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Hall of the Great Hunters
Alshain Proper
“How do things fare with Jota?” the Exarch asked his brother as both men walked between the large statutes. Jasta felt the eyes, the very weight of history, bearing down on him, judging him, as if the ancestors of great Alshain rulers and warriors past had inhabited their marble likenesses, to mark this occasion, this great turning point in the fortunes, maybe the very survival of the Alshain species.
“Our last update revealed no change in the Crown Dauphin’s condition,” Grand Duke Jarko rumbled. Jasta growled deep in his throat and his muscles twitched. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother tense, preparing to be struck.
In years past Jasta might have backhanded him for giving him an answer he didn’t like. But the rotund, broken man he had become had lost his fire quite some time ago. His growl became a low, long keening of resignation. It was an admission of his weakness.
He was about to lose his son and now he was shaming himself before the ancestors, putting in jeopardy his own statue’s placement in the great hall. The siblings came to a stop before the onyx presence of Jedrec, their stern father. Just like Jasta he had started out great, with dreams of rebuilding the Exarchate’s fortunes, but the Son’a had gotten their hooks into him, plying him with narcotics and Tarlac women and he had died an enfeebled weakling.
When Jasta had been stronger himself, he dared that anyone among the Peerage, the royal advisors, object to his placing his father’s statue in the hall. There had been no great victories under his reign, but he had maintained the Exarchate, just as Jasta himself had done.
“I wish he were here,” Jarko looked up at the perpetual sneer Jasta had engraved; it was the way he remembered his father best. Jasta merely nodded, keeping his honesty sheathed. Jedrec had always preferred Jarko. An accident of the birthing order had stymied his desire that the grand duke succeed him.
“Too…too much like me,” Jedrec had wheezed, pointing a shaking, gnarled finger at Jasta. The man had been on his gilded deathbed then. He looked shrunken, swaddled in his deep crimson sleeping ware; the color had been picked in part to help disguise any spit up blood to not needlessly upset any visitors. Jasta had ordered all of the staff out of the room once the medic had informed him that there was nothing left to do.
He had even demanded that Jarko leave the Exarch’s bedside. He would never forget the flash of anger through his brother’s eyes and the sadness that had washed over his features as he reluctantly left Jedrec. But Jasta had needed to hear whatever advice the dying king had to give him alone.
“Damn,” Jedrec had been seized by a coughing fit so strong that it had yanked him up from his sheets. Jasta had rushed to him, but the Exarch had pushed him away with surprising strength. Looking him squarely in the eyes, Jedrec had shaken his balding head, tears falling like fat raindrops from his eyes. He pointed again, his whole body now quivering with the effort. “It’s a damn…shame.”
The man got out before he inhaled sharply, his body seizing up, as if the in the grip of Garrm, and then the king had sighed heavily as he fell backward. Jasta could only imagine that the war god had snatched up his father’s soul and together they loped to the verdant hunting grounds of the eternal Great Terrace.
Jarko cleared his throat and Jasta woke from his day dreaming. “What is it?” he said, more irritable than he should’ve been. Jedrec’s final summation of him had haunted him for years. Even now, just the memory of it, rankled him. Normally Jasta avoided this section of the Hall. He preferred the pre- and early Exarchate years, when the Alshain were undisputed conquerors.
With Jota, he hoped that that golden era would return, but his dreams were turning to ash. Jarko coughed softly, drawing the Exarch’s attention again. “I think it is time to consider…Jedalla for the succession,” Jarko offered.
Jasta shook his head, “No,” he said sternly. “Not yet. Jota will pull through and he will lead the Exarchate to new heights.”
“You speak as a father, brother,” Jarko said softly, “But you must think as a leader. This sojourn to Risa was a sign of how dire Jota’s prospects were. To put the Dauphin in the hands of the Federation was a sign of distress.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” Jasta balled his fists, looking for something to strike. “If the Federation can save my son, I had to chance it. At least their designs on us wouldn’t be as overt as the Cardassians or the Romulans.”
Jarko’s nostrils twitched, “You know that the Romulans were my choice. Their enmity with the Klingons is well known, together we could’ve formed a pincer against the foreheads.”
“True,” Jasta said sagely, “But I would be afraid of what we would owe them. They are just as duplicitous and pernicious as the Son’a.”
“And the Federation isn’t?”
“It’s a different style of imperialism,” the ruler admitted. “The Federation will seek to win us over with their ideas, more than their force of arms.”
“You know how are people are, so desirous for respect from others, so open to external fashions and items. This could come to extend to ideas as well. This democracy the Federation extols is a concern, the very fate of the monarchy could be at stake if we give them sway in our society.”
Jasta laughed, “Jota’s charisma is stronger than any Federation gadget.”
“But what of Jedalla?” Jarko asked, “Have you talked to him lately? He has some interesting ideas on how to liberalize our society but maintain tight control of the reins of government.”
The Exarch chuckled, “Yes, Jedalla will make an excellent advisor. I’ve already suggested to Jota that he should make Jedalla his Vizier.”
Jarko raised an eyebrow in shock, “But the role of Vizier always goes to a member of the Peerage or the Cenobium, a noble or a cleric, to maintain the strong support of either faction.”
“Not always,” Jasta replied, with a wagging finger. “Your interest in history was always lacking,” he chided mildly.
Jarko shrugged, conceding the point, “And what did Jedalla say of this?”
“I never asked him,” the Exarch revealed, “and it doesn’t matter what he thinks. If his Exarch demands something, he is bound to obey.”
“I see,” Jarko grumbled. “There is more that Jedalla could do. Maybe an ambassadorship to the Federation, if we normalize relations? He needs a higher profile.”
“What is it with all of his Jedalla talk?” Jasta questioned, his gaze sharpening on his younger brother. “Do you wish to claim my last son now it because your own litter did not survive?”
Jarko stepped back as if he had been slugged. He reached blindly for support, his claws digging into the base of the nearest statue. “How could you say that about me? I’ve looked after both your sons as if they were my own, and I know that Jedalla has the wherewithal to succeed you if need be.”
Jasta waved away his brother’s pained expression. He had more important things to worry about than coddle Jarko. “That may be, but I will not even consider it until I know that Jota is lost to us, to me.”
“I understand,” Jarko said, standing tall and resolute again. “I just wanted to put forward the option.”
“It is an unspeakable one,” the Exarch said, “One that we must move the stars to make sure doesn’t come about. That is nothing against Jedalla, he is a capable pup, but his road to leadership would be fraught with far more obstacles. He would not have the people on his side, it would take him a long time to earn their love, not to mention the respect of the Peerage. And I fear he is too sanguine with the Son’a.”
Jarko growled deep in his throat, acknowledging that he agreed. “I have spoken to him about that. But he persists in learning everything about them.”
“We don’t need another Son’a-friendly ruler,” Jasta said, “Though I am sure the Son’a is rooting for Jota’s demise.”
“The Unguis has not heard Vizier Waroun express such sentiment, though we are scouring all of his communications,” Jarko revealed. Heading the secret police was just one of the many functions he performed at the behest of his elder sibling.
“Continue your surveillance,” Jasta ordered. “His position was a sop to those exploiters, nothing more. I am not strong enough to wipe them from our boots, but Jota will, he is the hope…the only hope.” The Exarch’s massive body quivered and he looked up and away, as if peering into the great heart of creation itself. “I must be off, to the Syndics.”
“You haven’t been inside a sanctum in years,” Jarko said, surprised.
“These are desperate times,” Jasta laughed mirthlessly. “I turned my back on the gods, but even in my most apostate moment, I never thought they turned their back on me. I hope that remains the case; that their good fortune will continue to shine on me.”
“I will escort you to the sanctum then,” Jarko said.
“No,” the Exarch waved off his brother’s proffered arm. “Continue seeing to Jota’s condition and monitoring Waroun.” He paused, “But send for Jedalla…we have some things to discuss.”
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Sept V’Spar Compound
Alshain Proper
“It is truly a marvel,” Prince Jedalla gazed up at the large hologram of the geostructure hovering above the center of the . Though the massive globular constructs dominated the landscape of Benzar, Sept V’Spar had been instrumental in their construction. It had been the highest achievement of this powerful house thus far, a way of displaying Alshain ingenuity on a galactic stage that hadn’t been seen in decades, maybe centuries. He hoped to take similar technology and transform Proper, with vast arcologies, to show Alshain technological prowess, an indication that the Exarchate was back. It would also leave an architectural mark of Sept O’Jinns’ time at the helm of power.
The project had taken a minor noble house and vaunted them to the top of the Peerage. Lord V’Spar had been a candidate for Grand Vizier as long as Jedalla drew breath it seemed, and even though that hadn’t come to pass, the ‘consolation’ prize had been the betrothal of his daughter to Jota, making the V’Spar part of the royal line.
“Do you have new news about Jota?” The voice was normally light, airy even, but now weighed down with worry.
“No,” Jedalla said, swallowing hard. He didn’t know why being in her presence always made his stomach roil and his palms sweat. “I-I wanted to inquire about your condition Lady Symea.” He turned around slowly.
Lady Symea V’Spar glided into the room, the long train of her golden dress held by two of her ladies-in-wait. Jedalla gulped, as bewitched by her presence as he always was. Zerda never gave him that reaction. It was all fire, claws and teeth, with a strong dash of revenge for his father’s neglect. But Symea was beautiful, with delicate, vulpine features.
And she had culture and breeding, unlike Zerda. Her every movement was refined and calibrated to accentuate her attractiveness.
“I’m more concerned about Jota,” Symea said, her bottom lip trembling. Sept V’Spar was the only house that was told the truth about the seriousness of Jota’s position. Jasta had been opposed to giving them that information, but Jarko had insisted that they be brought into the loop, to better spin the narrative to their favor, since they also had a vested interest in Jota’s survival.
It had been good advice, another example to Jedalla of why his uncle should be sitting on the throne instead of his father. “The fate of our people hangs on his survival,” Symea added. What was left unsaid was the fortunes of her Sept did as well.
“Jota will survive,” Jedalla said, hoping to project confidence and strength to her. “This ailment is nothing compared to the duels and gladiatorial feats he has triumphed in,” he said, remembering how he had sat across from Symea at one of the more recent contests, and seeing how rapt with admiration she was for Jota as he minced his opponent, a large Gorn bruiser.
“He is strong,” Symea shook her head in affirmation, “but against this disease…” Her expression grew dark. “None of this makes sense, how could he be stricken so quickly, so decisively.” She lowered her voice. “I can attest to his stamina.” Jedalla’s cheeks warmed at the revelation.
“Who knows the nature of these things?” He asked, trying to mollify her doubts. “It is the will of the gods.”
“More like the will of the Son’a,” Symea said, dropping her voice even lower. She approached him, leaning into him as she locked her arm in his. Jedalla was briefly taken away by the smell of her thick, perfumed fur. “You’ve studied among them, lived among them,” the future princess didn’t hide her disgust at the thought. “You know of their treacherous ways.”
“They are…a…unique people,” Jedalla said carefully.
“Always the politician,” Symea laughed, squeezing his shoulder. “You will make a great Vizier.”
“Beg pardon?” Jedalla asked, confused.
“Jota told me about his plans to name you his vizier.”
“Are you serious?” Jedalla was stunned. He couldn’t believe his brother would consider such a radical move, or that he would inform his intended before him.
“Yes, he has always held you in high esteem. He was confident that together you both would steer the empire back to greatness.”
“I didn’t know of this,” the prince admitted.
“He wants you right by his side,” Symea said, “He even told me once that he couldn’t imagine ruling without your counsel.”
“That is quite the revelation,” Jedalla admitted.
“Your brother loves you,” Symea smiled, “even if he won’t admit it.”
“This…is…” Jedalla struggled to find the right words. Memories flipped like book pages, years of hazing, at times brutal, of others putting his brother on a pedestal that seemed forever out of his grasp, of being in the shadow, and to hear that his brother regarded him so highly pinched his heart. He choked up and Symea placed a reassuring and welcome arm around his shoulder.
His ears perked up as he heard rushed footfalls approaching. He gently moved out of Symea’s embrace, and faced the door. One of her housecarls, dressed in the golden livery of Sept V’Spar, strode into the room.
“What is it?” Prince Jedalla asked, breaking the decorum of the house. Of course his royal station gave him such license. The guard looked briefly at Symea before responding.
“There is a message for the prince,” he replied.
“Out with it,” Jedalla barked, peeved that the man had interrupted the brief moment he shared with Symea.
“It was relayed from your majordomo. It comes from the Grand Duke.”
“What is it?” Jedalla asked, now more insistent. His stomach tightened, expecting to hear of his brother’s expiration. Symea’s sharp intake of breath was loud behind him. He realized that she must be thinking the same thing.
“He requests that you meet the Exarch in the Sanctum of Oshon.” The goddess of sacrifice, Jedalla thought. Jota still lived, but barely, if his father was turning to religion for succor.
“I will come with you,” Symea said.
“Uh...milady,” the housecarl said awkwardly, “The Exarch requested the prince’s presence.” Jedalla enjoyed the man’s squirming. The young woman’s gaze could melt the sun.
“She will accompany me,” he said after an intense silence. He thought the man was going to get on his knees in gratitude. Jedalla glanced at Symea. She nodded.
“Return to your post,” she ordered. The man could barely restrain himself as he galloped out of the room. The two young nobles shared a well deserved laugh.
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