There was no comforting Otoallo. Upon her release, she refused to see me. She locked herself in her apartment, allowing only her closest friends to visit. My sense of loss was two-fold. The loss of a child leaves the spirit shattered, but when your love abandons you to the helplessness and sense of failure that twists your insides, it is devastating.

A lesser man may find comfort among friends, but a King only hears empty words. Life goes on, and the King must stand for the people. He must be the pillar of strength that others draw from. But where may a King find strength? To whom may he turn? I gave what was expected of me; I gave cheery congratulations, and hardy pats on the shoulders of those who stood brightly in my dark shadow. My smiles were empty.

The initiative had kicked off with bazaars and crafts, competitions, and festive parties. Musicians sang sweet songs, and dancers in bright costumes were cheered by the milling crowds. One hundred ships hosted the initiative, and the King’s agenda was packed. I was trotted between events like an exotic beast at the end of a short chain. So it was that I found myself on the Anun ship, Ku’dhu.

It was the third rotation, in the latter turns, and my spirit was numb. I would have to endure twenty-seven more rotations. The condolences were still at high tide, and my mouth was tired of saying thanks. I stood in the broad concourse, lost among the many tables and booths of a vast bazaar. Another table, another display of shiny things. I could no longer tell one from another. Barachiel took my elbow and gently guided me to the next display. It was a table filled with cakes and treats for cycle nines and eights.

The Generals in my train were making military small talk. Khamuel was reading from the table’s plaque. The information did not register. I looked up and recognized a smiling face. It was Zotha. She stood smiling brightly in a tight blue jumpsuit. She wore a pink apron. Her brown hair was longer than I remembered.

She spoke above the general din. “You probably don’t remember me.”

“Zotha,” I said, smiling a more genuine smile. “I remember.”

“I’m flattered,” she replied with a happy smile.

I asked, “How goes your training?”

“Tier one,” Zotha answered. Her vaunting grin was pretty among her brown curls.

Khamuel stepped close to me and added, “Zotha graduated with honors.”

“Really?” I asked, turning from Khamuel back to Zotha. “That pleases me. I must say, I am impressed. What’s next, General?”

She laughed sweetly, blushing. “What else?” she replied.

I walked around the table, and Zotha turned to me in mild surprise. I wanted not to shout. “How is Otoallo?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, thrown by the sudden change of topic. “Well, she sits with that ball in her hands, smelling the flowers. Sometimes, she cries. Sometimes, she naps.”

“Is she eating?” I asked. “How is her health?”

“We make sure she eats,” Zotha said with a serious expression. “She is well. She is just,” Zotha paused briefly to choose her words, “very sad.”

I was relieved to know that much. I took Zotha’s hands in mine, to her obvious discomfort. “I thank you so much,” I said to her. “Please let Otoallo know that I miss her. Tell her I love her, and I’m lost without her.”

Zotha answered, “Yes, Your Majesty. I will do that.”

Back in the charge of my guards, and with the Generals in tow, I was led to seats in an archery tournament. A man with the head of a bull was the master of ceremonies. Five contestants marched out across a floor covered with wood chips and straw. In the distance were targets that represented each of the races. The master of ceremonies called above the din, introducing each contestant in turn. I sat in the first row of wooden benches with my entourage. I stared at the covered floor with little interest until a sixth contestant ran out to join the others. It was Zotha, tugging at her tight-fitting costume.

Archery was an Anun passion but was also practiced by the military. Three of the five original contestants were Anun, two were Axerri. Zotha was the only Huim contestant and the only woman. Suddenly I was interested. 

I heard one of my Generals say, “There she is.” I did not know that they expected her.

The master of ceremonies explained that each contestant would pick one target and land seven arrows in rapid succession, aiming for small red circles. Timing and precision were key. I saw a circle on the forehead of each target, also on each shoulder, each upper leg, center of the chest, and in the groin. An excited crowd sat all around us. Those not in seats stood crowded nearby.

Barachiel, to my immediate left, leaned close and said, “I wager Zotha to win. She’s really good.”

Khamuel spoke around me in answer to Barachiel. “You have nothing to wager.”

Barachiel replied stubbornly, “I have myself. If I am not right, I will do your work for three rotations.”

Khamuel said, “If that is the case, my wager is on the Anun, Daflir. He has never lost.”

Daflir, as reigning champion, was the first to strap on the quiver. He took his position behind the white line and flexed pretentiously. I could tell by the excited chatter that Daflir was the tournament favorite. He positioned his quiver behind his left shoulder and made minute adjustments. He stood with legs spread, his bow in his left hand, and his first arrow in his right hand.

The whistle blew, and Daflir let fly his arrows. He was fast, each of his arrows finding its mark, except for the last. It was inside the circle, but not true center. The Anun, Sarasa, went next. His quiver behind his right shoulder, and bow in his left hand, Sarasa stepped to the white line and awaited the whistle. As with Daflir, Sarasa seemed to have his own group to cheer him on. The whistle blew and Sarasa made his shots. He lost to Daflir, having two arrows off true center. Daflir’s group cheered loudly.

The third Anun stepped up. His name was Brazmer. His first shot touched the red line of the circle, costing him extra points. It was the same for the Axerri archers, Consoma and Tiasur. By the time that Zotha took her place, Daflir was in the lead. I had listened to each of the archers get cheered by their friends, and I waited to see who would cheer for Zotha. When I heard no one, I jumped to my feet and clapped loudly. Zotha turned in surprise, more so as my Generals stood one by one to join me.

I noticed that Zotha wore her quiver at odds with the other archers. She had positioned her quiver beneath her left arm. She held her bow in her left hand. She stood with her left foot to the white line and focused on the target that represented the Anun. I was intrigued, and when the whistle blew, time seemed to slow. Zotha notched, drew, and fired in one fluid motion. The first arrow struck, it was true center. The second and third arrows landed true center. By the time Zotha pulled her seventh arrow, all of us were quiet in anticipation. I held my breath. Six arrows had landed true center, and Zotha needed one more for a perfect score. The final arrow flew to its mark, and the crowd jumped to its collective feet. I was among them, clapping my hands, and cheering loudly.

Zotha stood before me, smiling happily. I smiled as I waited for the award to be placed in my hands. The Generals gathered and praised her with reserved comments. I noticed her ill-fitting costume. It was a mat synthetic fabric hastily produced. The top and trousers were flat green, and the pointed shoes were of the same material. It fit her tightly and caused her discomfort, but I was secretly impressed with her full figure. Zotha noticed my wandering eyes and I looked away just as the award came to me.

The award was a small gold cup with a plaque affixed loosely to the outside by a chain. The plaque read, Zotha, Archery Master. As I turned to Zotha, casual conversations around us came to an abrupt stop. I reached out and placed the award in her hand as I held her arm. An archivist stepped forward and flashed bright lights in our eyes.

I said to Zotha, smiling, “Please accept this award for your impressive skills. Please also accept the commendation of the King.”

Zotha hugged her award and bowed her head, hiding a lovely smile. “The King is kind,” she said.

At my desk, in the late turns, I saw the image on my node screen. Zotha seemed shy and breathless. I held her by her arm, smiling like an idiot. I feared that if Otoallo saw the image, it would trouble an already troublesome relationship. I looked up from my node to find my guards approaching.

“Tell him,” said Barachiel. “Tell him to honor his promise.”

I looked up at Khamuel and said offhandedly, “Honor your promise.”

Barachiel turned to Khamuel with an accusing finger and a loud, “Ha!”

I asked Khamuel, “What is it you must do?”

Khamuel answered, straight-faced, “Menial chores after our workouts.”

“You seem unhappy,” I noted as I tapped off the node screen.

“It is beneath my rank,” he answered.

At my reply, Barachiel’s smile left his face. I said, “I will give Barachiel extra work here, and both of you can be unhappy.”

The rotations flew by as I hid behind a vacant smile. The milling, noisy crowds, the endless condolences, the petty conversations shouted above the general din; it was all too much for me. It drained me of life and will. I fell into an empty seat with a weary sigh. I watched my people.

They stood in small clusters discussing the end of events. They sorted leftover goods and took down stands. Workers swept the floor. Rigil sat beside me with a cup of water and cheered me with a smile. I sipped the water and took a deep dazed breath.

Rigil said to me, “You look tired, Jeez. Let me take you home.”

I answered, happy that I no longer had to shout, “I want never to be involved in another bazaar.”

Rigil replied, smiling, “You’re still new at this King business. You will eventually plant your feet and make your stand. For now, please find rest and peace.”

“You are a good friend,” I said. “Take me home.”

I took my friend’s arm, stood, and looked about almost presciently. My guards were trotting to my side. We treed to the throne ship and walked across the glass sea. Rigil turned at the stairs and hugged me.

“I must go,” he said. “You must sleep. I entrust you to the care of your guards.”

Barachiel said, “We’ll take it from here, friend.”

Barachiel and Khamuel assisted my climb and brought me to the white room. I left them at their table, and walked to my bed, dragging my gold belt in one hand. I fell heavily, and gratefully, into my bed. I killed the lights with a word and panted like a man who had finished a race. My pillow was my prize. Sleep was deep and sweet.

I was roused by soft voices in the white room. I walked to the desk yawning, rubbing my eyes. I saw my guards speaking with fellow warriors, but there was someone else among them, a familiar Phlaecian. Engil was rolling his upper tentacles together as a Huim might wring his hands. I was alarmed to see his distress. When he fell to the floor, my heart dropped.

Engil’s collapse made me fearful. I fell against the desk, barely holding myself up. Something dire concerned the love of my life, and I dared not ask what. Frozen in place, I watched my guards approach as the unfamiliar warriors assisted Engil. Barachiel bowed his head, his news too heavy to carry.

My voice cracked. “Just say it.”

Khamuel stepped forward to speak. “Your majesty, Otoallo is dead.”

With a gasp, I fell into the arms of my two guards. I trembled. I had no strength to stand. I was lifted; my guards set me atop my desk and held me in place. Dead? It cannot be, I thought. Please, let it not be true.

Barachiel said loudly, “Breathe, Your Majesty!”

Khamuel shook me hard until I inhaled. I looked up through burning tears. Khamuel said to me, “I am sorry, Your Majesty, but you must be strong.” He shook me again, and asked, “Can you do that for me?”

I tried to nod. I tried to sit up straight. I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. Tears spread silently on my sleeve, but my spirit screamed in me. My thoughts stammered, what happened? My mouth could not say the words. I found it hard to catch my breath.

Khamuel said softly, “Otoallo took her life. The GM noted the act and contacted security. I am very sorry to report they were too late.”

I looked across the white room to Otoallo’s brother. The warriors could not comfort him. His loss was as deep as mine, his pain as cruel. I stood from the desk and pushed past my guards. I walked across the white room; the warriors stood and stepped back. On my knees, I took Engil into my arms. Together, we wept.