The Grey Ones
The Visitors: VII

THE VASAATH

He wondered why he tortured himself so. The moment he’d heard the girl’s heavy breaths, he had let his gaze wander over the small frame that lay beside him, so serene, so blissful in her sleep. Her eyes moved rapidly under her pale eyelids, and he wondered what she was dreaming of. Her dark hair lay in an elegant braid over her shoulder and he resisted the urge to gently touch it. To touch her.

Why did he tell her to lie down next to him? Why did he put himself through such agony? His gaze swept over her body, landing on small details on her apparel, such as the intricate gold embroidery on her cuffs, or the simple but elegant pendant that rested just between her collarbones.

His eyes followed the shape of her, registered every curve and every crevasse; how her jaw gracefully joined her earlobe and hairline, how her delicate hands had fine, healthy nails on them, and how the curve of her hip slightly protruded from her in the position she was in; how her full lips were slightly parted, how a strand of dark hair moved with every exhale, and how her chest rose and fell with every breath. He let his eyes linger on the soft, round shape of her breasts, just for a moment, before he furrowed his brows and returned to his book. Torture.

But how could he continue to read now? Carefully, he rose from his seat. He poured himself a glass of wine and enjoyed the view of her from afar. As a kasaath, he would not hesitate to imagine himself with the girl in all sorts of ways, but he was Vasaath now, and such inappropriate thoughts would simply not do. He had no business coveting an ohkas. Such urges were beneath him.

The torture lasted for about an hour. The girl stirred with the tiniest of yelps and sat up with hazy eyes. The Vasaath watched her from his desk where he had tried to write a letter for the past hour. “I trust you slept well,” he said, and the girl nodded.

“Indeed,” she sang, and he had to clench his jaw tightly—her slumberous voice was sensual and sweet. “I haven’t slept that well in months.”

He nodded and returned to his letter. “I’m glad to hear it.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her yawn and stretch her arms out, and then lean back against the cushions. Her gaze was on him, he could tell. “Would you like some tea?” he asked in an attempt to diffuse the tension he felt.

She hummed melodiously, her body perfectly at ease down on the rug.

He grunted and rose from his desk, mindful not to let his eyes linger on her for too long. He served her a cup, and she accepted with singing gratitude. The Vasaath then returned to his desk, and his letter.

“Please, do forgive me if I forced you away!” the girl suddenly burst out. “I must have taken up quite a lot of space.”

“No,” he muttered. “I was done reading.”

“Oh.” She sounded surprised—perhaps a bit disappointed—but then said, “You know, I truly enjoy this tea. It’s so… rich!”

“It is sufficient,” said he, and took a sip. It was more than sufficient, of course. It was his favourite tea. He wouldn’t last the day without it. Why he didn’t admit to that was beyond him.

“Have you ever tasted Illyrian wine?” she asked after a good few minutes of silence. “It’s supposed to be the best wine in the world.”

The Vasaath snorted. “The Illyrians can’t make wine.”

“Well, I think it’s rather good.”

He looked at her. She sipped her tea while still leaned against the pillows. For a fleeting moment, he had the feeling she belonged there, comfortably surrounded by their crimson colours and their quality produce. He allowed himself to think about it, about who she could be under the Kasenon—a maasa, no doubt. His maasa.

He quickly discarded the thought and returned to his letter. He had barely been able to write anything at all that day and he was supposed to have sent the update to the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon days ago.

“If you want to taste real wine,” he said, not knowing why he kept engaging with the lady, “you should taste wine from the vineyards of Kasarath.” He rose again and poured her a glass. The deep scarlet liquid glittered in the light of the fire and he offered it to her.

She exchanged her teacup for the glass and gave it a careful taste. She choked, coughed. Clearly, she wasn’t used to such strong liquor.

A corner of the general’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid it’s only room temperature,” said he. “It’s best enjoyed when it’s warm.”

“It’s very spicy,” she croaked after she had recovered and dared herself another sip.

“Yes,” he drawled and poured himself a glass. “I suppose it’s an acquired taste.”

“I like it,” she smiled. “I’m just not used to drinking something this strong.”

“You humans have such low tolerance for alcohol,” he sneered. “Yet you all wish to brag about your high threshold for your watery substances.”

“Are you telling me that you could drink any human under the table?” she challenged—just a few sips, and she was already losing her senses.

The Vasaath raised a brow. “You certainly don’t defend your kind, with your tiny frame.”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly, “but I have seen brutes win battles after drinking their own weight in wine.”

He narrowed his eyes, amused by this. “Is that so?”

“Well, perhaps not their entire weight,” she admitted. “But still, the gentlemen I’ve seen had been drinking a considerable amount.”

“And who were they fighting?” the Vasaath asked. “Children?”

She snickered. “No. But perhaps their adversaries were just as drunk as they were.”

He resisted the urge to smile—such sentiment was reserved for close friends and kin only. The kasaath could smile all they wanted, but he had to refrain from such frivolous behaviour.

They kept a very casual conversation that afternoon. The girl seemed to ease up more and more with each sip of her wine. Her cheeks had taken a healthy pink glow, and her eyes were clouded. She giggled and chuckled, and said things she would most certainly not dare say otherwise—for one, she complimented him on his excellent form yesterday, even though she clearly knew nothing of combat and fighting.

He wasn’t a fool, and he knew very well that she would be there in time to watch him, and he knew she would be affected. He often had that effect on women. If anything, it kept him amused. It was very calculated, indeed, and even though he knew that any physical contact with the Duke’s daughter was unthinkable, he could still stir her interest.

Then, of course, the amusement would only work if he wasn’t, in return, interested in the woman. Now, her reddening cheeks and sparkling eyes were torturous. He knew he shouldn’t aspire for spending so much time with her, and yet, he couldn’t help himself but to try to make her stay just a little longer.

When she finally stood, on round feet, and declared that it was rather late, the Vasaath said, “For tomorrow, I’d like you to show me the poorer districts of the city. I’d like to see how you treat your outsiders and degenerates.”

“Oh,” she said and brought her hands together. “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you tomorrow.”

He narrowed his eyes, feeling a slight annoyance rise within his chest. “No?” He didn’t care that it sounded more like a guttural growl than a word.

The girl, however, took a sharp breath and hastily gazed away. “I—I am engaged elsewhere for tomorrow, my lord.”

“And what is it that you will be doing?” He did not mean to sound so spiteful, but he didn’t like the sound of this. She had kept him company every day for two months, and tomorrow, she had more important things to do?

“I am to entertain a nobleman,” said she, her voice suddenly small. “Forgive me, my lord, but I didn’t know until yesterday evening.”

He observed her for a moment, wondering whether to see it as an act of defiance or as an insult. The girl wrung her hands together while swaying slightly as she stood, waiting for his judgment. It gave him a strange sense of satisfaction, to see her handing the power over to him so easily. He could tell her no, that he would not tolerate being set aside by some mere nobleman, and that she would come to him at noon as always. He could tell her—no, order her—that he wanted her to stay the night. Perhaps she would if he did.

Sighing deeply, he just said, “Very well. I suppose our plans can wait another day. Parthanan, ohkas.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, there was regret in her eyes. She then curtsied—slowly, as if not to fall in the process—before leaving the tent.

Shortly after, the Vasaath barked for one of his guards. The warrior entered the tent, keen on following orders. The Vasaath leaned back in his chair. “Have her followed. I want to know who she’s meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said the kasaath. “I’ll inform the kaseraad immediately.”

“Fetch me Kasethen.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Vasaath grunted and waved his had dismissingly and the warrior bowed and left the tent.

Before long, Kasethen entered with a deep bow. “Yes, sir?”

The Vasaath sighed and rose. “Tell me, my friend, why would a Duke’s daughter, with an important diplomatic mission, set that mission aside to entertain a nobleman?”

Kasethen seemed unsure as to what to say.

“I’ll tell you why,” the Vasaath continued as he slowly started to pace the tent. “The nobleman is very important. One might say that he is as important as me. The only conclusion I can draw from that, in times like these, is that the Duke is trying to build alliances.” He looked at his advisor. “The Duke of Noxborough isn’t drawing up a peace treaty, he’s preparing for battle.”

“But, my lord,” said Kasethen, “you never intended to accept a peace treaty, anyway. Why should we assume that Duke Arlington trusts us?”

“Of course, he doesn’t,” said the Vasaath.

“If he manages to rally the Free Cities, we will be outrageously outnumbered,” said Kasethen.

The Vasaath looked at him and sneered. “Do you think a vain man like Duke Arlington has the charisma to bring together six widely different and equally conceited cities to fight a threat like us?”

Kasethen furrowed his brows. “But why are we holding back, then? Why are we giving them time?”

“We aren’t giving them time,” said the Vasaath. “We’re giving us time. We need the Saath before we can strike safely.”

“My lord, the entire army?”

“Yes. I’ve sent for them. We will launch a full invasion.” He straightened. “Kasethen, the Free Cities are divided and have been for five centuries. They consider themselves better than each other, and always have. That’s what sparked the War of the Kings in the first place. Once they’ve seen the unity and might of our Saath, they will succumb. Peacefully, as you wish. Within a year, every one of the Free Cities will be under our command, and we can secure the future of our people.”

Kasethen shook his head. “But my lord, that will anger the Illyrian Empire!”

The Vasaath sighed deeply. “Sit down, Kasethen.”

His advisor looked uncertain, but did as told and placed himself by the table.

The Vasaath poured them each a glass of wine and joined his advisor. With a rich gulp of the tasty liquid, he sighed again. “Yes, that would indeed anger the Golden Emperor, and that’s why we won’t stop until this whole continent is ours.”

Kasethen widened his eyes. “Illyria too?”

The Vasaath let the corners of his lips curl into a smile. Yes, Illyria indeed. The invasion had been planned for years, ever since the rivers in the Faith had frozen and ever since the Wise Ones had fled the Mother’s Shadow. “We’re supposed to secure the northern coastline. Noxborough is the key to the Winter Sea. It’ll be an important strategic stronghold for the wars to come.”

“My lord,” Kasethen gurgled, horrified, “a full invasion of the Illyrian Empire is far beyond what we have the resources for at this point.”

“We have the manpower, and summer is quickly fading. Before we know it, winter will be upon us.” He reached out his hand and gestured the space around him. “Humans fear the cold. They aren’t built for it. Their ships can’t sail the frozen seas. If we take the city before winter comes, we can take advantage of the cold months and have our people at full strength again before spring. We will fill the granaries and larders again on Kasarath and keep our people from starving. The sun cravers in the south won’t march this far north before summer.”

Kasethen seemed speechless—for a saath-kasethen, he was rather naive. How could he have believed that the Vasaath would travel to a wretched place like Noxborough to try to convert and not conquer? How could he think that he would put a stupid crusade ahead of securing the future of his people?

“My lord,” he then said, “this all relies on the presumption that the Free Cities will not aid each other. Yet, if it is as you have predicted, that the nobleman Lady Juniper is to entertain tomorrow is indeed a nobleman from another city and that the Duke is trying to form an alliance, we are already at the point where his ability to gather his people is being put to the test. What if he succeeds? Then, we won’t be able to secure the coastline, and Kasarath might lose a great mass of its best warriors.”

“Nornest was once a great a powerful kingdom,” said the Vasaath. “Its people became its downfall. They didn’t want to work together to appoint a new King, and instead, they tore the land apart. You think they are any better now?”

“That was a long time ago,” Kasethen muttered. “Many generations have passed since then.”

The Vasaath huffed and nodded. “You told me once, when I was still kasaath, that mainland alliances are brittle.”

“Well,” said Kasethen, “that depends on the alliance. Sovereigns, resources, land, and titles are often used as currency in alliances, and they are all as wavering as the mainlanders’ loyalty, but…” His brows furrowed even tighter and he folded his hands on the table. “My lord, one common way of building lasting alliances is through blood. Through marriage.”

The Vasaath raised a brow. He knew about marriages—such an absurd concept. “So the Duke will marry?”

“Or,” said Kasethen and sighed, “his daughter will be married, and bear children to the Duke of another city.”

A sudden sting of regret hit the general’s chest as he realised that his advisor was most certainly right. Indeed, the girl was a formidable tool in building this obscene blood lineage that could join Noxborough to another city and create an alliance built on family and duty, the very building blocks of their absurd faith.

Kasethen cleared his throat. “Of course, that would be an impediment to our endeavours of making her our cardinal spokesperson of the Kasenon.”

“Yes,” said the Vasaath. “We cannot let that happen.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ve sent spies to follow her. Tomorrow, we shall see which city the Duke has turned to.”

Kasethen nodded, but he still seemed deep in thought.

“Share your troubles, venaas,” said the Vasaath.

Kasethen shook his head. “I only wished you would have told me before we left Kasarath.”

“Only to have you advise against it?” the Vasaath huffed.

Kasethen glared at his leader. “My lord, my word has no weight against yourself, the Vasenon, and the Vasmenaan.”

“Of course, it has.” The Vasaath poured himself another glass of wine. “Had you told me you didn’t think this was a wise plan, I might not have voted in its favour at the Triumvirate.”

“And what would the Vasmenaan have said?”

The Vasaath shrugged. “Whatever she’d like. She has to respect my vote as much as her own. We would never launch such a large invasion without a unanimous concurrence, and certainly not if the Head of Military voted against it.”

“Are you wavering now?” Kasethen’s voice was dark, weary. He knew the answer to it.

The Vasaath avoided his scrutinising gaze and shifted in his seat.

Kasethen sighed. “You would never vote against it, even if that would have been my advice.”

“Would it have been your advice?” The Vasaath leaned over the table and furrowed his brows. “Would you have advised me against this? Do you think it’s a foolish plan?”

Kasethen seemed to choose his words wisely before saying, “I believe in your judgment, my lord. I believe in the Vasenon’s judgment, and I believe in the Vasmenaan’s judgment. As you say, if we are patient, we will have the manpower and the elements will be in our favour. Besides, I doubt we would make it for many more years if the lands keep on freezing.”

“However?”

“However,” Kasethen sighed, “forceful conversions never end well. We rip these people apart, we rip their traditions apart! We take from them their families, their dreams, their identities! What we are left with are broken people, forced by fear to succumb to us. There will be uprisings, raids, unrest… we won’t have peace for generations.”

“But the Kasenon will heal them.” The Vasaath straightened. “They will see reason, eventually.”

“My lord,” said Kasethen, his voice now flaring with annoyance, “I believe in the philosophy, just as strongly as you do, but these people don’t. The rich and the powerful will never give up their riches or their power for the thought of equality and solidarity.” The advisor tightened his jaw. “Especially not when we come here for their hard-earned food and crops.” He sighed. “Besides, it all boils down to whether or not the Duke manages to rally the other cities. You shouldn’t underestimate the humans’ will to survive.”

The Vasaath listened whole-heartedly to his advisor, but there were things his dear friend just would not understand. Kasethen was wise, indeed, but his heart was filled with fear.

Muttering, the Vasaath said, “He won’t succeed. He is a vain man, with vain visions. The rich and the powerful are not the people. They are the oppressors of the people, and the people will see us as their liberators. We are feeding them just as much as we are feeding ourselves. They will not be forced to abandon their faith, only to put the Kasenon first. They will not be forced to leave their families, only to do their duties to the Kas. They will not be forced to abandon their traditions or their dreams. We can’t take that away from them.”

Kasethen listened carefully but did not seem fully convinced.

“Let’s give them a sense of belonging, one they’ve never had before. Let these people become part of the People, and let them live in the same riches and abundance as we do.” The Vasaath scoffed. “Well, as we will, once the Heartlands heal and the rivers melt. All we will ask in return is for them to fall in line.”

“I hope,” said Kasethen, though his doubt was still quite unmistakable, “that it will be that easy.”

“It will, my friend. It will.”

Translation:

Maasa – healer

Kaseraad – spies; “the shadow of the people”

Saath – military; army; strength; protection

Venaas – friend