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Antar in Twilight, by Nytie
Author's Note: It should be said here that though Max, Isabel, Michael and Tess are replications of the Royal Four in Antar, they are not the same people. They've had different upbringings and grew up in different environments. The characters and the situations found in this story will be mostly separate from the Roswell universe, except for adhering to several things that were established on the show: that Zan was a good king and left no heir; that Vilandra betrayed the Royal Four to Kivar; that Rath was second in line to be king and that a group of people believed he would have made a better ruler than Zan; that the
granilith is a point of interest among Antar and its neighboring planets; and that Zan and Vilandra's mother survived them. Ava's personality I played with liberally, since there was little mention of what she was like.
Whew, that was long. Okay, onwards to the story! I. Sun and Moons. Unsafe Channels. "The rebels' arm has grown long." The Vault of the Kings. Zan made his way across the length of the beach at a leisurely pace, taking a peculiar pleasure in watching the wet pink sand sink slightly beneath his bare feet. He breathed deeply and gratefully. The air was clearer and lighter here than in Antiox, and freer somehow. The tangy scent of the ocean wafted across his nose, invigorating him and making his senses come alive. Over the past few days, they'd been dulled to the point of numbness. He attributed this to the tedium of his work. He'd spent a week acting as mediator between two large farming communities in Ergon. They'd been fighting for two months over a large tract of fertile land. The dispute was nothing the local judges couldn't handle, but Zan's father thought it would be a good way to earn back the people's trust and confidence if the crown prince himself came down to settle the matter. It would show the people that their sovereigns still cared for their wellbeing, King Vid had said. What he did not say, but Zan nevertheless knew, was that this was also a test of the young man's diplomatic skill and strength of mind, which he needed to see a boring task to its end. It was also, Zan mused, a way of giving him a lesson in kingly arts without having to actually make the effort to teach him. A faint sense of bitterness came over him, but he was so used to his father's indifferent treatment of him that the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. Zan went to the edge of the water and let the waves wash over his feet and reform around the edges. He supposed he couldn't really fault his father for failing to be just that --- a father. He was king, after all, and Zan had been taught since childhood that a king was never his own man. He belonged to no one but his people. Zan knew the same sacrifice would be asked of him one day --- to give up everything that was uniquely his: his thoughts, his interests, the people he cared about --- that he might serve Antar the Great with all his being. He knew all this and accepted it as his fate. He sat up slowly, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. The sky had gone a dark purple, and Nev and Traven, the two large moons, were out already. The third, the little one called Pan, was peeking out from just above the horizon. Feeling dazed, Zan wondered how long he'd been asleep. It had been but high afternoon when he set out from his family's palace in Ergon. He turned away from the sun's red, sickly glare. He hated looking at it, though the poetic part of him thought it was bizarrely appropriate: a dying sun setting on a dying world, if "dying" was a fitting term for a society that was destroying itself. He got up to his feet and began walking back to the palace. From the distance, he could see two men standing by the gate. One was waving his arms at him and the other was yelling something through cupped hands. Zan couldn't make out what he was saying, but there was no mistaking the urgent look on their faces. Zan felt a jolt of electricity run through him and suddenly knew, with a frightening kind of certainty, that something was terribly wrong. He ran all the way to the gate to meet the servants. "What is it?" he demanded breathlessly. The first one spoke up. "My lord, you are being called back to Antiox. There is a matter there that you must see to immediately." "Is my transport ready?" Zan asked. "Yes, sir, and your escorts," the second servant said. Zan followed him as he led the way to the hangar. "Did my father say what the matter was?" Zan asked. "No, my lord," the servant answered. When Zan reached the hangar, he saw that there were guards posted all around his shuttle, only waiting for him to board. There were twice as many as he had brought with him to Ergon. "Why---" he began. "It is a precaution, my lord, ordered by the King's council," the first servant said. As Zan climbed into the transport, the servant called out after him, "May the gods speed you on your way." The guards came in after Zan, and shut the hatch behind them. Within minutes, the shuttle took off from the hangar. Two small fighter jets pulled up beside it. Zan went over to the cockpit of the shuttle and said to the captain, "I want you contact the Royal Palace." "My lord, we have been instructed against it," the captain said. "The situation is not fit to be discussed over the waves. The rebels might be listening in on our channels." Zan understood this, but something in him, some powerful instinct, begged him to find out what was going on as quickly as possible. "Do you know what the emergency is?" Zan asked the captain. "No, my lord," the pilot replied, his tone one of exaggerated patience. He was clearly annoyed at having to entertain the prince's questions. Zan bit back a sharp reprimand, knowing that it would do more harm than good. The captain obviously didn't know anything. Zan retreated into the passenger cabin. A small gap between two mountains served as the only entrance into the city, and it was heavily guarded. None passed through it without the knowledge of the Chancellor of the City. Even Zan's shuttle was stopped at the gate while the police verified the vehicle's passengers and authorization code. When the shuttle entered Antiox proper, Zan lifted the metal screen that covered the window next to his seat. It was security protocol to keep all the windows closed until they were within the city. It was a damned foolish one, he thought, as though the shut windows would keep people from guessing the identity of the shuttle's passenger. The two fighter jets accompanying it bore the insignia of the Royal Army, after all. Outside his window, he could see the city was already waking. The farmers were tending to their fields, the soldiers were forming in front of their barracks and early bird merchants were setting up shop. Only the nobility seemed to be sleeping still, but Zan knew it wouldn't be long before they were up. Antiox did not suffer sluggards well. Instead of soothing him, though, the familiar sight of the city and its bustling inhabitants only intensified Zan's disquiet. Something was wrong here, and no one seemed to know it but him. It was a lonely, even frightening feeling. At length, the shuttle arrived at the Royal Palace, landing smoothly within its gates. Guards lined the steps that led to the entrance of the palace, and on those steps, Zan saw, two of his father's advisers were waiting for him. The shuttle's hatch hissed open, and Zan stepped out. The first of the advisers went forward to greet him. "Welcome home, Zan," he said. "I do wish you were coming home to less dire and regrettable circumstances." Zan clasped Sabor's hand, taking some comfort in that firm, familiar grip. When Sabor was younger, he had been Zan's chief tutor and close friend. And when Zan had finished his studies, he'd asked his father to give Sabor a place in his council. Zan knew no better, wiser or compassionate man than he. Whatever crisis awaited him now, Zan knew he could rely on Sabor to give him good counsel. "My lord, the council awaits you," the second adviser said, going down the steps to meet Zan. "And your mother too." Zan frowned, feeling puzzled. His mother rarely had anything to do with the council, though she was perhaps his father's most trusted counselor. As he and the two advisers climbed up the stairs, Zan inquired after his parents and his sister. "Vilandra is well," the second adviser said. "But the Queen would do well to have her son by her side. And the King---" "There will be time enough for that later, Kerok," Sabor interjected, giving his younger colleague a look of warning. Zan examined the uneasy expression on Sabor's face and the careful impassivity on Kerok's, and understood, in a moment of perfect, jarring clarity, just what had transpired during his absence. He silently followed the two men inside the palace as they navigated the many twisting corridors. When they reached the War Room, where the king's council of advisers was gathered, Zan said simply, "My father is dead, isn't he?" He looked to Sabor, but the older man wouldn't meet his gaze. Finally, Kerok answered, "Yes, my lord," and pushed the War Room's doors open. "--- rebels' arm must have grown long if they can poison the king in his own palace," Raiek was saying. "Indeed," another adviser agreed. "Perhaps we should think about removing the Royal Family to one of their safe houses in---" "No," Zan interrupted softly, marveling to hear himself speak, for he had been silent until now. "We will remain here. The rebels aren't so powerful that they can terrorize the House of Antar into fleeing from our home." "My lord, the Palace is no longer safe for you---" "If you can't keep me safe here, it's unlikely you will be able to protect me elsewhere," Zan said. "It is clear now that the rebellion has infiltrated our ranks. Even if we moved into a safe house, they could learn of it and follow us there." There was a moment of uncomfortable, almost accusing silence in the War Room. Zan looked to his mother, who gave him a nearly imperceptible nod of approval, and went on. "We must find my father's murderer, flush out all the spies that work within the palace, and learn what we can from them." "How do you propose to do that, sir?" Tron asked. Zan had already thought of this, but didn't want to disclose it to the others yet. "Leave that to me, for now," he said. "There is also the matter of what we will tell the public," Sabor said. "We cannot say that King Vid was assassinated by the rebels. The people's faith in their rulers is already wavering. If they find out the truth..." "It will be chaos," Kai said gloomily. "Many more will defect to the rebellion, our allies will withdraw their support and the people will stop obeying our laws." "We can say that he died of a sickness he concealed from the people," Zan said, though the prospect of lying left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "The Ploon virus runs strong in the Royal line," Amara spoke up. "It is not a difficult disease to hide, and the people will have no trouble believing it." A murmur of assent ran through the council. "Tell it to the people and make sure that those who know the truth keep quiet about it," Zan instructed. "We will commit my father to the Vault of the Kings in three days' time." "Yes, my lord," the council responded. Zan stood up and made to leave, when Iloran, one of the king's most valued counselors, suddenly got up and held out his hand. "My lord?" he said. There was a large, jeweled pendant and a chain coiled on his outstretched hand. The pendant bore the seal of the Royal House of Antar. Each king of that house had worn it until their deaths. "This was entrusted to me until your return," Iloran said. Zan hesitated. He didn't want to own the necklace, or even touch it, but, being very much aware that everyone was staring at him, he took it and hurriedly placed it over his neck. "Thank you," he said almost brusquely. Amara and the council of advisers stood up and bowed their heads to him. Zan nodded at them awkwardly, and all but ran from the room. "Zan," a soft but commanding voice called out behind him. Zan turned and saw Amara standing behind him. Her hands were clasped together, as if she was trying to steady them, but otherwise she looked calm and self-possessed. Even her eyes were dry now. "We need to talk," she said. "Of course," Zan said. "Should I call Vilandra?" Amara briefly turned her face away from her son, as if she was ashamed of something. In even, carefully modulated tones, she said, "Not yet. She doesn't know your father's dead." Zan stared at his mother incredulously. "You haven't told her?" he asked. Amara shook her head. "We will," she said. "But for now, affairs of the state must precede family obligations. I request a private audience with the Prince of Antar." Against his will, Zan felt himself hardening towards her. Amara had taken a much more personal approach in raising her children than her husband did, but even she prioritized Antar over them. He fought his anger, knowing deep down that she was in the right. State before family; a king --- or a prince --- was not his own man, but his people's. "Very well," Zan said coolly. He led the way to the sitting room of his chamber, and he and Amara sat across from each other. "Do not think me cold or uncaring, Zan," Amara said, her tone warmer and less formal than it had been in the War Room. "You know I love you and your sister above all things in this world. It is because I love you that I must speak to you now." She took a deep breath, as though she was about to say something she'd rather not, and plunged on. "Zan, the leader of these rebels..." "Kivar," Zan supplied. "Kivar," Amara said, "he is not a fool, whatever else he is. I believe that he knows you would not reveal the truth of Vid's death." "You don't think he plans to reveal it himself?" Zan asked. "I don't know," Amara said. "I don't think so. What concerns me more is why he had your father assassinated. This system he is proposing of the people electing their leader --- it has merit in their eyes, but many of them will not suffer to be led by a murderer. And even if they would, Vid has a successor. Kivar knows he cannot topple the monarchy directly by killing him." "By killing me, too, he might," Zan said. "Even then, the throne would pass to your cousin Rath," Amara said. "And if he be killed, then it would pass to his brother Adar, and so on. Kivar might have had another purpose for killing your father." Zan was silent for a while, trying to clear his head and reason things out. After some time, he said, "Father was a strong king, strong enough to find Kivar out and destroy him utterly." "Yes," Amara said. "But I am young and inexperienced," Zan went on. "You would be one of the youngest to sit on the throne," Amara said. "He thinks I'm weak," Zan concluded. As soon as he said it, he knew he was right. "He means to overthrow me, as he cannot have overthrown Father." "That's what I believe," Amara said. "Sabor thinks so, too, and a few others in the council, but they will not speak of it to you." "What use are they, then, if they will not speak their minds?" Zan said, burying his head in his hands. "They were only a little franker with Vid than they are with you," Amara said, reaching out for one of Zan's hands and taking it in her own. "Often, their true counsel lies in what they don't say. You must learn to perceive their minds if you are to work with them, my love." She smiled sympathetically at her son. "You are much stronger than they know, Zan, and much stronger than you think. I know you will make a good king." Zan pressed his mother's hand gratefully. All the same, he began to wonder if perhaps Kivar was not wrong about him. "What do we tell Vilandra?" Amara asked. "That Father is dead, " Zan said. "That he suffered from the Ploon virus." Amara said nothing, but Zan could see the doubt in her face. "I don't want her to be afraid," Zan said. "I think you underestimate Vilandra's courage," Amara said quietly. "But the choice is yours." She looked out the window, her face grave and solemn. "How are you, Mother?" Zan asked, realizing that he had not given thought to what she might be feeling for the passing of her husband. "I am well enough, under the circumstances," she answered, turning to look at Zan. Her eyes gave lie to her words. They were full of grief and sorrow and brimming once again with tears. "You don't lie well, Mother," Zan said gently, and all at once Amara's control broke. Her face contorted with pain, the tears flowed from her eyes and she wept softly into her hands. Zan crossed the room to her side and put his arms around her, allowing her to cry against his shoulder. When her sobs finally desisted, she broke away from him and said with a strangled, mirthless laugh, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't do this." This time, it was Zan who said nothing. He only waited for her to calm down. She did, before long. Zan looked down at the floor, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. After a while, he asked, in the most respectful tone he could muster, "Who do you mourn for?" Amara looked at him, startled by the question. "Do you mourn for Vid your king, or Vid your husband?" A sad, comprehending smile came over Amara's face. "I mourn both, because I loved them both." Zan looked suitably abashed. Amara put her hand on his arm and added, "And you, Zan?" "Neither one." If Amara was at all surprised or troubled by his answer, she gave no indication. She only squeezed his arm and asked in a kind tone, "Why so?" "I can't grieve for someone I didn't know," Zan said. He knew it seemed heartless, but it wasn't in him to lie about this. Amara caressed his jaw lovingly, and gently turned his face toward her. "Someday, you will understand his mind," she said. The sides of the path were filled with people, both noble and common, who had come to see their king to his final resting place. Low music played in the background, and the sweet, strong voice of a woman rose above it, singing an old, old lay of the gods, of winged Al Senid who bore the spirits of the faithful to Rym. When the procession reached the open vault, Zan, Vilandra and Amara stepped aside to let the servants through. Zan looked across the path at his mother and sister. Amara hid her heartache well; there was nothing but dignified solemnity in her countenance as she watched the servants place Vid's coffin alongside his father Nekuul's. As for Vilandra, there was no discernible emotion on her face. She had taken the news of her father's death in much the same way Zan had. Neither of them had known their father enough to truly love him. If she grieved, she grieved for her mother's sake, because Vilandra loved her more fiercely than any other person in her life. Zan turned his attention to the servants. They lifted the lid from the floor and placed it over the casket, shutting it firmly. After they exited the vault, Zan bent down on one knee before the entrance. All the people likewise knelt and bowed their heads. And Zan said, in a voice so quiet only Vilandra and Amara could hear him, "May the gods speed you on your way, Father." As the last strain of the music died out, Zan slowly rose to his feet and turned back toward the palace. To Be Continued Back to Fan Fiction |
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