A Crown of Dirt and Weeds

Chapter 1 - Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Dawns 

It was whispered across the halls of the imperial palace that Emperor Suhaim the kind, first of his name, Lord of the Crescent Throne and avatar of Ashrael on earth, would not live to see another three-hundred and sixty-five dawns.

The common story among many tongues amongst the citizenry was that he had overseen the Empire for a prosperous forty years of peace in a realm that had rarely known such quiet since the days of its founding. He had spared them from the conscription rolls of the powers abroad, had allowed them to remain in their homes in peace, free to tend to their land and see their children grow. 

Yet behind the obsidian walls of the Imperial Palace, such kindness was seen as negligence by any man with a brain. The Emperor had overseen his country’s decline for a ruinous forty years as more powerful entities bought up rights to their resources through treaties of friendship, purchased treaty ports through which they could undercut local trade, and leveraged loans that bound the empire tighter than chains of iron. Rivals abroad grew fat on smoke and steel and artificery, raising railways and fleets of ironclads, while the Empire still clung to muskets that misfired, ships that rotted on their moorings and the advice of wizards clinging to their status from a bygone era.

From the staunchest of the Old Guard to the most liberal of the Reformists, one opinion held true: the Empire must change. However, here was the question that also remained was how to change it.

I, Zahira Dereniz, that idealistic fool’s eldest daughter, had been in an excellent position to inherit the throne with the support of every lever of power. The nobility had long since bent the knee, for I was bred among them, fed their tongues and taught their customs. The priesthood preached my name from their pulpits, proclaiming me Ashrael’s chosen heir, sanctified by forty years of preparation. The army had no cause to doubt me either; I had attended their parades and dined with their generals. Even that decrepit cabals of wizards, desperate to cling to relevance, whispered their support so long as I promised to not usher the pandemonium that was artificery. Mob rule of magic, they called it.

Ordinarily, the position would have gone to my brother, but the indolent wretch had wasted every lesson he was given and had gotten out of the way early, surely content to rule one of the fringe provinces to the east for the rest of his miserable life. No, my problem now was her.

My father’s mistake given flesh, dragged from obscurity and seated among us as though blood alone were enough to wash away her origins. She was called Meryem, and she bore the look of the Safiri dotting the south-western coastlands: skin the shade of sun-warmed bronze, eyes dark and sharp as obsidian glass, light brown hair falling in thick curls that she never bound as tightly as etiquette demanded.

The court had taken to her quickly—far too quickly—dazzled by her quick tongue, her grasp of numbers and machines and magic, her unshakable poise. She had no right to it. She had not been broken on the wheel of tutors and ceremonies as I had, nor endured the endless lessons in law, rule, scripture, and decorum. Yet she moved through the palace as if it had always belonged to her, as if she had been born for it.

And perhaps that was the worst of it. In every glance, in every murmur, I could feel the question gnawing at me: what if she had been?

My father, softhearted as he was, had never named an official heir; he would not do it, even in his dying days. I had behind me twenty-one years of work, and she had behind her unbridled talent she did not deserve to even grasp.

She had not made an obvious play for the throne—not yet—but no doubt, the reformists were clamoring at her to. 

Here was the crux of it:

What made an empire?

It was legitimacy. Bloodline, religion, and dynasty. It was the sanctity of inheritance, the divine order that made obedience natural and rebellion unthinkable. It was the crown passed from parent to child, the prayers of the faithful binding ruler and realm together, the unbroken chain of names stretching back to the Empire’s founding. Without these, an emperor was no more than a usurper in gilded robes, a pretender whose reign would rot the moment doubt took hold.

Yet did that bastard not have two out of these three things? My father had now recognized her, and she was his daughter in full. While she was not the Ashen God’s chosen, there was always the possibility that—

“You are scheming again.” My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts as her fingers worked through my hair, drawing it into the tight braids I would wear for the day. Servants usually tended to me, but today she had insisted on doing it herself just as she had when I was a child.  “You wear your worry on your face, dearest.”

I drew breath through my teeth. “Is it not common sense to hope that my mother would allow me to frown when I mean to frown and smile when I mean to smile?” She pulled a little tighter on a braid, and I hissed. 

“You were not raised to be weak, but to rule,” she scolded. “And you have a long day ahead of you.”

“The games are not of import. Watching men run around is not what I call a productive day, even if the trial is important.” I ground my teeth together the more she worked, casting a glance through the window of my spire. Beyond the Imperial Palace, beyond the capital of Isbira, lay the ash-laden fields of Maruzar. A storm had ripped across the land for the past few days and that covered it in darkness—Ashrael’s blessing, they had stopped last night. “Though I suppose that her being there forces me to go. I cannot let that conniving little thin-blooded—”

My mother softly clicked her tongue. “Now, now, dear. You mustn’t let your anger consume you, these are elementary lessons.” 

Of course, I would not. But to have my assured ascension whisked away right while my father’s life guttered out had left me like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

Her hands gently gripped my shoulders, and she leaned in to whisper against my ear. “I have it on good authority,” she smiled slyly when she spoke, “that the little upstart plans to make a move today.”

I gripped the side of my chair. My mother had always had the most robust spy network in the capital, and perhaps the entire Empire, but I had my ways as well, built brick by brick from the day I turned thirteen. How had I missed—

“She outmaneuvers you at every turn, child.” Her smile turned to a disappointed grimace. “You still retain the advantage, but you are in a more perilous situation than you know.”

I turned to face her, rising up from my chair with my hair half-done. “Then tell me—”

“Sit.”

Her voice flooded my veins with ice. 

She’d raised me. Tended to my fire from the day I’d been born, offering me her stern, yet guiding hand. Even at twenty-one, she had a way to seize me by the throat with mere words.

When I listened, she continued.

“From here on out, you are on your own, Zahira,” she declared. “I have offered you kindness upon kindness and made you whole. Now it is your turn to burn without me adding fuel to your fire.” She returned to calmly braiding my hair without missing a beat, no matter how much I stewed in anger. “Either you are meant to rule, or you are not. Either you will triumph this year, or you will not. Let the dice fall where they may.”

“Yes, mother.”

I closed my eyes and allowed her to finish.

This is how the game would be played.

——

The Trial of Cinder always drew Isbira’s people away from their homes each year, drawing into massive crowds bulging against the fences erected by the trial’s organizers. Promises of free food, a day off work, and free entertainment were like drugs to the masses’ monotonous and meaningless lives. They filled the avenues not only with wagers, but with religious chants, for the trial was no simple race. To run was to endure God’s breath and heat, to prove that one was worthy to bear his attention.

It was, after all, said that Ashrael would bless the winner with good fortune. 

The Court had its own private outdoor quarters closest to the race’s start, where ample luxurious food and drink had been set up. I’d come with my retinue: my close allies, advisors and royal guard, the Ashen Ones—Ramadiyya. From where we would eventually sit, we would be in a prime position to see the runners begin the race out of the capital, and toward Mount Karafir, the throne of Ashrael and one of the many volcanoes dotting our sacred Empire’s heartlands.

“Zahira, I must comment again, you look as radiant as the sun after an ash storm,” Brahim babbled by my side. 

I returned my smile and thanks, but felt nothing. He was good looking, objectively. Sharp-faced with wide, flawless brown skin, beautiful golden eyes and dark hair that fell down to his shoulders in a wonderful cascade. 

I glanced at the ashen circle on his forehead. “I see you were sloppy with your Brand this morning, Brahim.” It was nothing against him, really, but once in a while, one needed to tighten the chains around their people’s necks. Now more than ever.

And that pest so obviously wanted my hand in marriage just because he was of a high station. At the very least, his support was useful and appreciated.

The noble flushed slightly, but recovered with his usual crooked smile. “I will do better next time, your Grace. I…” he kept talking, and I kept faking my attention, sipping on wine imported from abroad.

She was here too, of course, at the edge of the grounds with her own retinue—minus her own special guard. Most of them were people who had always opposed my rise because they saw me as not easily bent to their will, but some were surprises as well. Nobles whose support for me had been real, but not tangible, like those little traitors Selim and Rahmi. She was steadily growing her influence like the cancer currently taking my father’s lungs and throat. Meryem would sometimes sprout flames from her palm to impress her entourage or whisper jokes that would take them all into fits of laughter.

Occasionally, she would stare in my direction as well with a polite smile, and I would return it in kind before we both returned to scheming.

This is how the game would be played.

The entire gathering stilled with silence when Emperor Suhaim arrived, however, clad in his royal robes and his obsidian scepter in hand. His ever-elusive golden and obsidian crown sits atop his salt and pepper hair. Over the last few months, his frame had thinned with the wasting of his lungs, and every breath rattled faintly in his chest, yet he bore himself with the dignity of an Emperor still. It was not just the crown and status that made him taller than the infirmity gnawing at his body, but his own self. As the avatar of Ashrael himself, he was the only one without an ashen circle fixed onto his forehead.

Mother flanked him, arm linked with his, with an expressionless face as always. She might have been nearing fifty, but unlike my father, she barely showed her age. With not a grey hair to her head and a meticulous routine to keep herself young, she still remained one of the most beautiful women in court.

She’d never forgiven him for betraying her, and she had instilled the agony burning her heart upon me daily. Their marriage was nor a loveless farce.

“Your father looks well-rested today.”

I turned to my servant, childhood friend, and woman I trusted the most in this world bar none. Like me was Ashqari through and through, with skin dark as earth choked by fire, eyes like molten amber that caught every flicker of light, and hair as black as the night sky spilling down her back when she loosened it. Her cheekbones were sharp, her frame compact and lean, the kind of body made for surviving in our cherished land.

I leaned in to whisper. “Spare me the pleasantries. We both know he’s seen better days, Sanae.” I breathed steadily. “But yes, he is still our Emperor in our minds and hearts.”

“One struggles to imagine our lives after his passing,” she said, her hands neatly folded together.

And that was exactly why he would rule until he passed. Weak or not, he still commanded respect.

Even from me, begrudgingly. 

My father spared a passing look at all who had come to the Trial of Cinders, including the runners. Today, fifty had chosen to risk their lives and taken up God’s test. Many different noble houses had their own runner they had prepared and were hoping to see attain victory, for the reward was mainly religious in nature, but also meant prestige, honor, and favor with the priesthood.

One of my father’s wizards—this one foreign, I noticed because of her pasty skin—placed a hand in front of him, from which a bright yellow light diffused and dissipated into the air. A simple Transmutation spell to carry the Emperor’s voice further.

I knew magic like I knew the back of my hand. Too bad I had no talent for any schools, unlike my father’s bastard who seemed to have an endless supply of it.

“Dear Lords and Ladies. My dear subjects,” my father began, his words carried and sharpened by the spell until they rang across the plain. The illness rasped behind his voice, but the magic smoothed it into something steadier, like fire stoked from dying coals. “Children of Ashrael, gathered here to bear witness to the Trial of Cinders.” He stretched out his arms. “Today, fifty of our bravest rise to be tested by God’s hand, and through their endurance we are reminded of the fire from which this empire was first forged, just like he forged the world through the Primordial Flame…”

He continued on with religious babble I truthfully did not care much for, even if I respected the process. Then, after him came the High Flame came covered in sacred ash, who was so old it was a wonder he could still walk. He’d already been old when I’d been but a girl. Behind him followed a small, leashed goat with a dark coat.

One could qualify it as cute, should they want to. Of course, I felt no need to do such a thing; it would be below my station.

“This year’s offering sure looks cute, doesn’t it, your Grace?” Sanae noticed. My lips curled upward involuntarily. “It's a wonder we used to sacrifice them. Poor things.”

I cleared my throat. “You could say that.”

“Would you say it?”

That damned girl… “No. End of discussion.”

“You would,” she said with that dumb smirk of hers.

“I’ll have you executed.”

She gasped, hands on her heart. “Have you no heart, my lady?!” She swooned closer to me, smelling of amber and sweat. “I suppose I’ll have to hope for Ashrael’s mercy…” even then, her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at me.

Sanae was good at sensing when I was tense or worried, and would always act accordingly.  I would certainly never say it to her face, but she was a wonderful servant, and an even better friend. My only wish was for her to be able to address me more casually in public, even if she was already stretching things.

Once the ceremonies were done, and the goat decided to bleat, the contestants began their treacherous course across Maruzar. I was backing someone too: a springy seventeen year old and the most devoted child I’d ever seen; a win would be a pleasant surprise, but a loss wouldn’t matter to me at all. My retinue and I enjoyed conversation over food and drink. We spoke of the outsiders beyond the ocean encroaching on our lands and what must be done when at last I became Lady of the Crescent Throne. 

Even Brahim was knowledgeable in these matters.

He stabbed a piece of pork with a knife and waggled it around. He wasn’t drunk quite yet, but tipsy, at the very least. “To think that we used to demand tribute from their petty backward kingdoms every few years with fire and ash in every palm,” he lamented. “And now look at us. It’s pathe—”

“Watch your mouth, Brahim,” I cut in, nudging my head toward my father. He was not within earshot, but his presence still meant something. “You speak in the Emperor’s presence.”

He licked his lips, face apologetic. “My apologies, your Grace. May our Emperor live to see another ten thousand dawns,” he said before biting into his food.

All at this table knew he wouldn’t.

Imane sipped on water, for members of the priesthood were not allowed to imbibe alcohol. That didn’t mean she didn’t cheat, but never in public. “Ashrael wills it,” she said with a lackadaisical air to her. It was all filler, given that it was not religious fervor that drove her. I’d never seen such an ambitious apprentice. She’d hitched herself to me early in hopes of ascending further up the priesthood. It was my hope to one day see her as High Flame. “But your Grace, what of… her,” Imane whispered, hair the color of sand blowing in the wind.

“Yes. Anything new?” Brahim asked.

“I was hoping to figure something out during the trial,” I whispered, hands neatly folded on my lap. “Meryem has been making moves and planning something for today.”

I did not tell them I’d learned that from my mother, but I did press my dear Sanae to continue building her webs of connections and for Imane to figure out if that little bastard was making inroads with the priesthood. There were a few more names at the table—none of them who would matter today. Some were absent as well. Men of the military had to tend to more important matters. There had been more incursions into our waters as of late. 

Morning stretched into afternoon, and ‘chance’ would have it that I found myself standing near grounds’ edge, where one could have seen the last of the runners vanish into the gray horizon of Maruzar. The nobles clustered in shaded tents, their laughter and wagers spilling into the hot air, while servants carried trays of food and drink to and fro.

I was never alone given that my guards flanked my every step, but this was as alone as the Emperor’s eldest daughter would ever get. No one but me, faceless men, and wine swirling in my glass.

Not for very long. My four Ramadiyya guards, each towering over any grown man, turned toward the object of my torment. They did not point their swords at her given that she was now officially royalty and had the authority of a Princess—which made me sick—however the look they gave her was laced with an unmistakable hostility Meryem did not care for.

She did not even hesitate to walk up to me.

We’d shared words before. Not words of much substance, nor words that were real. Just mindless small talk to go along with etiquette. This was the first time we’d been together without any strays to watch out for. Without any pretense.

“Meryem,” Etiquette demanded I bowed my head at a slight downward angle to welcome my fellow Princess, but I refused to. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Dark eyes stared into mine. “Hello, sister,” she greeted me, also forgoing the bow. “How have you found this sacred day?”

That little tramp knew that I would never refer to her as such, but dared to anyway. She was pushing me to have an outburst and embarrass myself in public. Country girl or not, she knew how the game was played.

“It’s as wonderful as it is every year. May Ashrael bring our runners back to Isbira safe and sound.” There was no venom in my voice; I spoke as pleasantly as a cool breeze. My eyes drifted to the ashen circle on her bronze skin. “It must be a little shocking for you to see this, no? There are no sea gods to be worshipped in the capital.”

Meryem threw her head back with an unrefined pig-like laugh, her mop-like hair bouncing around with no consistency or order. “Oh, don’t worry, Zahira!” she cackled. “I’ve realized the error of my ways and recognized the one true faith.”

Because our faith was naught to her but a ladder toward power. Because she had no principles. Because she was a ghoulish creature whose corpse I hoped would never know the mercy of cremation and Ashrael’s wondrous embrace. Oh, I didn’t want her dead, though it would certainly be easier if she was. That would only be a last resort. Exile abroad would be more appropriate and less barbarous. The Empire had long progressed past such crude methods.

“No, you haven’t,” I said dryly, still smiling, “but I’m sure your entourage is eating that story from the palm of your hand.” From said palm, she summoned a flame again, the light dancing amongst her dark irises. “A wonderful party trick.”

“I can do more. I’m quite talented at magic; I only wish you could enjoy the gift.” Meryem glanced at my guards. “But I wouldn’t want you to feel unsafe, sister.” 

“My Ramadiyya would have cut your throat before I could even feel your paltry flame’s heat on my skin,” I said. “But tell me, Meryem. Why have you come to talk to me?”

She leaned forward against a table, back slouched like a slob. “I just wanted to have a heart to heart with you.” I frowned. Her face was suddenly lined by stress and empathy. “All the ash and mirrors. Don’t you get tired of it?”

“No.” The answer came instantaneously. I stepped forward. “Perhaps if you find it so, you might consider renouncing the throne publicly and crawling back to whatever fishing village you and your whore of a mother came from.”

Her empathy turned to a glare, piercing and judging. Good. She got right up in my face, skin smoldering with ash and flame. “What the fuck did you just say about my—” I quickly brushed my hand against her arm.

My men pushed her against the ground, three swords pointing at her and one’s tip held against her throat. She didn’t thrash. Meryem just looked at me with hatred simmering in her eyes, her body tense as if she were ready to strike as I drained the last of my cup. The altercation had been public enough for people to notice, and it would be the talk of court for the next week.

I’d been so dearly burned. Such an aggressive girl.

Of course, I did not overplay my hand. I publicly apologized to her for getting on her nerves, bowing slightly in the process, just as she did for lashing out. When the crowd that had gathered around us cleared—

Meryem’s gaze lingered, keen and measuring, as though some revelation had just dawned upon her

“You hate me, Zahira.”

I snorted. “Of course, I do.”

“No. No, not of course. I thought I was just a rival, that we were just playing a game.” She rolled her shoulders—still sore from earlier. “But you hate me as a person.”

“So?”

“I just find that interesting about you,” she said. “Tell me, Zahira. Why do you want to be Empress?”

“Because it is my birthright. Because foreigners are knocking at the gates and promise to ruin us. Because I have toiled night and day and night and day again to learn everything there is to learn about politics and etiquette and religion and military matters while you’re just some bastard who waltzed in here.” I struggled not to raise my tone—I hissed out the words. “Why do you want to be Empress?”

She pursed her lips. “Because I have seen our periphery and how our people suffer each day.” I bit my lip. Here she was, confirming her goals to my face. “While you spend money on the heartland, we suffer. It’s unfair, isn’t it? Our father hasn’t once come to my province.” She wistfully stared up at the sky, a pale orange-blue haze peppered by grey ash. “You want power for yourself and your idea of what makes our Empire great. I want to be an Empress for the people. All the people.”

“How moving,” I deadpanned. “While you throw money and sorghum around, we’ll still be seen as the sick man of the world while they all pass us by.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sister, I embrace the idea of progress that can improve the lives of the people.” She relished when my eye twitched, and then had the gall to wink. “Unlike you and our Emperor, I do not plan for my crown to be made of dirt and weeds.”

“It’ll be burned to ash if it sits atop your head.”

“Hm, I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. “I may turn it to gold and obsidian yet.”

“That is a laughable notion. You don’t have the experience.”

“With that, I’ll be taking my leave,” she ignored me. “Thank you for your time.” She stopped dead in her tracks, addressing me without turning around. “Tell me, Zahira. Are you a betting woman?”

I didn’t dignify her with an answer.

Hours later, in the dead of night, Meryem’s runner was the first one to cross the finish line, his body covered in ash and burns. While his victory did not completely erase the fact that she had burned me, the prestige afforded to her would overshadow any talk of her aggressiveness, and would continue for months. Her runner would obtain Ashrael’s blessing, but it was her that had prepared, fed, and trained him. She had taught him the magic he’d needed to be at an advantage. That personal touch had propelled his motivation and made him keep running through burns, ashlung and a bruised ankle.

My runner never made it back. Meryem taunted me with a sly smile as soon as she noticed.

His corpse hadn’t been found.

There had been foul play involved.

Three-hundred and sixty five dawns.

This is how the game would be played.

A/N: Here’s the final work’s chapter 1. There are a decent amount of stories told from the perspective of a secret son or daughter who can suddenly possibly or does ascend to the throne, often having to deal with a few vain siblings in their way. This is the story told from that sibling’s perspective—and a very warped, and biased one at that. Again, no political opinion held here is my own. Thank you Mythix for beta reading as always.

Inspired by: Practical Guide to Evil, House of the Dragon

Tags: Political, Fantasy, Low Magic, Espionnage, War & Military, Ruling Class

Side tags: Romance