Inheritance of Sorrow: Haniman's Lament
A speculative fiction tale of grief, power, and the burden of an ancient curse
The high priest’s ominous words echoed in King Haniman’s mind as he stood on the balcony adjoining his bedchamber, gazing out over his city. While the fresh scents of early morning drifted up to him from his Royal Gardens, he found no joy in them.
Birdsong mingled with the sounds of a waking city. The rising sun cast the scattered palms in a golden hue that slowly yielded to a rich shade of green. Sunlight sprinkled diamantine pellets across the waves of the cerulean ocean, while the sandy beaches shimmered with a fiery orange glow.
Yet, as the sun rose, Haniman’s heart sank.
Through your deeds, your son’s life shall be cut short, and when the crown passes from your hand, your kingdom shall crumble.
Words spoken many turnings ago, shortly before he was given Kiora’s hand in marriage. Words that had haunted him throughout all the long moons of Kiora’s six pregnancies. With every daughter she had given him, an unbearable weight had been lifted from his chest. And never mind that custom required Kiora to provide him with a male heir.
He knew the laws; he was the king, after all. But as a king, did he not hold the power to change those foolish, antiquated laws? If Kiora had never given him a son, he would have appointed Astranam his heir, no matter what anyone else had to say about that.
But now…
He rubbed his temples to ease the upcoming headache. Time to put on his happy face and go back inside. Kiora should never have to find out. Never have to bear that burden. And their son deserved his love. Not his worries.
All would be well. He’d make sure of that. Somehow.
He turned and went back into the bedroom, where the infant lay suckling from Kiora’s full breast.
‘Are you happy, Kiora?’
‘I am, Your Majesty.’ Her eyes twinkled like the stars in the night sky, and a smile graced her face. ‘I am so pleased to have given you a son, at last. I can die a happy woman now.’
‘Hush. No talk of death, my beloved queen. I need you by my side. I need you for more than just bearing me children. You are my world. You know this.’
He looked at her. The way she lay there, with her ink-black hair fanned out around her head, her golden skin still damp with sweat, was breathtaking.
‘I was thinking… we need to give the city a present in honour of our son’s birth, don’t you agree?’
Kiora didn’t answer. It would have been pointless, anyway. As a woman, she had no voice in any of his decisions. Yet, pretending to acknowledge her gave him a small sense of satisfaction. He was a good husband who loved and respected his wife.
‘We’ll pave the streets with gold,’ he mused. ‘How beautiful it will be when the sun shines on the pavement and makes the entire city sparkle!’
He lowered himself on the bed beside Kiora and extended a trembling hand towards their precious son. Their little prince, Aleyshan.
Just a few days later, Haniman startled awake to Kiora’s muffled screams as she lay beside him, writhing in pain. Heat radiated from her body, and her face glistened with a thin layer of sweat.
As he lay staring at his beloved queen, listening to her belaboured breathing, the icy fingers of dread tightened around Haniman’s stomach. The pounding of his heart swelled to the roar of thunder in his ears.
Not caring about his dignity, he ran to wake his manservant and sent him to fetch a doctor.
Upon finishing his examination, the doctor shook his head and said in a low voice, ‘Your Majesty, I… I fear the queen has contracted the childbed plague. I shall prescribe some herbs, but…’ the man licked his lips.
‘But what?’ For Kiora’s sake, Haniman forced himself to keep his voice down. He took a deliberate step in the doctor’s direction.
‘The fever… it spreads quickly. I…’
The little weasel cowered before Haniman’s furious glare, and finished his sentence in little more than a whisper. ‘The gods will decide her fate.’
A sudden wave of nausea made him grip the back of a chair and lean forward, gulping for breath. Not his Kiora. The gods couldn’t be that cruel. The doctor had to be mistaken. It was the only explanation. The only thing that could save her.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Haniman drew himself up to his full height. His voice sounded raw, even to his own ears, when he growled, ‘Examine her again.’
‘Your Majesty—’ the man began, but Haniman grabbed him by the front of his blouse, lifted him from the floor, and pulled him so close their noses touched.
‘Do you presume to disobey your king?’
When the doctor didn’t immediately answer, but instead looked at him with large, fear-filled eyes, Haniman’s grip on his blouse tightened and he shook the man like a cat shaking its prey.
‘N-n-no, your Majesty. I shall do as you say.’
Not a moment later, the doctor landed on the floor in a crumpled heap. He yelped softly, but pushed himself to his feet immediately and, without uttering another word, limped over to Kiora’s bed.
With trembling hands, the man examined Kiora again, and in the oppressive silence that hung between them, a fleeting thought crossed Haniman’s mind. Had he not been too harsh with the doctor?
Angry with himself now, he pushed the thought aside. He was the king. Nobody questioned him. Not under any circumstance.
Yet, between Kiora’s fevered mumblings and the doctor’s slumped posture, it was impossible to deny the truth. Only the gods could save her now.
Unable to stand the pressure any longer, tears pricking behind his eyes, he bolted from the room, not knowing or even caring where to. When, eventually, he found himself in the palace’s little chapel, he allowed his tears to flow.
He sat on the wooden bench, listening to the soft, melodic murmur of the Fountain of Renewal, taking in the soothing scent of burning candles. Little by little, his racing heart calmed. His breathing stabilised, and his thoughts cleared.
He’d been unreasonable. The doctor, that poor man, had only been doing his job, and he’d had no cause to threaten him like that. He’d have to make amends, even if—the gods forbid—Kiora should not survive.
After an indeterminate amount of time, he rose and strode over to the fountain, where he dipped in a finger and brought it to his lips. Now, more than ever, he needed the Holy Water’s purification.
He went to the altar and lit a Sacred Candle. ‘Blessed are you, Queen of the Worlds, who kindles—’ the words stuck in his throat, but he forced himself to continue, ‘kindles the—’ Next thing he knew, he lay writhing on the cool marble floor, tears streaming down his cheeks anew.
‘The Light of Life—’ a strangled cry escaped from between closed lips. Then, he pressed on and added the last few words, ‘in the human soul.’
Oh, Holy Gods, why was this so hard? What had he done to deserve this?
He pushed himself into a seated position, wiped his face, and rose to his feet. Time to man up and face whatever lay ahead. He suppressed a shiver.
Only the gods…
Sweat dripped from Haniman’s brow into his eyes, but the Master of Guards, a stocky fellow with his grey hair pulled back in a long ponytail, gave him no respite. Blinking furiously, Haniman jumped backwards and narrowly evaded a blow to his exposed flank.
Annoyed at his own sluggishness—the passing of time had not done him any favours—he stepped in and lunged forward, but his opponent parried his strike with practised ease.
‘You are not in it, today, Your Majesty,’ his sparring partner said, not even panting. ‘Something on your mind?’
Darzhan Qafsabi was more than just his Master of Guards. Over the turnings, he’d proven to be an honest and dependable man, worthy of Haniman’s trust. These days, he was the closest thing Haniman had to a friend.
‘Politics. As always.’ Acting on instinct, he dodged another perfectly executed blow. He quickly stepped in and landed a hit on Darzhan’s shoulder.
Still as quick on his feet as he had been as a young lad, Darzhan danced backwards, and for just a moment Haniman’s thoughts skipped to a long-lost past. The two of them, growing up together. He, the heir to the Dalanthian throne, and Darzhan a simple guard’s son.
All the hours they’d spent sparring together… but those days were gone.
That moment of distraction cost him. Darzhan came at Haniman from the side and delivered a solid strike to his hip that sent him sprawling.
‘Something tells me it’s more than just that.’ Darzhan held out a calloused hand to Haniman and pulled him to his feet. ‘Are you going to tell me, or will you just keep pretending and allow me to beat your royal arse to a pulp? What shall it be?’
Haniman dusted his clothes off, meanwhile checking for any wounds that might need tending. Just a few scratches and some bruising. Nothing to worry about. Relieved, he picked up his sword, but as he was about to take up position, he shook his head.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you, but…’ He shrugged. Cast a quick glance around the training grounds to verify they were truly alone. ‘It’s just this business with Fedromir.’
Darzhan’s mouth fell open, and he gaped at Haniman in obvious astonishment.
‘Emperor Fedromir of Morynthia?’ Haniman couldn’t help but notice how Darzhan’s grip on his sword tightened.
‘The very same.’
Darzhan nodded slowly. ‘Not that it’s any of my concern, but what business? Can’t be anything good, no?’
‘See, that’s the point…’ Haniman took up position, legs just a little apart, sword at the ready, holding Darzhan’s gaze. He truly shouldn’t be talking about this. Not with his Master of Guards, but…
‘He offered his daughter’s hand in marriage to Aleyshan.’
Darzhan nodded, his keen eyes pensive. ‘Hmm,’ he said, furrowing his brow, ‘sounds rather too kind, doesn’t it?’
‘Indeed.’ Kindness was not a word that fitted into Fedromir’s rather limited vocabulary. All those savages from the north ever thought about was violence.
Haniman raised his sword. ‘Let’s give it another round.’
Darzhan, however, seemed not to take any notice and instead scratched behind his ear, a puzzled expression on his face.'
‘But… again, forgive me if I’m overstepping my boundaries, but I thought you were negotiating with High King Yumænor. Trying to forge a union between your son and Princess Shælam, were you not?’
‘That’s exactly it. The lad is madly in love with her, and let’s be honest, she’s a pretty thing, so who can blame him? The Erlen king, however, is a shady old man, and now I feel like I’m caught between two fires, and I’ll be burnt no matter what I choose to do.’
As the high priest’s prophetic words came back to haunt him, his grip on his sword tightened, darkening his knuckles with the strain.
Through your deeds, your son’s life shall be cut short, and when the crown passes from your hand, your kingdom shall crumble.
Was this the moment of truth? How could he be sure he made the right choice? The one that would prevent this curse from ever befalling them? It was maddening.
He raised his sword again, and Darzhan lunged. While he deflected the blow, he lost his footing for a fraction of a moment. Darzhan’s sword grazed his lower arm, and a hot pain surged upwards, setting his entire arm aflame.
‘Seven!’ he hissed. Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain dissolved, and he threw himself into the game with renewed determination.
‘Funny, though,’ Darzhan said as he advanced on Haniman again, ‘I never took Emperor Fedromir for a kind or generous person. What’s up with that?’
The next day, Yumænor, High King of the Erls, Beloved of the Goddess Doruya, honoured him with an unexpected visit. An honour Haniman would gladly have forgone. Especially now. What was he to do?
‘It has come to my attention,’ Yumænor said as his aged eyes studied him over the rim of his teacup, ‘that Emperor Fedromir of Morynthia has offered his daughter’s hand in marriage to your son.’
‘And?’
‘I feel it is my duty as a friend to offer a word of caution, lest you make any rash decisions.’
Haniman’s jaw clenched. He carefully put his cup down, not trusting himself to speak. With Yumænor you never knew what he was really up to. There were always hidden motives. Always. Especially when the old fox feigned friendship.
‘Caution?’ He finally said. ‘In what way?’
‘You are considering Fedromir’s offer, are you not?’ The Erlen king set his cup down with slow, deliberate grace, making Haniman’s toes curl.
‘As is my duty.’ It took him all his self-control to keep his voice down.
‘Do you not know the Scriptures, dear friend?’ A gentle rebuke tinted the ancient Erl’s soft voice.
‘I’m a religious man, but I am no priest, Your Majesty.’
Where would he have found the time to study the Scriptures that intensely when he had a country to rule and a family to take care of? It was not as if life had been easy on him. If only—
Sudden heat enveloped him, taking his breath, and the walls were closing in on him. He rose from his seat and started pacing the room like a caged tiger. If only he could extricate himself from this confounded situation.
‘Walk with me, please.’
If he remained sitting in this stuffy parlour, he’d go mad. He needed to be outside, where he could smell the flowers. Where the warm breeze could play with his hair and chase the cobwebs from his mind.
The high king remained seated for a moment, almost as if he enjoyed watching Haniman’s increasing discomfiture. Then, with elegant ease, he stood and joined him.
They walked in silence for a while, yet Haniman found no joy in the peaceful tranquillity of the Royal Gardens. Not today. Not with Yumænor walking beside him, the old king’s tread light, and too agile for someone his age.
Finally, the Erl spoke again, his voice deceptively warm and smooth.
‘The prophecies, Your Majesty, foretell the downfall of two empires and a generational curse upon the ruling families of these empires if their houses unite through marriage.’
Haniman froze. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then, he regained his composure. Barely.
‘Prophecies are notoriously unclear.’ His voice was rougher than he intended. ‘What makes you think they are about my house and the House of Morynthia?’
Yumænor stepped closer and gripped Haniman’s arm, so he had to turn and face the Erlen King, whose eyes had taken on a dark and foreboding aura.
‘When the Dragon salutes the Sun, the Father of Gloom shall descend from his high throne and strike the glorious houses with a curse so fierce it will destroy their might and bring doom upon their children and their children’s children for generations to come, until the Chosen shall come to heal what was broken, bring peace, and restore unity and integrity.’
The words hung heavy in the air. A shiver ran down Haniman’s spine, but he pushed his misgivings aside. It couldn’t mean… He shook his head.
‘The dragon and the sun. That could be anything.’ He sounded like a petulant child, and he hated himself for it. Yet still, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
‘Can it?’ Yumænor’s sharp eyes, now bluer than the ocean, bored into his.
Haniman freed himself from Yumænor’s grip and stalked away. So what if the Morynthian crest was a fire-breathing dragon? And so what if his own crest was a golden sun surrounded by seven silver stars? Those were just random symbols chosen by their ancestors, aeons ago.
‘My dear friend.’ The old Erl had caught up with him and, with a too-gentle hand on his shoulder, turned him around. ‘I see how all of this upsets you, but we cannot close our eyes to the truth, can we?’
Haniman sighed. If only Kiora were still alive! He could have talked to her, and she would have known what to do. The invisible hand around his stomach squeezed harder, and hot bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down.
‘Fedromir is no fool,’ the Erlen king said. His eyes had softened, and his smile appeared genuine. ‘Surely, I don’t need to remind you that his house has a long history of… not entirely honest practices. His people know the power of alliances. And betrayals.’
Haniman cringed, but Yumænor pressed on, seemingly unaware of Haniman’s inner turmoil.
‘Are you certain that Fedromir has your son’s best interests at heart, my friend? Or will he simply use this union as a means to an end? Which do you think more likely?’
Overcome with a sudden unreasonable anger, Haniman took a few steps away from the ancient Erl. He bent to sniff a flower, buying time. Losing his temper now would be a grave mistake. Still, he couldn’t keep the sting out of his voice when he asked, ‘And you? How pure are your motives?’
High King Yumænor chuckled. ‘My friend, my friend.’ He shook his head, the amusement never fading from his face. ‘Let me assure you that my motives are as honest as yours.’
Not sure how to respond, Haniman walked on in silence. The old Erl strolled leisurely beside him, as if he had no care in the world.
‘I will say this,’ Yumænor said after what felt like an eternity, ‘my Shælam would be a perfect match for your son. She adores him, and we both know the feelings are reciprocated. Not to mention, your kingdom could benefit hugely from an alliance with my people.’
There it was again. That uneasy feeling of being taken advantage of. What exactly was in it for the old Erl? He didn’t do this out of the goodness of his heart. He wasn’t even human, for crying out loud.
‘I shall think about it, Your Majesty.’
He started towards the gates, eager to show the Erlen king out.
‘Of course. But think carefully, Haniman. Prophecies aside, there’s a lot at stake for you, your house, and your people. Who would you rather have beside you in times of need? Me, or a man who wouldn’t recognise honesty even if it bit him in the nose?’
Inheritance of Sorrow: Haniman's Judgement will be published on August 6, 2025.
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