The Living God, page 16
Sir Canin coughed and stepped close to Keleir’s side, but not a degree before him. He leaned in and translated quietly to him. “He says, ‘I’d heard that the Prince of Adrid, a man who stole my bride, was an Ipaba, marked with the surname Ahriman, but I did not believe it until now.’ Ipaba means Soulless One in Mavish.”
“Das ze drogo Ahriman cres ba Mavahan?” the Alar asked.
“Do you know that the name Ahriman originates from Mavahan?”
Keleir smiled. “Great, this is going well already.” He took a step forward and bowed his head, keeping in mind not to bow his shoulders to the Alar. “It is interesting that your culture coined the name given to me at birth. Thank you for sharing this knowledge, and it raises my curiosity of why a culture so removed from the power of the Core would be the first to name a creature born from it. Perhaps my coming here will be one filled with knowledge, not just diplomacy. Should we move our conversation to the sanctuary of your palace walls and away from your frightened people?”
Luke translated quickly, his tongue well-trained to the dialect of the Alar, and the king’s eyes lit with interest in the young knight. He replied to Luke, who had yet to remove his own hood and cloth from around his face. When the last cluster of indiscernible words left the Alar’s lips, Luke drew his hood off to reveal sandy blond hair and pale skin. His brown eyes turned to Keleir, and he smiled. “The Alar wishes us to follow him to a place more comfortable to our pale skin.”
Keleir and his men followed the Alar, flanked by two rows of soldiers, to the base of a large staircase leading up to the middle floors of the ziggurat at the center of the city. By the time they reached the top, the Fire Mage counted over two hundred steps, and his men, already exhausted from traveling in the heat, were winded.
Bronze doors opened to a dark corridor, and cool air wafted from inside the ziggurat. The size and massive stone walls kept the interior insulated from the penetrating and merciless heat. As the shadow of the interior stole them inside, cool, stale air greeted their burning skin.
“The Alar says that since we have traveled far and for many days, perhaps we would like to indulge in baths and a rest before meeting formally on his personal veranda this evening,” Luke said to Keleir as the Alar snapped his fingers and a procession of female slaves emerged from a narrow hall.
Each servant wore a rust-red dress parted on each side to reveal a narrow sliver of smooth, tan flesh. Bronze clasps held the dresses over their shoulders, and they were drawn tight about their waists by three narrow leather bands. Each woman had smooth black or brown hair pulled up and piled in braids at the top of her head. They wore no jewelry, save a bronze collar about their necks and a thin gold chain around their left ankles.
“The Alar has given his finest slaves for your indulgence, my prince,” Luke whispered. “It would be rude to refuse them. It is customary for you, having not brought female servants of your own, to choose two to help you with your various needs while you stay in his house. You do not have to utilize them, just … make the best to keep up appearances that you are.”
“Choose for me,” Keleir said, his gaze glancing indifferently over the women and then settling on the young knight.
“Ehh …” Luke’s cheeks colored deep rose. He looked the women over and called to the Alar. Two women, one from the middle and one from the very end, stepped out from the line and took deep sweeping bows that brought the top of their braids brushing along the stone floor.
“The remainder of the slaves will be divvied up between your men, who may take one per two of them. A single slave is offered to the person of your choosing who you feel should be honored.”
Keleir smiled. “Choose one for yourself.”
Sir Canin coughed. “Your Highness …”
“You,” Keleir said to a woman nearest the Alar, dressed in rust red, but far more conservatively than the rest. He motioned for her to move forward and then swept his hand toward Luke. “Him. My honored. Without him, I am deaf.”
The woman glanced to the Alar, and he gave a swift nod. She stood before Luke and gave him a great sweeping bow as the others did. Keleir realized the woman wore no collar and had no chain about her ankle. She smiled at Luke and took his hand tenderly. She spoke to the young knight in words that Keleir did not understand, and then the knight looked to his prince and smiled. Luke’s cheeks were a darker rose than before, and he set his teeth in such a way that Keleir could not understand if he felt flustered or angry.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Velora, sister of the Alar and the Keeper of His House, has accepted your request. She says that she will make your honored welcome.”
Keleir swallowed. “Can you ask her forgiveness and explain that I didn’t know of her stature in this house?”
“I will not,” Luke said, while smiling. “I mean, no, my prince. It would be disrespectful to turn her away now that she has bowed and agreed to your request.”
“Great, so I look like an asshole no matter what I do,” the Fire Mage murmured.
“No, you look like a prince,” Luke replied.
The Fire Mage clamped his mouth shut and followed his two escorts down a wide hall opposite the one the slave girls had entered through. The path of corridors they took were winding back and forth like a maze. He went up steps and then down steps, left and then right, until he swore he’d gone in circles before the two women led him to a thick wooden door at the end of a narrow hall.
The dark room beyond smelled of spices that were unfamiliar to Keleir. The wide chamber had a tall peaked ceiling that mimicked the shape of the ziggurat. From the center fell a beam of golden sunlight on a square ten-by-ten pool of steaming hot water sunken into the floor. Fur rugs littered the floor, and bottles of oil and soap sat clustered on a clean gold tray placed near the pool’s edge. At the back of the room, in the shadows, lay a bed of silks and furs upon a wide podium. Sheer crimson fabric hung from a thick bronze ring attached to a metal plate in the ceiling. The fabric gathered in rippling pools about the bed.
His escorts fanned into the room, one going to the tables near the bed and lighting the array of candles littering the surfaces. The other went to the small trays covered in candles around the bath. When finished, the two stood side by side before the bath, hands clasped in front of them. They looked at him as one might a ghost. He realized, as they appraised his strange features, that they had not really looked at him until that moment.
“Thank you,” Keleir said, knowing they would not understand him. “You can go. I’m fine. I can bathe.”
The chamber door opened behind him, and a tall, broad man carried in the leather satchel that had been attached to the back of his horse. The man dropped the heavy bag in the corner of the room, near a wooden wardrobe tucked against the wall with an ornamental palm. The gruff, dark-skinned man, Droven in origins, bore a bronze collar around his neck. He gave the Fire Mage a fleeting glance before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.
“As I said,” Keleir continued, “I’m fine.”
The women nodded but circled around him and began to tug at the fabric he wore. They were experts in removing articles of clothing. By the time the Fire Mage could dance away from them, they had stolen his cloak and belt.
“This is going to get awkward very fast,” he said to them, holding up his hands innocently. “I’m good at bathing myself. I know that might not be the custom in Mavahan. I also understand that you have no idea what I’m sayi—hey!” He took a quick step back as the servant girl reached for the edge of his tunic. It took all his willpower not to slap her hand away.
She was a slave, doing as told. How could he punish her for misunderstanding? Especially when her life itself was punishment in its own way.
The two women no longer held apprehensive faces or fear in their eyes. Instead they appeared curious as they approached him. He held up his hands, keeping both at bay.
“No,” he said firmly, stopping their advance. He motioned to the door. “Go.”
“Beva ugrad, cre hokator,” one of the young women said to him, an edge of annoyance tainting her flowering speech. She pointed to him and then to the water. “Cre hokator.”
Keleir shook his head. “I have no idea what that means.”
The women advanced on him, and he took a step back, nearly falling into the deep bath. “All right! Fine. I’ve got it.”
He grabbed the hem of his tunic and drew it over his head before kicking his shoes off, dropping his pants, and stepping down into the water as quickly as he could. The center of the pool, at its deepest, was at least five feet. The water swelled around his chest. He’d been in the hot sun all day, but there was something soothing about the scalding temperature of the water. He dunked his head and ran his fingers across his scalp to clean the sand from his hair. He stood straight, washing his white hair back with one hand and dragging the other over his eyes.
When he glanced back to the servants, they were down to nothing but the bronze collars around their necks and gold chains about their ankles. Each one held a rag in one hand and a bottle of oil in the other and were stepping down into the pool to join him.
He wasn’t a blind man, and he could appreciate beauty when he saw it, but they might as well have poured ice into his bath. He held up his hands and backed away from them, up and out of the stone tub at its second entrance just behind him. He stood, dripping wet at the edge, with hands in the air as they entered the deepest part of the bath and tilted their heads curiously at him.
“I’m clean. Very clean. Sooo clean. See?”
The women looked to the each other and drew the cloths in their hands up to their noses. The edge of a smile pulled their cheeks up as they turned their attention back to him. He found their bashfulness amusing, and the tension in his body subsided enough that he let out a long sigh. “Good, you understand me.”
Both of them nodded, holding their long, slender arms out and pouring the bottle of oil into the water. The water frothed around them, and the steam grew thicker in the air. It wafted up in thick pink plumes, filling the air around the Fire Mage’s feet and floating up about his waist.
“What …” he muttered, inhaling a deep breath of sweet rose. His vision blurred, his legs buckled.
Keleir stumbled, naked and wet, toward the safety of a dark corner, far away from the flowering pink smoke. He focused on Porting away, focused on falling back into his Gate, but instead he collapsed against the hard stone floor.
The beautiful women in the tub ascended the stairs toward him as the pink smoke flooded the floor of the room and rose higher to the ceiling. “Dako,” said one of the women, smiling behind her red cloth. “Dako de Ipaba.”
Keleir fought the heavy weight of his eyes dragging closed. He struggled to stand, only to scrape his skin along the harsh stone with the effort. Darkness crept in, and sleep sucked him under.
TWENTY-TWO
ROSHAUD MUSHED MEAT between his dull teeth in ravenous, open-mouthed gnawing that sent juice and pink blood washing over his lips and down his chin. He hummed a happy tune, as one might on a warm, pleasant spring day while walking in a meadow of flowers.
He wrapped a meaty hand around the pewter goblet, drawing the wine to his lips and gulping in heavy, wet, gasping pulls. His black eyes peered over the glinting chalice and across from him, where Saran sat leaning against the table with her chin propped on her hand.
“Not eating?” he asked, setting the goblet down near his plate and appraising the bored princess with a disappointed frown.
“Forgive me, I’m not feeling hungry,” she replied, a pleasant smile concealing the disgust churning her stomach. It was easy to pretend to be pleasant—she’d had years of practice where her father was concerned. It wasn’t until recently that her well-practiced facade had finally worn down to reveal a seemingly uncharacteristic conniving nature. At least from her father’s point of view.
Yarin sat at the end of the table with Roshaud in the honored space to his right. The king mulled over his food with less relish than the president, watching his daughter with the same appraising stare.
“Eat,” Yarin ordered, nodding to the servant behind her. He scurried from the room to the kitchen and returned with a tray of grilled steak, potatoes, sliced bread, and a goblet of wine. He set the plate before her with silver utensils and a sea-blue rag, before placing the goblet down. Once finished, he backed away to his designated corner.
Saran scowled at the meal, listening to the loud grinding of teeth against tendon coming from across the table. Normally not one to be bothered by the sound of chewing, Saran found it nearly unbearable in present company. She stabbed a potato and brought it to her lips, taking a small bite. She smiled and set her fork back down, hiding her quivering hand beneath the table. Saran wrapped her fingers around her knee and squeezed tight, attempting to keep the tension from her face as she let lose what little anger she could without being caught. When she’d gained some measure of control over herself, she let out a deep sigh. “Delicious.”
“Very,” murmured the robust president. His beady eyes twinkled with a twisted leer. Only he could find eating arousing.
“It is unfortunate that Keleir had to go away to Mavahan,” the princess said, taking another bite. She was quite aware of how the sight of eating affected Roshaud, but she could hardly stop if she were to play nice for her father. If she wanted to get the Bind off, she had to make the old man happy. If eating in front of his vulture of a friend would please him … well, she’d suffer the leering eyes of a predator for freedom. It didn’t mean that she couldn’t offer Roshaud his own form of misery in return. “But as he will be king, there will be many other opportunities for you to see him.”
Roshaud frowned and swallowed. “That is true.”
Saran took another bite before idly moving the food about with her fork. “Although our relationship with the Third may be very different when I am queen and he is king.”
“How so?” Roshaud asked.
Saran smiled. “Let’s not talk about business at dinner.”
“You brought it up, my love,” Roshaud replied, painting his face with a smile.
“I did, forgive me. We can talk later.” Saran placed the knife and fork at either side of her plate. “Perhaps after dinner we could visit privately?”
Roshaud’s face lit up, and he turned his eager eyes on the king at the head of the table.
“Of course,” Yarin said. His gaze flashed to Saran with an approving light.
By the time dinner ended, Saran had eaten very little on her plate, but Roshaud had secured two helpings of everything and more than enough wine. The servant cleared the table and refilled each glass. King Yarin stayed only a few minutes longer to speak with his old friend before the inevitable call of wine-induced sleep lured him up from the table and off to his chambers.
“Have no fear, Father,” Saran called to the drunken king. “I will see to it that Roshaud makes it safely home.”
Yarin waved his hand but paid no mind to her as he closed the heavy wooden door behind him. The whirring of Roshaud’s chair interrupted the deep, thick silence that encased the room when the king left.
Roshaud pulled his contraption next to Saran’s chair. He lifted a pudgy hand to her arm and trailed the back of his thick fingers over her skin. The princess stiffened, tilting her head and casting her eyes down to his touch.
“What is it you wanted to discuss, my love?” he asked, struggling to move closer to her.
Saran smiled, taking his hand and pushing it away from her arm. “The future.”
Roshaud withdrew his hand with a twitch of his fingers and gave her a cruel smile. “It is such a shame you married. I suppose it would be an even greater shame if something widowed you.”
“You cannot kill him. No one you control would ever accomplish it, so do not waste your time, Roshaud. I do not belong in your world, just as you do not belong in mine.”
The president of the Third ground his teeth together.
“For that matter, nothing of the First belongs in the Third. When my father is gone and another sits on the throne, you will be forbidden from mining the First for slaves. If your people come here to take ours, they will only find their own death.”
Roshaud glowered at her. “Such threats? To me?”
Saran let out a patient, heavy sigh. “Why do men assume I make idle threats? Is it because I’m a woman? Not threatening in my disposition? What more can I do to make you heed my words?”
The president of the Third reddened in the face. “I could conquer your puny world and enslave all of your people if I choose. I will make you mine, as you have always been mine.”
Saran scoffed. “Truly the delusions of a man who does not understand the world he is in. You cannot get your forces here. Your Gates are too small. Magic would burn your ships. I would rust them to dust and turn your men into infants. If you wish to threaten me, Roshaud, work harder. I do not fear you.” The princess let her steely gaze settle on his beady black eyes. She did not flinch.
Roshaud pursed his lips into a tight line and his black eyes looked her over. He grinned. “I do have such fond memories of you as a child, when you were less vocal and my legs still worked.” His hand smoothed along the top of her thigh.
Saran stiffened, and for an instant the rigid facade shattered. She looked down at Roshaud’s hand, her fingers flexing over the fork sitting next to her plate. She collected the tiny pieces of her mask and put them back together, using rage as mortar. “I am not a child any longer,” she reminded him, all too calmly, before plunging the fork into his hand. Roshaud howled, and she twisted the silver for good measure, relishing in the pain that washed over his face. The princess stood, drawing the fork away and placing it neatly back on the table.
Off in the corner, the servant who attended to her retreated farther into the shadows, willing himself to be invisible.
