Death is a punishment in court, but a reward in life

She was Saira Farnazeh, daughter of Aryana Gohan. Those were the words the sultana of Tharwa repeated to herself in times of doubt and fear �" in desperate times such as these. Her sultanate laid in ruin before her eyes. Saira subconsciously traced the scars across her right arm. She �" just like many others �" had gotten these scars from the gruesome war with the sultan of Tareqi. Just like all the other places in the area, it had been named by the ruler and had a very clear meaning �" a warning, if you will. Tareqi meant darkness and that was exactly the way the sultan wished to rule. Tamir Akbar was a cruel man. He never showed mercy to his subjects or to his enemies. Such were the tales spun by the people.

His greatest enemy was sultana Saira herself. She had been crowned the sultana of Tharwa since her mother Aryana Gohan passed away. The reason of her death remained unclear to the people of Tharwa, but Saira knew she had been murdered. Her mother had been almost as cruel as sultan Tamir, which resulted in a lot of hatred, and no remorse. As soon as Saira had taken her place on the throne, the sultan of Tareqi had declared war upon them. It had caused her subjects to become poor, hence why she had renamed her kingdom Tharwa �" wealth. Somehow, it gave her hope. Names held a lot of meaning, and the sooner men realised that, the better off they would be. Such were the words her father, the previous sultan, had told Saira before he too, had passed away.

Saira was a brave woman, ruling completely differently over her subjects than her mother had chosen to do. Granted, she hadn’t been doing it very long and hadn’t had that much experience, but she knew what it meant to fight for a cause. She had, after all, been the general of Tharwa’s army. Being a general wasn’t something that many people of noble blood chose to do, but once her father had taken Saira to the temple after birth, she had been blessed there and the priest had prophesied that she would be the greatest general the sultanate had ever seen. The priest’s word were the law, going above society’s judgmental stares.

Her father had trained her to fight, forcing her to watch the army during their extensive training. At the age of fifteen, she had been forced to fight. And at seventeen, she had made her first kill. After that, she couldn’t seem to turn herself back anymore. Two years later, she had become the general, and the army trusted her. She had gone into war herself, as if she was a mere commoner whose life wasn’t valuable in the bigger picture. Through some prayer and self-reflection, she’d realised that no one �" no sultan, queen or other person in a position of power, wealth and status �" mattered much in comparison to the gods. 

Stories of the gods were passed on amongst the people like folktales �" carefully crafted stories that travelled from softly spoken lips to harsh tongues. They belonged to everyone, just like pain and joy. Simple emotions that many had felt over the centuries and were therefore given such big meaning.

‘My sultana’, said Mina.

Saira turned around to face her. Mina was Saira’s trusted advisor and closest friend. The two of them were practically sisters. That was the only reason why she was even allowed to be in Saira’s private quarters. The queen walked towards where she was standing.

Mina was sitting on the magenta velvet sofa, a cup of crimson wine in her hand. She took a sip and put it down on the golden table next to her. It had been draped with the same velvet as the sofa she was sitting on. Saira sat down next to her and admired the large painting of her mother in front of her. Not many rulers had paintings of their family in their house, let alone their room. But Saira had desperately wanted one. She wanted to be reminded of who she was and what she was fighting for. And what better way to do that then to see her mother and constantly see what she had accomplished and how Saira could potentially improve it.

All of that was a lie. A stupid lie that Saira tried convincing herself was true. She had put her mother’s portrait there so that she could see what she was supposed to be. Saira didn’t know the first thing about being the sultana. She didn’t know what it meant to rule over a sultanate. The only thing she knew how to command was an army.

On her right, there was a large wooden armchair and it too had been covered in the same rich, magenta velvet. Saira never cared much for magenta, but it was tradition for the queen to have the colour assigned to her. Her favourite part of the room was the ceiling. It was covered in paintings of the gods. It felt as if they were constantly watching over Saira. In the middle hung a large chandelier, reflecting the sunlight from the many glass stained windows.

‘Yes, Mina?’, asked Saira, not bothering to correct her friend into calling her by her name and not her title.

‘You have to proclaim your judgment on at least six people today.’

Saira sighed deeply and poured some wine into a glass. Wine had always symbolised blood, perhaps that’s why people were so inclined to drink it. She picked it up and took a sip before saying, ‘Why so many?’

‘The war has forged many criminals’, replied Mina.

‘Death is a punishment in court, but it is a reward in life’, said Saira solemnly.

That was one of the most famous proverbs in history. It had been used amongst the rulers for many decades before the assassins decided to steal it. They proclaim the phrase when they’re killing someone. It helps them believe that what they’re doing is right �" even if it wasn’t. Saira laughed at the irony of death and killing. If someone in court did it, it was justifiable, but if someone like an assassin did it, it was considered wicked and cruel. The same applied on the battle field.

‘Saira, my dear’, her mother had said many a times. ‘To be able to kill is a gift the gods have blessed us with.’

A few hours later, Saira found herself sitting on her throne. It was Sunday evening, right before sundown. That meant that it was time for her to judge the guilty. That way they could start the next week, cleansed of their sins. She had done this a couple of times before and had grown accustomed to the idea of sentencing someone to death.

Now before her stood a woman about five years older than her, waiting for her fate to be decided. The punishments of Tharwa had become harsher, because Aryana had been thirstier for blood than for the wine she had graciously been offered. Saira thought that some of them were unnecessary, but changing them would make the people of the castle think that she had no respect left for her mother. And respect and reputation were everything in both Tharwa and Tareqi.

Not only did she have to proclaim judgment, she’d also have to inflict it. The reason why was unknown, but Saira would rather do it herself than have someone else see that horror before their eyes. It would certainly be an image that they would never be able to get out of their heads.

Just like this cruel war, Saira thought grimly.

‘People are cruel’, her father had said. ‘and we have to learn to live with that, because the gods intended it to be like this.’

It had never made sense to Saira. Why would the gods create the world and then make people who would destroy it with every fibre of their being?

‘Soraya Roshan’, said the queen. ‘Atone for your crimes.’

Soraya’s dark black hair hung loosely by her shoulders. Her green eyes as sharp as emeralds. Despite the fear they betrayed, there was still a dim light in them. A spark of hope that everything she had heard about the sultana and her methods was an exaggeration.

Soraya didn’t respond, she simply stood before her in utter silence.

‘I will not ask you again’, Saira threatened.

‘Would you like to know all of my crimes?’, questioned Soraya. ‘Because if you do, then we’re going to be here a long time and I saw that there were many people you were going to judge tonight, so-’

‘Tell me the crime that got you arrested by my guards’, interrupted Saira impatiently. She’d dealt with infuriating subjects before, but she could tell that Soraya was going to be the worst of them. Faking bravery, arrogance, was undoubtedly the only way Soraya knew how to keep herself safe.

Soraya gulped at the queen’s tone. ‘I was arrested on an attempt of murder.’

Saira raised her left brow and said, ‘Who were you trying to kill?’

The woman hesitated a bit before saying, ‘Tamir Akbar.’

Saira’s eyes widened as she heard this. She’d judged many murderers, but not a single one of them would have dared to do something as stupid and reckless as trying to kill the sultan of Tareqi.

‘I’m assuming you were caught in his palace. Why did he send you back to Tharwa alive?’, questioned the sultana, feigning calmness.

‘He wanted you to deal with the situation. He said something along the lines of wanting to make sure that you knew how to deal with traitors properly.’

Tamir Akbar wanted to test Saira on her ability to rule over her subjects. He wanted to question her authority. She swore to make Tamir regret his actions someday, but as of now she had a subject to judge.

‘The punishment for treason is death’, said Saira firmly. ‘On your knees.’

Soraya clearly didn’t want to, but obliged nonetheless. She knew that the punishment for disobeying royalty could have been far worse than death and that Saira had shone her mercy. Soraya saw death as a reward in court as well as in life.

Saira approached her, sword in her hand. She bent down to her level and lifted her chin gently with her finger in order to look her in the eyes. The sultana didn’t normally kill in front of her guards, and today was no different. She looked at the guards who were standing behind Soraya and in front of the door, indicating that it was time for the both of them to leave. They did and the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.

The darkness became even darker as Saira lifted her blade.

‘Wait, my sultana!’, exclaimed Soraya, her voice trembled in panic. Saira was startled and lowered  her blade, indicating for her former subject to speak to her.

‘What?’, she questioned.

‘Please insure that my family is safe-’

‘They lost the right to their safety the minute you tried to kill the sultan of Tareqi’, replied Saira coldly, surprising herself with how little of the words she’d actually meant. She’d actually been proud that someone from her sultanate had been brave enough to try to take matters into their own hands. But she knew better than believe that anyone stood a chance against him. His sultanate was big, larger than most sultanates. He had many guards, thousands of soldiers, all willing to die for him.

With that, she lifted the sword and beheaded Soraya. Blood flowed down on the marble floor of the palace. It was necessary to behead a traitor as it meant that the brain would be punished for its actions first. Death in court was and had always been purely symbolic. It was a sight she’d seen many a times before, but somehow she never got used to it. Every drop of blood that spilt - that she’d spilt - would haunt her every night in the form of tears.