On Thin Ice (Prequel to Guild)

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Stench of Rot

            Long had this place been called the Hall of Tears, and seven and a half decades of life had given Prince Timur Mongonai no shortage of reasons why. The painted palace of Shimizu had shed its tears for freedom, for an ancient king with a forgotten name killed by a girl in the sky whose name was known but unspeakable. Centuries later, the castle had cried for dead princes, killed by their own stupidity. Today came this particular lament's reprise.

Clan Mongonai gathered in the throne room, sobbing into each other's shoulders and calling to their loved ones across the room.

Your daughter married into Ueno. Is she alright?

Is your mother not Uenon?

May they find warmth.

Your son... you haven't heard from him?

Why could Naran and her children not have left on time? They were supposed to come and visit!

Spirits-scorn the second son.

Let those poor girls all find warmth.

Timur listened to it all from the ceremonial balcony, alone. He watched the ebb and flow of a human tide, trying hard to keep his face blank, expressionless, unfeeling, taking inspiration from the Hikarishi emperor and succeeding... until his brother appeared below.

Timur listened just a moment longer.

Find warmth.

Find warmth.

Gods-damn the Butcher, and the Shogun as well!

Then, he seated himself beside that throne. Beside the brother whose body and spirit spilled over that chair and into the room, commanding silence.

Silence.

Tears shone on women's faces but ceased to fall. The men stopped their outraged calls for vengeance or otherwise. They looked to their king. For Timur, they didn't spare a blink.

"MIIKHAAN!"

Molniya on marble. Shouts rose up past their tips.

Tuyet rose from her smaller throne, one dressed in lighter, softer pelts. She lifted her hands and her bracelets dangled, amber and turquoise and silver laughing. Laughing at Timur. "MIIOKHIN!"

The men joined their women's cries.

The aged prince had guesses how this would go. It made him cold. He swallowed and watched the High King and Queen's faces as the clans gave their speeches. Made their arguments for peace or war.

A harsh light burned within Tömoriin's eyes. It pared down Timur's guesses. And the proud fire that entered them with the next appeal? That burned his chances down to none.

"Khasan."

The Darakhaan stopped in the centre of the room, grief and rage written all over his face. He clutched his molniya, and his eagle's talons glinted dangerously overhead.

"My boy, I assume you've come to urge us to fight?"

Khasan lowered his spear and shook his head. Gasps filled the room. Expectation.

Finally, Khasan said "No."

And then the silence deepened.

"No," said Khasan, stepping forward, fixing them in his frigid, dangerous gaze before turning it on the clans. "I hear the people calling for retaliation. Calls for us, as a nation, to answer this heinous act with another. Attack the Hikarishi countryside, stunting food production for Hikarishi, for the Outskirts, and for ourselves. Some say we should attack the city proper- that we should die fighting like our Last True King... and become nameless martyrs just the same."