A Funeral for Parthevia

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The golden sun glanced down upon Zubaidah, alone on the Parthevian sands. She had left her retinue from the Ash Company earlier, needing some time by herself before she put the Shah Kosrow back to rest in Lamet. Their plan for burial there was simple: associate Kosrow with the later Parthevian dynasties and rehabilitate them both in some grand historic identity. Was it wrong? She was unsure, so she needed time to think it over. Well, time to consider why it was right.

And so, on her way to the tombs of the dynastic Shahs, Zubaidah would make pilgrimage to the temple of Kurna, situated in southern Amakh. It loomed over the dusty road as a lonely cenotaph with a sand-coloured façade, massive and silent, its heaps of fallen stone degraded, its wide doorway thick and rough from the desert storms. There was no longer very much to see, but from there Zubaidah had a fine view of other Parthevian temples - of the Rostatim, shining bone-white like some grand skeleton; of Atasha Behram, distant and pale gold in the morning sunlight; of little Hamedan, the pretty child of Shah Rahman, with the heads of seven cranes adorning its roof to greet the morning sun.

As she passed them all, Zubaidah wondered whether she would be remembered with such rich displays - or if she would be forgotten, as the dead often are. She stared across them and watched the golden sunlight pour through the temples’ columns, hemmed in by the brilliant colours which painted their walls. As she watched, Zubaidah thought to herself that nearly all - perhaps simply just all - of these colours could be found in the funeral pyre. Every shade of yellow was there; lemon yellow, saffron yellow, the yellow of amber, the yellow of gold, the yellow of the sunset in Lamet, sulphur colour, sand colour, sun colour. Could these yellows not all be found in a fire? And there were reds as well; brick red, blood red, rust red, pink of the carnation, pink of the coral, the red of that little rose which grows in Tisifun. Even the pale blue-turquoise which comes from the blacksmith’s hammer was painted upon these walls.

Yet all these colours were mingled in artistic unity, without taking away from one another, baked into an exquisite palette. Like a flood, they seemed to flow from blue to yellow to red without stopping, seeming to mirror the river as it rushed between the Amakh and Kavir sands; no, mirroring all of Parthevia. She was taken from deepest Isadora to furthest Saffat, as if the entire Parthevian peninsula was laid bare in this one valley. And then it all came back to one point.

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As evening arrived, the funeral procession for the Shah Kosrow came down Lamet’s marble-white valley, dark and silent like the Urkadi river. At its head was the shahzada Gawhur from Isadora, born to the Shah Rahman, who stood beside the aged remnants of Parthevian nobility. Zubaidah was there, a pall-bearer for Kosrow, as were governors from Lamet, Amakh and even Saffat - but they did not join her. No, she was shoulder to shoulder with Natakas, Batuttah, Rafi, Ganzak, Darius and even Azar Shar. They felt the coffin cold and heavy upon them, even with their combined strength. But it did not surprise them, for they carried more than Kosrow upon their shoulders. In that coffin was every person dead from the past century of Parthevian conflict.

Behind them marched hundreds upon hundreds of black-robed mourners; some carried urns for their loved ones while others scattered ashes down the valley. But they all wept and wailed to the sound of drums and setar-players, their notes echoing about the bone-white tombs. Every so often, the drums would slow their beats and give time for someone to dedicate some flowers on a nearby burial-plot. And then, the funeral procession would march onwards again.

In time, they would arrive at a marble-white mausoleum surrounded by hyacinths, its gates decorated with yellows and blues of all shades. But even if the colours were clear and vibrant, shining in the evening torchlight, the painted figures had faded into obscurity. Were they the rulers who rested inside - or the gods who had granted them passage into the afterlife? It mattered little to the funeral procession, which simply marched past them into the mausoleum itself. Inside were scenes better-preserved than those outside, showing past rulers and their retinues feasting at one banquet-table. Each new ruler had been painstakingly added without disturbing the scene, with space clearly marked for more. But there would not be another; with this funeral, the old guard would be put to rest for good.

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The funeral was long; priests came forwards, and prayers were called. Kosrow was interred with the remnants of his mausoleum, his son’s ashes buried beside him. Gawhur spoke some short words, commending the Shah to live with her forefathers. Natakas listed out names of those who died, painstakingly long, and offered their families recompense. Sandalwood filled the mausoleum, and wine was poured as libations. But once all their tears had been shed, the wine was poured elsewhere. And then Zubaidah was the next to speak, her own glass still full, standing before Kosrow’s grave:

‘Friends, family and comrades; all those gathered here today! We mourn the loss of something more than just the Shah Kosrow. We mourn the loss of our homes; our livelihoods; our families. We mourn for the loss of Parthevia.’

‘We have suffered, and seen no end to it. We have poured blood, sweat and tears into this land, but all for no return. Well, the end to that suffering is here and now.’

‘We are no longer alone. We are not Shar or Nazairi; Ash or Toad; Lamet or Amakh. We are altogether Parthevian. Not the Parthevia which was born from Kosrow. Nor the Parthevia which fell with our forefathers. We are something new and similar; a Parthevia formed through our love for this land. It matters not where you came from, whether you were born here, brought here by force or sought refuge here. All that matters is whether you love this land for what it is. That is all Parthevia is. That is all it means to be Parthevian.’

‘If you wish to see this future, I invite you all to raise a toast with me.’ As she lifted her glass high, hundreds of glasses joined hers, ‘For Parthevia!’

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After her speech, Zubaidah mingled with everyone gathered for Kosrow’s funeral, glasses clinking in solidarity, discussing their tragic experiences and hopes for Parthevia’s future, 'Short and sweet, hmm?’ ‘I liked it.’ ‘Your father would’ve been proud.’ ‘You did good by all of us, boss.’

‘Did you mean all of that?’ She was soon greeted by a familiar red-haired woman, decked in the Shar’s ceremonial dress, ‘Of course, lady Azar.’ ‘Well, then, I look forward to working with you.’ ‘It has always been my pleasure to cooperate with the Shars.’ ‘Oh, has it?’ They were joined by another Shar redhead, his musculature squeezed into a tight-fitting black suit, ‘Ah, and there he is. I was waiting to see when you would come talk to me.’ ‘I wanted some build-up, milady.’ ‘And the procession wasn’t long enough?’ ‘It was just enough time to soak in your radiance.’ ‘Hey, watch it, Rashid. Don’t run that tongue of yours too much. I like the lady Mansur, and don’t want her scared off by the likes of you.’ ‘I would never do that, chief.’ ‘Sure you would…’

As the lady Azar swished away, leaving her friend alone with Darius and a half-empty glass, Zubaidah raised an eyebrow, ‘Oh, Rashid not Darius?’ ‘Nevermind that. I didn’t expect your speech to be received so well.’ ‘I made sure that it would be.’ ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, you most definitely know how to hold someone’s attention.’ ‘And when you say ‘someone’, I assume that you mean your attention.’ ‘Well, what can I say? You hold my attention so tightly that I cannot tear my eyes off you.’

‘Well, I’d advise you do, Darcy.’ As the crowds began to move away from central mausoleum, gathering around the pyres outside, a dapper gentleman appeared before them both, ‘Oh, it's you, Salleh.’ ‘Good to see you too, my boy! And you too, Zuzu.’ ‘Terrible timing as always, Salleh.’ ‘Well, maybe if you two lovebirds weren’t at it so much, you would’ve noticed - ’ ‘Yes, yes. We noticed.’ ‘We know how to mix business and pleasure.’ ‘Too much info, guys, even for me. Soooo anyways. You know that a couple of the bigwigs have been poisoned then?’

‘How could we not, when the Hashashin have been making such a big fuss about it?’ A few men dressed as waiters, or rather disguised as some, passed them with thinly-veiled smirks, ‘Hey, I thought we were covering it up pretty well!’ ‘As well as you can, Yahya. And you too, Ashraf. But, really, what did you expect? Darius and I are head-mentors for a reason.’ ‘I must say, however, good work in sealing the mausoleum discreetly - ’ ‘ - and removing the crowds inside without suspicion.’

‘So what do you think of it all? Who’d try to off them at an event like this!’ ‘First things first: I assume that, since there hasn’t been a big commotion, this was a low-grade poison?’ Another man joined them, bowing to the Hashshin head-mentors, before rushing off, 'They ingested some wisp oak, so we’ve stabilised them with some activated charcoal.’ ‘Thank you, Kihya. Now then, let’s have a look at our victims. The first’s a Shar working with the Ash Company, the second’s a Hashashin who defected from the Isadora branch to my Amakh one, and the third’s a Toad acting as the middleman between myself and Natakas. Huh, thats weird…’

‘All six of them are tied together by their business with me, my Amakh branch or the Ash Company.’ She paused for a second before changing her mind, ‘No, that’s not it.’ She frowned as she though long and hard, ‘All of them had met with me within the last week to discuss my speech.’

‘They were all vocal supporters of a more unified Parthevia.’ ‘So that would mean the perpetrator was presumably someone against Parthevian unification…’ ‘But who could - ’

As Salleh voiced his concerns, Zubaidah held a finger in the sandalwood-scented air, straining her ears to hear some distant voices, ‘I can hear someone in the lower crypt.’ ‘But we closed them off to the general public.’ ‘And all the Hashashin are stationed here or outside.’ ‘I’ll check it out - ’ ‘ - and I’ll join you.’ Knowing that he could not dissuade them, Salleh bade them farewell with a typical Hashashin handshake, ‘Don’t be too reckless, alright?’

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Darius and Zubaidah stole down the labyrinthine mausoleum like thieves in the night, having retrieved weapons from the Hashashin, their ears open and blades cold. With every twist and turn, they came upon the faces of old and ancient Shahs, dust concealing their names. But soon enough, the labyrinth opened into a moonlit room where two black-robed figures stood in deep discussion. Upon hearing footsteps, however, both parties drew their blades and cast shadows on the painted walls.

‘Nazairi?’ Even if her face was veiled, Zubaidah could not mistake that voice for anyone else. ‘Sukhainah.’ Nor could Darius mistake that blade for someone else’s but his. ‘Fadahl!’ 'Darius.’

‘Please tell me you’re not the ones behind this.’ Nazairi did not lower her blade, nor even disguise her voice, simply letting the veil fall from her face, ‘Oh, so you’re not even denying it…’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘We were allies, comrades, friends even.’ ‘And we still are.’ ‘Then why did you do this? ’ ‘Because I had to.’ ‘Was it because I won last time?’ ‘It’s not always about winning or losing.’ ‘But you will certainly be the one losing this time.’

Without anymore hesitation, Nazairi fell upon Zubaidah like Mountain Dew, barely blocked by Henam Guard. Zubaidah would respond with a subtle flick of the wrist, forcing Nazairi’s blade off hers, and planted her spearhead into a crack within the stone floor. Kicking out Nazairi’s feet, Zubaidah would twirl around the spearshaft, pushing away her opponent with a well-timed Asherah Form. Nazairi would reciprocate, however, pouncing forwards and curling her foot around the base of the spear in order to  dislodge it, shaking Zubaidah from her perch. But when she tumbled forwards, Zubaidah would instead bounce over Nazairi in a Dulcet Bound, retrieving her Dancer’s Sash from around her forearms. When her opponent twisted around, blades flashing with a Twin Peak Slash, she would sidestep Nazairi with Fluid Evasion, throwing the silken strands around her sword and pulling her unbearably close.

‘Please at least tell me why.’ ‘You wouldn’t even understand…’ ‘We grew up together.’ Muscles strained as each side tried to claim that blade for themselves, ‘We studied the same together.’ Shadows loomed larger and larger as their arms grew more tired, ‘We went through everything together.’ And yet they did not cease their struggle, ‘It was always me, you and Kut.’


‘Because you weren’t born a Nazairi.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You were born an Atta and a Mansur. But I was a Nazairi.’

‘We can never coexist.’ Nodding to Fadahl, whose blade was locked against Darius’, Nazairi caught a poison bomb from him and smashed it against Zubaidah’s arm, nicking her arm with a small dagger, beginning their Monsoon Rains, ‘One of us must fade away, just so the other can survive.’ Fadahl followed up with a piercing lunge at Darius’ forearm, spilling blood on the stone floor, before Nazairi finished with a Lone-Peak Slash,  ‘That’s how it’s always been.’ Smoked filled the room, the moon’s gaze clouded, as both Fadahl and Nazairi rocketed past Zubaidah towards the crevice leading outwards, ‘And that’s how it will always be.’

‘Where are you going?!’ ‘Why don’t we call this a draw for now? Because next time, I’ll win for sure.’

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A woman hidden behind silken veils smiled as she stared out over the capital of Parsif. It was a thin smile, something bereft of any good emotion, blank like the map of Parthevia upon her desk. As a pair of black-robed figures approached her, however, she took out a quill and dipped into a full inkwell, annotating parts of the Amakh and Lamet regions whilst they spoke, ‘Did you erase all traces?’ ‘We did, milady.’ ‘As you commanded.’ She stared intently at a red vial of blood handed to her by these black-robed figures, ‘Then our strawman will take the blame?’ ‘All the evidence you requested was planted at the scene.’ ‘She will connect the murders with one of the head-mentors instead of myself?’ ‘Of course, milady.’


‘Take your hands of him, initiate!’ In the aftermath of Kosrow’s funeral, with all the guests convinced the uproar was just that they had simply drunk too much, the Hashashin had seized Salleh for initiating this situation, ‘But since Fadahl and Nazairi worked under him, it suggests  - ’ ‘That doesn't mean anything!’ 'I am afraid that we will need to detain Salleh until further evidence shows his innocence - or guilt.’ With one glare, the mentor Kavan and his squad backed away, taking Salleh with them, when Zubaidah’s eyes suddenly lit up, 'How could I miss that! Heh, they thought they could hide it. But it’s so obvious…’

‘You’re right that it’s someone in the Hashashin who caused this. But it’s not someone in any of our branches. The culprit is none other than…’