Chapter 20

The two royal half-brothers stare at each other. Rather than before a traditional royal audience, by mutual agreement they are alone in a martial fitness room at one side of the Great Hall of the Giants. Preparing, psyching, silent.

Seeking advantage in each other’s eyes, in each other’s posture, even in the turn of a head. This is a sacred ritual they prepare for. Disagreements originating from back beyond their childhood.

Just as their ancestors have done for thousands of sars before them, their disagreements can lead to arguments, the arguments to feuds, feuds to fights, and fights to mortal combats. An intergenerational conflict, seemingly without end.

Lord Xib repeats his opening statement and reiterates his feelings, saying, “I am firstborn, Dalu. I feel it and live it. As firstborn, I have the right of ascension, the kingship.

“You… stand at my side as second to the throne.” Lord Dalu circles around his half-brother. He sniffs the air, like a great cat closing on its prey.

In royal tradition, he prefers to follow in his grandfather’s steps. King Dula, like he, had an uncontainable fiery temper he used to advantage.

“Brother, brother, brother… Do you not remember? You were of a concubine born to our father. You are a half-breed and entitled to nothing.”

Pirouetting gracefully, Dalu sweeps a bow, and cuts a sinister grin.

“I, on the other hand, am born to my father of a royal half-sister, with pure blood flowing in her veins. You know as well as I, the heir to the throne can only be of pure blood. That heir is me, and you are my second.”

Dalu slips a hidden blue steel mist dagger from his sash and waves it back and forth under Xib’s nose, then says, “And this is my first, brother!”

Stepping back cautiously, with his eyes focused on Dalu, Xib draws a similar blade tucked in the sleeve of his tunic, and holds it at the ready.

“Do you really think you have it in you to do this, Dalu?”

“Shall we mete our blood shares and discover, Xib?”

Like impassioned lovers dancing to each other’s heart beats, the two men begin to sway and circle, measuring distances and angles, glancing at lights and shadows, watching for missteps.

They circle each other, faster and faster each time, four times around. This too, is a ritual, the sacred drawing of the blood. Small cuts and slashes, often leading to long gashes and deep wounds.

Dalu suddenly fakes a misstep. Then, moving as if to fall, he snaps his blade into a quick undercut, slicing Xib’s tunic, and narrowly missing his ribcage.

Whirling away, Xib careens off a wall and lands, running straight at Dalu. Tossing his dagger back and forth from one hand to the other, he slashes at his arm and sees blood reflecting on his blade’s edge.

Both stop, panting and wiping away beads of sweat. Drawing first blood is a fundamental moment in the ritual.

Dalu bows, then throws his dagger, burying it in the wood floor between Xib’s feet. He is not willing to sacrifice any more blood this day and says, “I leave you this round, but I will never leave you the throne.”

Half-bowing and burying his dagger in the same fashion, Xib keeps his eyes locked on Dalu’s and says, “I take this round with honor, just as I will take the throne with honor.”

Lord Xib turns and leads Lord Dalu out of the training room, and each walk away to the doorways at opposite ends of the long hall.

Turning again, they salute with fists to heart, then spin and decamp.

Two more blue steel mist daggers are retrieved by the great hall’s caretakers, carefully cleaned and e-cataloged. The ritual’s date, the participants, the outcome. Immortalized in blood and relegated to the dusty shelves of Nibiruan history.