. Haniman suppressed a sigh. Today was going to be another long day. He could feel it in his bones.
“Tell me about my day, young man.” What was the man’s name again?
With trembling hands, the vizier flipped through his notes. A nervous edge clung to his silly castrate voice as he rattled off, “New sanitation laws to be approved and signed, letters from foreign dignitaries to be answered, lunch with Swivian consul, and meeting with His Holiness High Priest Sokindar Havarni.”
With a grunt of frustration, Haniman lowered himself into his chair and gripped the armrests so tightly it made his fingers hurt. That confounded high priest. He had better show up soon, and with good information, too.
“Go and tell the High Priest I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Immediately.” The vizier made a bow so deep his nose almost touched the floor, and nearly tripped over his own feet as he drew back.
Listlessly, Haniman reached for the papers on his desk. Stinking sanitation laws. Half a dozen of them. Eloquently written letters from foreign emissaries seeking his favour—and a share in his wealth, no doubt.
He dipped his quill in the inkwell and started signing the papers. No need to actually read them. He had dictated the words himself, and no scribe in his right mind would dare write even a single letter wrong. Not unless he wished for his head to be separated from his shoulders.
As he put his signature on the last document, he shook his head. What was the point? Mundane, meaningless tasks, all of these. As if laws and letters could prevent a war.
The high priest took his time. When, finally, he arrived with two young boys carrying an impressive collection of heavy books in tow, he was panting heavily.
“Your Majesty.” As always, old Havarni only inclined his head, but at least the two boys knelt on the floor with their noses touching the ground.
“What do the Scriptures say, Your Holiness?” He didn’t even try to keep the impatience out of his voice. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
“I’ve been up all night, studying, Your Majesty, and what I found in the Holy Book, and in the other books here…” he gestured at one of the boys to hand him a book, “is—”
“No need to show me.” What was that old sod thinking? He tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. “Just tell me your conclusions.”
“Your Majesty…” the priest’s voice faltered. He wrung his wrinkled hands, then started fiddling with his tassels, his gaze cast down.
With almost inhuman self-restraint, Haniman resisted the urge to lash out at the old fool and strike him across the face.
“Speak up!”
“Your Majesty, sir… the Erlen king…” Havarni took a deep, shuddering breath, “He is right. The prophecies are clear. A union with the House of the Dragon will bring ruin to you, your kingdom, and your family.”
“And you base this on?”
“On the Scriptures, Your Majesty.”
The tremble in the man’s voice betrayed his uncertainty. Clearly, he had no idea. Incompetent fool man! He wasn’t worth the air in his lungs. Maybe the time really had come for the old man to meet his maker.
“I see.” He turned his back to the high priest and the boys. “Dismissed.”
No sooner had the doddering idiot left the Royal Office than Haniman swiped all the papers off his desk. For good measure, he flung the inkwell after them, and his heart skipped a beat at the sound of shattering crystal.
“Inform the Elders that I need to meet with them right now,” he snarled at his vizier. “After that, you clean up this mess here. I shall be in the Conference Room.”
With great, angry strides, he made his way to the Conference Room. The Elders had better not make him wait. They had a lot to discuss and a vital decision to make. That, and his patience had already been tested beyond capacity. He would not tolerate any more nonsense. Not today.
Done! The Elders had agreed. Unanimously. The prophecies did not apply to him or his house, and Haniman could safely agree to Fedromir’s proposal. There would be no war, and Aleyshan would learn to love his bride, just as he himself had learnt to love Kiora.
Kiora, his sweet Kiora! The familiar fist clenched around his stomach and made him wince like a wounded puppy. He halted and pressed his head against the cool marble wall, gulping in deep breaths of air until the pain subsided.
Then he continued on his way to the Royal Herbalist’s workshop. He had one more obligation to attend to before he would speak to his son. An unpleasant duty, but there was no helping it. As a king, he could not allow his heart to rule his mind.
The balding little man, too engrossed in his work to notice the entrance of his king, stood bent over a table littered with jugs, jars, and other vessels containing both fresh and dried herbs and a wide variety of minerals. Numerous notes lay scattered in between.
“Immoraz Bernash.”
The man jerked backwards and knocked a quill off the table, but quickly regained his composure and bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty.” His voice held the slightest quiver. “My sincerest apologies. I did not hear you enter. Forgive me, please.”
“No harm done, good man.” He needed his herbalist to feel safe. For now. “I have a little side job for you. Would you like to earn some extra silvers?”
“Always, your Majesty. Always at your service.” He bowed again, though not quite as deeply this time.
“Good. I’ll come straight to the point.”
Haniman looked Bernash in the eye and held the man’s gaze. “His Holiness High Priest Havarni has an appointment with Yat S’ber. I need you to make sure he doesn’t accidentally miss it—but be discreet. We don’t want to antagonise the populace.”
If Bernash felt uncomfortable at all, he did not show it. Not even a hint of unease. Haniman breathed a little easier.
“As you wish, Your Majesty. I shall make sure the High Priest meets Yat S’ber before the sun rises again.”
A sly smile played around the corners of Bernash’s mouth. Did the man actually enjoy this?
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A choice has been made! Can’t wait to read the fallout of the many inevitable consequences of it! Well done, Daan ☺️