Instrument of Murder - Excerpt

The high gardens of House Indora were magnificent to behold this season. As they overlooked the western bank of Terumar on the terraces of the Mozaic quarter, it provided a breathtaking view of the docks and the eerily quiet Mute Sea, whose blackened waters stretched as far as the eye could perceive until it was swallowed by the horizon. The never-setting sun shone brilliantly from the north, its dazzling radiance intermingling with the oppressive glare of San’ari, the lunar celestial, hanging low in the southwestern sky, where it extended its scarlet tendrils of light unto the world.

The beautiful vista was audibly tarnished by a tall, regal-looking Ashael woman, looming ominously over a short and slight middle-aged man, poking him in the forehead with a painted fingernail while scolding him at the top of her lungs. She was clad in a long gray gown that accentuated her ample figure. A high slit revealed a shapely leg toned by enticing musculature, and purple filigree ran the length of the dress, forming intricate patterns.

Her age was near impossible to determine as her sunkissed skin was smooth as porcelain, and her narrow face and sharp nose only further added to her comely yet youthful features. Her large almond-shaped eyes were encircled by dark and heavy make-up, giving the hateful fire in her deeply citrine-colored eyes a radiating glow that burned like angry embers. Her waist-length indigo hair flowed behind her as if it had a life of its own, flailing wildly as invisible energy crackled in the air. This was Tiiraluelle Indora, the high matron of her ancient house. She was the head of one of the three royal families that formed the binding structure of power and leadership throughout Azai. And she was furious.

   “Do you have the slightest notion of what you have done, Malain? You are nothing! A gnat to be squished under my foot! A sorry excuse for a conscious meat sack, completely unable to keep your own carnal desires in check.” Tiiraluelle’s piercing voice castigated the small man with unbound fury before finally screaming in his face:

   ”You - utter - simpleton!”

   “My d-d-dearest matriarch, beloved queen, my heart’s delight,” Malainolorax Indora, merchant prince and consort to Tiiraluelle, stammered, sweat dripping from his balding forehead.

   “You know full well that I would never resort to such mindless frivolities, let alone with a slave-born Aeshar bitch. My sweetest Luelle, let us..”

   “Líth!” Tiiraluelle commanded with surprising depth and otherworldly cadence, a clear modicum of astral power woven into the singular word. Directly translated from the old song, it simply meant “silence.” The merchant prince Malain unceremoniously slammed shut his mouth and bit down hard on his tongue, tears sprouting from his eyes. With nostrils flaring, he desperately clawed at his mouth in a futile attempt to open it again, but to no avail. His mouth had been compelled shut, and neither the panicked somatics nor the visible grunts birthed any sound whatsoever.

He finally relented and accepted his fate at the hands of his matron and looked up at her with teary and pleading eyes, faint trails of blood forming at the corners of his mouth.

   “You insignificant mote of existence, did you for a moment think that you could spread your filthy seed clandestinely? That by itself alone would be cause enough for me to end your miserable life here and now. Yet not only that, but you also chose to breed with an Aeshar thrall, possibly tainting our ancient bloodline. You might as well have lain with a penned Waal.” Tiiraluelle spat with revulsion. Malain grimaced, obviously disgusted by the notion of him dallying with a common farm animal, all too well known for their pungent odor and foul hygiene.

   “Now tell me - everything. Runā Vaeris!” Tiiraluelle demanded, her words permeating with Inumbral compulsion yet utterly devoid of compassion. 

Malain now tried his best to hold his mouth tight. Still, it flew open by itself, and he spat one condemning secret after another in a literal deluge of staccato words, spittle spewing from his lips, wholly unable to control any bodily functions besides talking. As he grew increasingly blue in the face due to lack of breathing, Tiiraluelle’s now returned stoic demeanor grew ever more feral, her upper lip almost curling in a snarl, revealing pearly and iridescent fangs. While all Ashael and Aeshar possessed these fangs, a relic of the past telling an ominous tale of predatory evolution, the royal triplets sported canines with an iridescent sheen that instantly gave away their high-born heritage.

However, not only was her face twisted in a savage grimace, but her silken, tanned skin was flushed dark red with barely contained rage. The truths she fervently pulled from Malain were far worse than she had ever thought possible. Malain’s eyes and cheeks were wet with tears as his entire life unraveled before him, dooming him in the process. He had always known the danger of the tryst with his far-removed ancestral great-aunt that had begun almost 20 years ago when he was but a young, newly appointed merchant prince of House Indora. However, it had also been clear to him that there was no denying the will of the matriarchs. If they chose you, you either complied or suffered the potentially fatal consequences. Though he was tether-bound to his thrice-removed cousin and had several children with her, a new Aeshar slave, far too delicious to pass up, had entered their household a decade ago. The first many times, he had taken her by force, but as time passed and she grew more complacent, he had somehow developed actual feelings for her. When she then, eight years ago, became pregnant, though impossible as it should be, and a year later bore him a son, he had released her from her thralldom and bought her a seaside house on the outskirts of the capital. To this day, she remained there with his son, gifted by The Nine with a razor-sharp wit and an uncanny ability to somehow perceive the Soul-tethers of both Ashael and Aeshar. Malain had spent the last eight years attempting to somehow free himself from the web of aristocracy and incestuous bloodlines the royal triplets had spun for millennia. But to no avail. His increasing impatience with being stuck in Terumar had been his downfall. Now, they were all three, certainly doomed, possibly along with his estranged wife and other children. It was far too common practice by the Matron triplets to perform thorough purges of families who acted against them or fell out of favor.

On his hands and knees and on the verge of passing out due to lack of breath, Malain’s final secrets spilled forth. He crumbled like a wet rag in the soft grass, altering between deep heaves of breath and fits of coughing. Like a towering doom, lording over him, stood the great and terrible Tiiraluelle Indora, high matron of the Mozaic, in all her splendor. The fury earlier painted on her imperious face had vanished or was now hidden beneath a mask of regality perfected over the ages.

   “What a brazen little game you have been playing this past decade, dear lover,” she cooed with a paradoxical mix of disgust and lust, for she was indeed impressed by his bold double life and determination to escape his societal bondage, perhaps even a bit intrigued. However, that far paled in comparison to her loathing of his actions. 

   Malain feebly tried to crawl away from her, but she planted a delicately booted heel on his hand and then put her full weight on it. In response, he merely groaned and stopped moving, still utterly exhausted by his involuntary ranting.

   “You are undoubtedly blood-kin to my dear sister De’Iliira, so clearly evident in your perpetual scheming. A pity that her blood running through your veins is so diluted that the duplicitous veil you have sought to draw in front of my eyes could never hope to blind me, being the weak and powerless man you are. Pathetic M’oor.”

Though defeated and drained, Malain still winced at that last word. It was from the old song, not empowered by her Inumbral prowess, yet it stung worse than anything else she had done to him this day. It was an innocent word that merely meant “murmur,” yet it was the worst of brands to the aristocratic Ashael of the ruling bloodline. A M’oor was not just another word for mumbling; it was the lowest of the low within the hierarchy of the Ashael, beneath even the Aeshar thralls. M’oor were the beggars, the sick and the weak, condemned, by the ruling of ancient law, to never raise their voice beyond a whisper on the pain of death. A M’oor could never escape their stature, and all offspring were fated to bear the same shackles of the caste. As such, the Night district, where the ill-begotten were rancorously housed, far below in the darkest corner of Terumar, was filled with a cacophony of murmurs and sibilant ramblings.

Malain involuntarily shuddered as a faint memory of his only visit to the district haunted his jumbled thoughts.

   “Lady Tiira..” he managed to rasp before being cut off by a fit of coughing.

   “Shhh,” she hushed, a delicate finger crossing her violet lips. You might as well get used to not speaking anymore,” she said, a devious glint in her menacing eyes.

   “No... No, no, no, please, High Matron Tiiraluelle, anything but that, I beg you!” Malain croaked, suddenly finding his breath again.

   “You can grovel all you desire, little Malainolorax, formerly of the esteemed house Indora. It will change nothing. You were given a hand to feed off and worship, yet instead, you decided to nibble at the skin like the rat that you are. By my grace as the savior of the Ashael and founder of our glorious nation, blessed by the currently permeating presence of the great San’ari herself above me, acting as my witness, you have been tried before the Outer Nine and found guilty of tainting our sacred bloodline!” Lady Tiiraluelle commanded, her words as much a chant as it was speech.

Now openly sobbing at her feet, Malain started groaning, something unintelligible. Yet before the nonsensical words began to form any coherence, Tiiraluelle interrupted him, words dripping with overflowing power.

“Dûl’elé mo veer lithe fjadé,

a’sevi foar é tife letra an’sa

alvadum o’y plado, stas dy

savis. Wo dûl’elé belv i’teed

dûl’maré faret koden tife y

doevént.”

(You will now be silent cretin and rise

before me to gaze at the vastness of my

splendor, inert yet conscious. Thus, you will

remain until you have bore witness to my

verdict.)

Lady Tiiraluelle removed her foot from Malain’s hand, and he quietly floated upwards until he faced her in an upright position. His tear-stained, reddened eyes were locked on her, unblinking and unmoving. She was not only one of the most accomplished Inumbral Shades in all of Azai, but she was also a master of the Cascaden technique, able to weave her powers into sequences through comprehensive sentences that, when uttered, were reminiscent of the mythical Siren’s song. Captivating but deadly.