Sunlight streamed in amidst the wide silk ribbons that hung from above the arched window. A soft current of air, cool from the lake beyond, parted them in an ever shifting pattern. The sparkling on Zanna’s pillow eventually awoke her, and she watched the dark red curtains for a few minutes longer. Her stomach growled and she stepped out of bed.
She prepared a bath with a pail of hot water that had been set just inside her door, and scrubbed herself with a small beige sponge. After she was cleaned, Zanna pulled on a sheen shift, followed by a striped red and grey gown. She brushed her dark purple hair and applied her make-up. After that, Zanna walked out of her bed chamber and into the draftier living area; at the counter and cupboards, she selected a cup, set a filter on top of it and began preparing a tea of iris berries and bark-nut.
Someone knocked on her door. “Ethel is here, your highness.”
“Send her in,” Zanna replied. She’d received a whole host of visitors over the last month, usually pre-empted by her servant Ethel, in protest of her decision concerning the ill leader of Varravar.
Ethel was wearing a man’s tunic today, so she looked very formal. She bowed to Zanna. “Good morning, your highness. How is your tea?”
“It’s delicious,” Zanna said, sipping it. She felt telltale beads of sweat dampening her forehead, despite the somewhat cool breeze.
“Very good,” Ethel said, with a smile. She was near thirty years in age, a few years older than Zanna—the reigning monarch of Maga was only twenty-six.
Zanna took another sip of her tea and sat down in a canvas resting chair. “What is it, Ethel?”
Her servant had a bad habit—or perhaps one of proper etiquette—to continue the small talk until Zanna asked about what business had brought her here. Ethel bobbed her head again, smiled, and said, “A lord has come from Tal’lashar, Queb Tylan Kre’alu.”
It took Zanna a moment to understand her, not because of her accent—it was a shared accent—but because she could never remember all the names for all the types of rulers across the surface of Gethra. ‘Queb’ was the traditional name for a lord of Tal’lashar. In the Eye of Maga, lords were just called lords. “And what does Tylan seek here?” she asked.
“He would not share it with me,” Ethel said. “And he insisted on speaking with you. He has a gift—the guards checked it of course. And your highness, he requested we not share its contents with you before he could meet with you.”
“Hmm,” Zanna said, savouring her mouthful before downing it. “Very well, show him in.”
Queb Tylan was a man of copper skin and a small, well-kept beard. His hair was slightly longer than hers, but dark and bound behind his head in a braid. At his waist hung one of those short cleaving swords they wielded along the Torn Shore, in a wide scabbard. Gemstones on his hilt sparkled as he strode through the door and into the sunny living area. He glanced first at Zanna, who rose to her feet. He bowed, and then glanced quickly around the room. There were a few other similar chairs, then a low wooden table surrounded by cushions. At the far side of the room, there was no wall, rather a balcony that looked out onto the shiny shallow lake.
“Welcome to Maga, Queb Tylan,” Zanna said, with a smile.
“Your highness,” Tylan said, quietly. People from Tal’lashar spoke most of their vowels like quick soft spots in the midst of trailing syllables and spoke the last part of each phrase in a monotone. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Zanna tipped her head. “A seat?” she asked, waving to one adjacent to hers.
“Thank you.” He sat at an angle, to face her properly. He smelled musky, but not in a bad way.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Tylan bowed his head again and Zanna stood up. Ethel had started walking to the counter, but paused. “This time,” Zanna said, and sat down again. She preferred doing things herself, but she didn’t want to consider all the things that it might make Tylan consider, if he was here for politicking.
Ethel soon served Tylan his drink, and Zanna asked him, “What brings you to my city today?”
“I wanted to meet you,” Tylan said. “My father delivered the family fortune into my hands last year. We’re one of the wealthier families in Tal’lashar, you see, or so they tell me. Have you ever visited my home?”
Zanna shook her head. “I have not,” she said, quietly.
“You should. It is dry, yes, but the dusty docks are a beautiful sight, and from them you can see the sparkling waters of the Shrinking Sea and the dunes north and south. From the Forty-Seven Towers, you can see the Mountains of Amirella, and on clear days, all the villages across the valley. It’s beautiful.” Tylan’s eyes were lit up and he spoke with his hands held out to show the shape of the land. With a smile, he paused, “Well, not as beautiful as you. Which is why I journeyed to this land, to meet you. To know that it is true.”
“Oh my,” Zanna said, smiling. “That’s very kind of you.”
Tylan finally took a drink of his tea and tilted his head as he savoured the taste. He set the wooden cup aside and withdrew a small, smooth box from the fold of his tunic, where the loose cloth layered at his belt. The box was painted with violet and dark red, and the rest varnished white wood. The checkered patterns formed an artistic and angular hand, wrapped around the box. “A gift, for you,” Tylan said, quietly.
Zanna took the long box quietly and cracked open its hinges after looking at it for a moment. Coiled inside was a golden chain, shining brightly in the morning sunrays. Amidst the length of the jewelry piece was linked a dazzling ruby, refracting its intense glow against the green and red stripes of Zanna’s lap. Her breath caught as she regarded the sizeable stone. It was beautiful.
“It’s incredible,” she told the kind foreigner. “I have done nothing for you, nothing to deserve a gift such as this.”
“Please, keep it,” Tylan said. His eyes were wide. Red light from the ruby was reflected there.
Zanna lifted it out of the box. Her mother would have had the servant hang the necklace around her neck, but Zanna didn’t wave to Ethel for such a simple task. She left the ornate box in her lap and laid the gold chain around her neck. The ruby settled on the folds of the loose dress between her breasts, and seemed to match the small gold earrings she had chosen today, though they were without gemstones of their own. “It’s beautiful,” she said, looking down. She glanced back at Tylan and smiled.
“I can give you more rubies, and more compliments on your own beauty,” Tylan said. “But more importantly, I’d like to get to know you. I have come to Maga to ask your hand in betrothal.”
There it is, she thought. She’d sensed the conversation moving in that direction since he had first complimented her appearance. He was not the first foreign suitor to venture to her city seeking the hand of the young unmarried queen. She lifted her cup to her lips as she considered it, the political ramifications, the impact on her people if she married a foreigner, and, most importantly, her personal emotions on the matter. He wasn’t old, or poor-looking, or poor, or rude. She lowered her drink, and smiled. “Stay in Maga,” she said, “Visit me. I can’t make a decision that big on one conversation.”
“Of course, of course.” Tylan grinned. “It’d be my honour to stay in your magnificent city. I will throw a feast for you, next month, perhaps.”
Zanna stood up. “Ethel, more tea for us both.” She touched the ruby on her necklace and turned so the sunlight lit it up again. It wasn’t its wealth that fascinated her so, but its beauty.
“Excellent,” Tylan said, grinning.