A man, his clothes dusty and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his village's despair, knelt before the throne. His voice, thin with hunger and worry, trembled as he spoke of the dying fields.
"My king," he began, his eyes fixed on the floor, "the harvest is failing. The crops… they just aren't growing. The few that do sprout are withered, and the gourds hold nothing but dry seeds. The hunger, Your Majesty, it has begun to gnaw at our people."
He looked up, and his gaze found King Rega's. Tears welled in the man's eyes as he spoke of a strange mushroom, purple and insidious, that had begun to choke the life from the roots of the plants. He was about to break, to let the emotion overcome him, but a raised hand from the king halted him.
"Enough," King Rega said, his voice a low, steady rumble that commanded attention. "I know of this blight. Do not humble yourself with tears over what is already known." The king did not want to see such weakness in his presence, though a flicker of frustration crossed his face. The man's suffering was real, but what good was public weeping?
"I have already arranged it," Rega smiled, settling back on his throne. "A wagon of maize and yams will depart from the southern villages before nightfall. The Diviners say a great wind is coming, so I will send a great hawk to carry the supplies directly to your village." He did not need a prophecy to see the need; his eyes were on the roads, the harvests, the well-being of his kingdom. For what good was a king if there were no subjects?
The man sobbed in relief, bowing low. "Bless you, Your Majesty! The Orishas smile upon us!"
King Rega's left eye twitched. He had saved them. He, King Rega, had arranged the wagon and provided the bird. Not the Orishas, who had been silent through this entire famine. Not the Orishas, who had shown no sign of answering the desperate prayers sent to their distant homes in the sky. Rega's jaw clenched, though his smile never faltered. "Go."
As the man left, Rega sat in silence, his two personal guards standing like statues at the foot of the throne. Just as the silence began to settle, the royal Diviner, Zuberi, entered. Rega's jaw tightened. He still didn't trust this man. He had betrayed Rega's father, providing the knowledge that allowed Rega to seize the throne, yet the king felt only contempt for him.
Zuberi smiled, a confident, knowing twist of his lips. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice like oil, "I have been Divining, seeking a way to feed our people. And I have good news. The Orishas have given a sign. An opportunity will present itself shortly. One that will allow you to cure the land."
Rega's smile thinned. "The Orishas are silent."
"They are not silent to me," Zuberi replied, bowing with deliberate grace.
Rega's eyes narrowed, a cold glint appearing in their depths. "What opportunity?" he asked, the words clipped and sharp.
Zuberi's smile did not waver. "They did not say. The Orishas will provide when the time is right."
The two guards glanced at each other, a silent agreement passing between them. The king was not pleased. He might end the man's life right here. But instead, a slow, predatory smile spread across Rega's face.
"Thank you, Zuberi," he said, his voice surprisingly warm. "You have given me great hope."
Zuberi bowed, his expression pleased with himself. "You are most welcome, Your Majesty," he said, before turning and gliding from the room, his long robes sweeping behind him.
King Rega watched him go. He turned to his guards, his smile fading. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a low growl. "I still need him. His divinations are relied upon to keep the citizens docile."
The guards offered no response, but a shared look of relief passed between them. The king's patience was a fearsome thing, and they were glad it was not yet spent.
A sudden stillness descended upon the throne room, heavier than the silence that had preceded it. One of the king's guards subtly shifted her stance. Her eyes fixed on the shadowed archway opposite the throne. A flicker of movement. A disturbance in the air.
Without a word, both guards moved. It was not a run; it was a disappearance. In one moment they were standing at attention, and in the next, they were ghosting through the deep shadows, their movements fluid and silent. They converged on the darkness where the guard had sensed the presence, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. But when they reached the spot, the air was still and cold. No one.
"What did you find?" King Rega's voice cut through the throne room. It was a simple question, but the guards knew the threat beneath it. Failure was not an option.
They turned back to face their king. "Nothing, Your Majesty," said the other guard. "No one was there. But… we sensed it. A residual trace. A small amount of ase."
Rega's amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. He had taken the throne with a death. It was a fitting, almost poetic irony that his end might come from the same shadows.
"An assassin," he murmured, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. He had made so many enemies to get here. Who was bold enough to try to kill him now? He thought of the four men who had helped arrange his rise to power, the men he now held at his mercy with promises of gold and power. They were all eating from his hand, grateful for the crumbs of his favor. No, it wasn't them. Perhaps the Northern tribes were finally tired of fighting his armies and decided his death was the only solution.
Rega gave a humorless smile. It was pointless to guess. He had too many enemies to name just one. The answer would be found with the one who held the blade, not the one who hired them.
"Find him," he commanded. "Find this assassin, and bring him to me. I will find out who hired him, even if I have to tear the truth from his lips myself."