Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4703168.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Major_Character
      Death
  Category:
      Multi, Other, F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Ancient_History_RPF
  Character:
      Original_Characters, Fictionalised_Historical_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      WIP, Bestiality, Child_Murder, Cannibalism, Explicit_Sexual_Content,
      Underage_Sex, Snuff
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-01 Updated: 2017-01-05 Chapters: 26/? Words: 123507
****** The Ennead ******
by uncajerf
Summary
     Greetings, all,
     I am introducing here a low fantasy novel -- hopefully to be a series
     -- called The Ennead. I started it more than 20 years ago, and for
     various reasons have not done much with it since -- until about the
     last couple of years. After completing Skyrim, I felt inspired again;
     thus, the story 'Animal Urges' on this site. Following, I went back
     to my novel, and have been editing/expanding it.
     It's now over 200K words, but I am only going to post a chapter at a
     time, as it is very much a WIP -- not to mention I have several
     continuity/timeline issues to work out as yet! ;)
     Feedback and suggestions are of course welcome.
     Thanx!
     JRR
     15 Feb./16: Chapter 13 'Ome-1' inserted; others renumbered. Sorry for
     any confusion.
Notes
     The following is a work of fiction. Throughout, the reader may
     perceive certain liberties to have been taken in regards to
     ‘interpreting’ various historical or real languages, cultures,
     faiths, literature, and events; (mis)quoting certain historical
     figures; plus myriad anachronisms. Yet, NO WORD OF THIS WORK IS
     INTENDED TO REPRESENT ACCURATE HISTORICITY OF ANY ACTUAL PERSON,
     CULTURE, PLACE, OR RELIGION ON EARTH, PAST OR PRESENT.
     April, 2017: You may have noticed that I up until recently I have
     been posting about a chapter a month, but I must apologise to
     everyone for a series of near-tragedies that has disrupted my writing
     -- and my life -- in the past few months. First, through a series of
     hard drive/memory stick crashes and failures, I have lost almost all
     of my work from the point at which it leaves off here. I have also
     experienced some medical and personal issues that have not yet been
     resolved. Therefore I'm not sure when -- or even if -- this 'first'
     of a planned series of novels will be completed. (I had only two
     chapters left to post, which are both lost, the last though still
     incomplete.)
     I would appreciate any comments or feedback; it would go along way to
     'inspiring' me to finish.
     Thanx.
      
     JRR
***** BOOK ONE: FIRE AND BLOOD - PROLOGUE (Myrddin) *****
Chapter Summary
     A famed wizard meets with immortal beings of immeasurable power, who
     wish to recruit a Ninth for their Ennead.
    "Fate is the ordering of secondary causes to effects seen by God.” (St.
                                  Augustine)
Myrddin climbed in total darkness. The mage had no need of light, for, even
though his lifewarmth sight did him little good here, he knew his way. Withal,
he climbed slowly through the tower’s inky spiral interior. Although he was
only a little over seven ages – sixty-three summers – old, and still, for a
wizard, a relative youth, Myrddin felt his age like never before. Pausing, he
caressed the crude masonry; latent power flickered in recognition; here, the
only place he truly belonged. The magical force imbued in the ethereal stone
spire lent the mage strength to shamble up the remaining smooth steps. Indeed,
only the low vibration emanating from deep within the bowels of the Watch
sustained the life of a Coranéid.
Myrddin was a Coranéid, yet more: an Artium Magister Arcanum – Master of
Magical Arts – as well as Master of Corannus Watch, through which he now
climbed.
At last, the archimage sensed his destination. Halting in the blackness upon a
narrow landing, he knew he faced a featureless wall of smooth black rock.
Hesitated momentarily, murmured a few arcane words. A low, arched portal
appeared in the wall, outlined by the amethyst glow of benign magic. Ducking
his tall, spare frame under the stone lintel, Myrddin slid inside. The small
round room held no furnishings. Nevertheless, recognisable by any initiate,
thaumaturgic runes and symbols pulsed on the bare walls, ceiling, and even the
basalt floor; raw power muttered from without. The sum effect belied the Circle
Chamber’s otherwise crude austerity.
Once more, Myrddin spoke, quiet words charged with arcane life: “Vola, fiat
lux, emphatorem.” The chamber glowed brighter; hum swelled to a murmur. Not
long to wait ere subtle shifts in the sanctum’s balanced energies signalled the
arrival of the Keepers. One by one they appeared: Uriel, Gabriel, Michael,
Raphael manifested as seemingly identical auras of pale azure; the signatures
of the guardians of purest good and law. Alternating with these, the scarlet
aspects of Asmodeus, Lucifer, Beëlzebul, and Belial, the representatives of
deepest chaos and evil, leached into the chamber. Soon, the magical essences in
the room blended once more into a neutral purpure.
Myrddin addressed them: “Lords, the Master of Corannus Watch recognises the
presence of each of the Keepers. I would declare the Circle complete.” Although
Myrddin spoke to the beings in a low, respectful tone, he was not afraid – nor
was he particularly awed in their company. Added, “I await your disclosure of
the subject for discussion,” although he already knew.
Lucifer the first to reply: I sayeth again he ought to kneel in the presence of
his superiors. The disembodied voice thrust directly into Myrddin’s mind.
That be not the purpose of this Circle, Lord Lucifer, interposed Uriel. The
solar’s voice-thought was scarcely less harsh than the archdevil’s.
Raphael took his cue. We believe thou art apprised of the topic, Master
Myrddin. Thou hast declared the Circle complete, and yet this is surely our
dilemma: We have been too long without a Ninth to complete our Ennead. Ever
since the Christus left us… Yet, we have come to a decision: Thou must bring
our new choices to us – when satisfactorily prepared.
Myrddin stroked the waxy skin of his beardless chin; elliptical pupils expanded
and contracted with alternate pulses of diametric power. Idly pushed a wisp of
silver hair under the hood of his lavender robes. A long, resigned breath.
“Very well,” he acceded. “I shall do as you ask – it is my duty as Master. Who
might be the entities?” He listened as the Keepers told him how he was supposed
to bring a succession of candidates both into existence and, ultimately, into
the Circle for consideration of one’s inclusion in the Ennead. Though
surprised, his hairless brow rose only a little when he heard how certain
aspects of their plan would intimately involve him.
Know this, as well, Coranéid, grated Beëlzebul. Ye will see to it that the
Ninth’s destiny is never explicated.
Myrddin gave a mental shrug. He knew that the Keeper meant that he could not
even hint, much less advise, that any subject follow a path of ‘good’ or ‘evil’
or anything-in-between; the Ninth must, mentored by tutors whom were unbiased
as humanly – or inhumanly – possible, be permitted near-total freedom to find
their own way in such matters.
“You know aught of human nature,” the mage opined. He was not sure why he
deigned to offer an opinion at all, as it would make no difference. “T’is not a
simple thing for humans and their kin to remain aloof, unmoved by those of
influence and power. Only the rarest – and ofttimes the saddest – may remain
indifferent.”
Belial snorted. Ye are hardly human, Myrddin Mageorn. What do ye know of human
nature?
The wizard, though not stung by the gibe, took the bait anyway. “More than you,
I shall wager. I at least was once human.”
Think ye that none of us were? sneered Asmodeus. Mayhap not all—
“Not as recently as—”
Nevertheless, Uriel interrupted, thou wilt do thy duty, Myrddin Mageorn. Thou
thyself hast admitted that thou canst do no less.
The sorceror contorted his waxy features into a facsimile of a wry face. “The
Circle’s confidence in me is appreciated. I trust it shall be rewarded.” He
knew the Keepers were aware of the fact that he was disinclined toward this
particular aspect of his duty as Master of the Watch. Nonetheless, his sarcasm
seemed lost on the beings as they acknowledged his acceptance and, alternately,
dissolved from the Chamber.
For a time the mage stood alone in the presiding silence. Turned and retraced
his route down the tower steps.
Even more slowly, this time. 
***** Waryn-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     The first major character is introduced, a crippled mute boy, prince
     of one of the realms.
“It would be pernicious to a degree were happiness a matter of good luck.” (St.
                                Thomas Aquinas)
Waryn had only ever wanted someone to pay a small measure of attention to him –
just once; for a little while. For the entire seven winters of his existence,
clubfoot, mute Waryn la Gaiseric had been mistreated, neglected, or at best
ignored by adults and peers alike. Simply because he could not speak and looked
different. The other children in the small keep of Courroi mocked and
physically tormented him. The adults frowned, clucked their tongues, and
whispered their pity and disgust – mostly behind his back. Because he was
strange; and in the minds of the people of the Frankish court – Waryn’s world –
anything different was therefore to be despised, and could not possibly be of
any value. It even mattered not that he happened to be the king’s own firstborn
son.
Yet, Waryn was not stupid – far from it. Whilst he was unable to disregard the
whispers and insults as the derision of those still insecure in their own
identities or trapped in unreasoned prejudices, he was nonetheless intelligent
enough to realise another motivation for their scorn: They were afraid.
Although he did not understand why they looked upon his undersized, warped body
with fear beneath their undisguised loathing, Waryn soon became aware of how to
use it to advantage. And he would teach them; they would, anon, be sorry they
had never tried to understand him.
For it would now, Waryn was certain, only get worse, with the new baby in the
royal household. Since this squalling bit of helpless and demanding pink flesh
arrived amongst them, Waryn would never get his chance to prove himself. It
mattered not that the tiny infant was his younger brother, and that it happened
to be perfectly healthy – leastwise, apparently, in body – nor that it was
likely to supplant the supposed Crown Prince in his position as heir to the
throne (such as it was) of Franconia. Indeed, none of these thoughts even
occurred to the boy as he stole into the royal nursery, lifted the sleeping
child out of its cradle from under the warty nose of its snoring nanny,
spirited the infant from the cold, still castle into the benighted courtyard.
Simply, this thing received far too much attention – attention that should
rightfully be its elder’s. And the boy would have no more.
Late winter night, cold and starry, awaited. A clear heliotrope sky silhouetted
the snow-swept ramparts above. Lÿlla and Lítha, two of the Three Sister moons,
held one another close in pale mauve embrace, peering with half-visages from
behind a filigree of cloud. As if to aid the boy’s escape with his small,
silent burden (or mayhap to spy on him), they offered their combined weak
light, strewing it across the cleared, frozen ground of the bailey, through the
portal from which Waryn now stole.
The diminutive lad had become quite adept at remaining unobtrusive when he
wished. Ofttimes a good thing for him that others seemed to presume him deaf as
well as dumb; he learned a good deal simply by listening when people thought he
either could not or would not understand. Yet, also a very painful way to learn
– about everything, most especially in regards to the low deference in which
people held the elder prince.
This night, however, Waryn would prove them all wrong. Wrong to have assumed
him dull of wit because he could not speak; wrong to ignore and make fun of
him; and so wrong to have thought him incapable. Of course, it was his
intention that no one would ever connect him with what he was about to do, to
whit, remove the latest obstacle that stood between him and the recognition he
so badly craved.
The Sisters, as though having second thoughts, deserted him, abruptly
retreating behind their diaphanous curtains. Waryn, once more alone, continued.
He would take the child to some faraway peasant hovel or country abbey, leave
it on a doorstep or gate. Come daybreak – or sooner, if the baby decided it was
hungry – the ignorant, superstitious thralls would find it. They would care for
it, believing it the gift of the sidhe from the netherworld of Faery, or mayhap
even the child of a god. The castle denizens would think alike, resigning
themselves, after much wailing and mourning, that the sidhe had stolen him, or
the gods had plans for the royal infant and spirited him away during the night.
(Waryn himself was distrustful of gods; they had never done him anything but
disservices. Yet, he nevertheless respected their apparent power.)
A good plan, a kind and noble plan, Waryn thought – for the boy wished no harm
upon his brother. It would receive just as much attention from any peasant
family or commune as it ever would from the royal household. (‘Royal’ was,
perhaps, when used in connection with this poor keep, an outrageous misnomer,
but Courroi represented almost everything Franconia.)
Lÿlla and Lítha emerged once more, as if unable to suppress their curiosity
regarding the strange nocturnal activities.
Waryn peered about the empurpled interior of the royal stables. Nothing stirred
save the tail of an emaciated draft horse. Even the ubiquitous flies were
still, thanks to the cold. Easing open the door, Waryn turned and, rag-bound
feet stepping carefully over the sleeping forms of stableboys, approached one
of the other two animals sheltered in the draughty, dilapidated barn. Though at
least twice the height of the crippled boy, Waryn, undaunted, smiled up at the
king’s personal warhorse; proud beast acknowledging the child’s unvoiced
greeting with a slight toss of huge brown head, a snort, nuzzle of Waryn’s
cheek. When the underfed stallion nudged at the small bundle his human friend
carried, the mute lad cautioned it with a mental sentence:
No, Vinrouge. No sweet for you today. I’ve business…
Waryn hesitated as he realised his dilemma: How would he mount the animal with
his arms full? Temper flared – his wont when frustrated – and the stallion
called Redwine jerked its head, stamped its hoof. The baby woke, began to fuss.
No, Vinrouge, Waryn soothed him. Easy, boy. Turning his mental probe toward the
infant, added, Be quiet, baby. Both stilled; Waryn’s temper cooled.
Anon, hearing no sound beyond a sleepy murmur from one of the human occupants
of the large byre, he freed one arm, gingerly balanced his tiny cargo with the
other whilst reaching up to stroke the steed’s muzzle. Looking around the
gloom, he suddenly had his solution.
Waryn hobbled to one corner of the smelly stable, toward a pile of empty sacks
made of the same coarse material he wore as clothing. Setting the somnolent
newborn gently into a pile of straw, he retrieved a sack and produced a knife
that was much larger than such a small boy should carry, from inside his crude
shift. With a few unexpectedly expert gestures, he had what he wanted. He
slipped the makeshift harness – copied from what he had observed peasant women
use for the same purpose in the fields – over his head, thrusting his arms
through the new holes. Straightening, he retied the rope belt about his middle
so it provided support for the baby’s body next to his own, restored the
various packages he had displaced. Picked up his tiny brother, stowed him
inside his oversized tunic.
Waryn grinned in satisfaction as he replaced the knife. He then tackled the
problem of mounting the big warhorse with the added weight. It turned out to be
not much of an obstacle, however, for the pair had an almost intuitive bond;
the creature bent its neck and even knelt just enough so that Waryn could grab
two fistfuls of mane and scramble up to cling there as if part of the steed,
despite the burden of the baby added to his physical handicaps.
The crippled boy had become an incredibly adept rider – many failures, bruises,
and frustrations notwithstanding. Nigh upon two summers of perseverance had it
taken Waryn to teach himself to ride bareback upon Redwine. The self-
determination it afforded him had been easily worth it, however. Fortunately,
the king almost never rode Redwine, and so, since the boy had virtually
limitless freedom due to being more or less ‘invisible’ anyway – not to mention
the negligence of the servants – he had little difficulty commandeering the
steed practically when he wished.
Quietly, using gentle knee-pressure and unvoiced commands, Waryn guided the
horse out of the stables. The intelligent steed, as if sensing the need for
stealth, stepped gingerly over sprawled, snoring bodies. The strange trio
clopped slowly toward the open gates of the bailey – which again implied the
laxness of the keep’s inhabitants, rather than their openness and hospitality –
continued down the road away from the crumbling stone edifice. Glancing back at
the darkened bulk shadowed in violet moonlight, he observed – and sensed – no
movement; the mute boy at last began to relax.
Yet, they did not travel far ere disaster struck. For there was only one
problem with Waryn’s plan – a sad, dreadful oversight: The baby woke and began
to cry, and this time Waryn could not soothe it back to sleep with a mental
murmur. Waryn prayed it would be quiet; but it must be hungry. Luckily – or so
he believed – he had thought to bring food with him, for he planned on a long
journey. He reasoned, if he fed the child and quieted it, anon they could once
more travel in silence…
Waryn settled the baby up near the opening of his homemade carrier. From
another bag secreted inside his inner garment, he fished a bit of stale barley
bread he had sneaked from the kitchen, tried to feed his brother; but the
infant would not eat. It kept crying and crying, and it was lucky that it was
secure inside Waryn’s makeshift harness, or it surely would have struggled
right out of his grasp and fallen to the ground.
He tasted the bread; there was nothing wrong with it – other than being a day
old and rather hard. He tried to give it to the newborn again, holding the dry
hunk to the tiny gaping mouth; but it would not even attempt a bite.
Gods and daemons! To his utter dismay, Waryn discovered that the baby had no
teeth! So, the poor thing was deformed, just like him. How was it supposed to
eat with no teeth? Almost to tears in frustration, Waryn put a probing finger
inside the baby’s mouth to confirm his discovery – and was surprised as the
newborn instantly clamped down upon it and began to suck in earnest.
That gave Waryn an idea. Although he had been confused when he had watched the
baby’s wet-nurse apparently allow it to chew on a prodigious portion of her
anatomy (which parts he had observed no one but women and older girls had), he
now realised that there must have been more to it. For, he remembered that baby
animals such as kittens and puppies did much the same thing to their mothers.
Similarly, he knew that milk came from cows’ teats and udders, as well as, come
to think of it, sheep and goats and horses and… The differences in anatomy were
still confusing to the boy, but mayhap…?
A cursory inspection of his person inside his tunic confirmed that Waryn was
not equipped to be a mother. Yet, he happened to have something else he
believed would be almost as useful: From a leather wineskin he had brought
along – managing to splash it all over himself and the wailing child in so
doing – Waryn poured some goat’s milk over the lump. Again offering it to his
tiny sibling, peace descended, as this time it began to suck noisily. It seemed
to be working! When the bread got too dry, he soaked it again; when it began to
disintegrate, Waryn ate the rest, soaked another hunk, held it for the baby. He
repeated this for quite some time until calamity befell.
A sizeable gobbet dropped right into the baby’s mouth; the infant immediately
began to choke. As helpless as the baby, Waryn knew not what to do. The tiny
child began to make obscene gurgling sounds as it kicked and jerked. Its
complexion came to match that of the brightening sky. Reaching inside his
tunic, Waryn grabbed hold of the baby and desperately moved its arms and legs.
Shook it, trying in vain to help it become normal again. Silent tears slid down
the boy’s pale cheeks. And, as his voice could not, his mind shrieked his
helpless rage…
Redwine reared and bolted from under him. Ordinarily, the boy could have
handled that, but, as it was totally unexpected and he was not even holding on,
he was thrown from the animal’s back; baby and all, impacted the snow-carpeted
road. A thousand candles ignited in his head; just as abruptly went out. 
                *                      *                      *
 At vigils shortly before sunrise, panic reigned over the Frankish court. Women
shrieked and wailed; men shouted confused orders at one another as the poor
palace roused in sleepy chaos. Aged King Gaiseric paced and cursed, sputtering
conflicting and pointless instructions at his courtiers in his curiously high-
pitched voice. The queen, so distraught as to be nearly catatonic, sat in her
small private chamber located on the top floor of the keep, staring vacantly
from a high window as the rising sun banished lavender dawn. Ignoring her
handmaidens, who stood by wringing their hands and screeching their dreadful
death-mourn, repeatedly mumbled, “It is the Will of the One True God… for my
sins… it is the Will of God…”
No one at all appeared to have any wits – except Chamberlain Hamai. To this
thin, bald, charcoal skinned and dark-eyed man, a houseguard brought two ragged
bundles later that morning: A dead baby, blue and frozen; a nearly as blue,
almost as dead, unconscious boy with a clubfoot and hunchback. The castellan
saw opportunity.
“I warned you, sire!” the courtier shouted in his sovereign’s haggard face.
“Dimas predicted all this, he did. And I told you… but you would not listen –
you would not believe. And now look!”
The dead infant and the nearly dead child lay in the dirty, dry rushes at the
king’s feet. Gaiseric stood, dazed and unmoving, amidst the redoubled
caterwauls of the court women. No sign of the queen.
Hamai went on, accent barely discernible. “That wretch of yours, firstborn, you
ought to have done away weeth at birth! He would bring you and your kingdom
aught but grief – so the great Haruspex, Dimas, saw. Now thees abomination has
caused the death of your only worthy child! And you know your good lady wife
has been forbeedden by Dimas to bear another in peril of her own life.
“What say you then, sire? What shall be done with thees misbegotten creature
that has slain your son? What punishment would you deem appropriate to satisfy
the great god, Tíw?” Hamai, in a hubris bourne of a most favourable situation,
dared grip the king by narrow shoulders and shake him, not gently. “What would
you have the House Warden do, sire?”
“D-Do?” Gaiseric repeated, dumbly.
“With the treasonous, murdering Prince Waryn, Highness.”
“He… He is not… d-dead?”
“No, sire. But he should be!” A lesser man – or mayhap if he addressed a
greater king – would not have dared such an affront to the Royal Person. “The
great god Tíw demands justeece!”
“No!” The king, reacquiring some of his senses, tore heartsick gaze away from
the bodies of his sons. “You… will n-not… k-kill him…”
“Then, what, sire?”
Gaiseric shuddered, looked away. Knees buckled suddenly; aided by a body
servant, sat in a rickety leather-bound chair that served as a throne. Voice
dropped to a reedy whisper like the rattling of dead corn husks left in the
fields after Samhain. “N-no. You will not… k-kill him. Not… both… m-my sons…”
Hamai sketched a curt bow toward the inattentive king. Black eyes alive with
subterfuge, gestured peremptorily for the guards to remove the two small
bodies, accompanied by instructions as to their disposition.
***** Ehlia-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Second major character introduction: a girl, also nobility.
                             "Rise, claim the dawn
                              Work, take the day
                           Sleep, receive the night"
                          --Hollis Bentwich of Larne
Seeing people fuck for the first time did not shock the girl; she had often
overheard, if not seen, copulations in the great hall of Fariddan’s Keep,
whence almost everyone but the stable hands and guards slept communally.
Despite her curiosity to make out the goings-on, Ehlia had not been very good
at heeding her now dead mother’s advice to ignore it and go to sleep. Thus, not
a lot more time passed ere she no longer forgot about it come daylight, so, her
mother had disclosed that it was how people made babies, just as animals did.
Of course, she had seen animals mate, and so now, at barely an age – nine
summers old – hardly noticed the hounds, cats, fowl, cattle, or even her
father’s horses any longer. Even so, she realised it was not quite the same;
why did people try to hide it, when creatures did not? Why was one supposed to
look away from people doing it, yet no one admonished the same when animals
mated seemingly everywhere? Thus, she continued to investigate surreptitiously,
but had been unable to make out anything in the near-full dark of the great
hall, beyond inane sounds from under piles of blankets and furs; nor had she
been successful spying on animals, since they would invariably quit at her
approach, often to slink guiltily away. Why? In any case, anon she took little
notice of either.
Her curiosity returned, however, once she discerned that the confusing jumble
of animated clothing in the stable’s straw pile was not some two-headed monster
but two people, both of whom she knew (as would be expected in a small hold).
The blonde head, wimple askew, belonged to none other than Rhulla, the
milkmaid, who, bent forward at the waist and bracing herself by gripping a
post, had apparently been mounted from behind – much as a stallion does a mare
– by Darlan, one of the young herdsmen. The grunting and moaning alone may have
given their game away, despite it being quieter during the night, and otherwise
similar noises heard only when her brothers sparred with one another and their
squires in the practise yard. Their words, however, struck odd.
“Yes!”Rhulla exhorted. “Fuck me with that big tool, you whoreson!”
“Yeah… ooooh! Here it comes, wench!”
Ehlia’s natural inquisitiveness overcame her momentary confusion; this was
something different, she instinctively knew. She felt funny inside, as if she
had (again) just gotten away with helping herself to a large chunk of the day’s
first loaves of barley bread fresh out of the keep’s oven, and then, along with
a generous dollop of butter from Rhulla, her usual conspirator in such childish
thievery, escaped to enjoy it and the view on the roof. The distinction, she
felt, was in the enjoyment she sensed; she knew that this particular act, at
least, did not have the singular goal of producing young. Part of the reason
she had lost interest in figuring out the mystery was that it seemed to her
young mind that it was apparently painful – as witnessed by cats’ yowling and
hissing and fighting, chickens squawking, mares and cows trying to escape their
paramours and even kicking them, prior to and during the act. Withal, it struck
her just now that people must do it for some reason aside from begetting
babies; mayhap it was not as unpleasant as it appeared?
Naturally, she wished to ascertain more, thus the girl approached the rutting
couple, demanded, “What are you doing?”
Both yelped – almost identical in pitch – a sudden burst of activity dividing
the two-headed beast, revealing to the child’s wide eyes a blur of drab
garments and white flesh, punctuated by pinkish and reddened spots too quickly
hidden once more.
“Ehlia—M-Milady!” the milkmaid blurted. “W-We… that is, w‑we were…”
Though young, as the daughter of their liege-lord, the Errai of Aelwynne, the
young girl was still nobility – even at the lowest Aldeberran rank of nobility,
behind a domard and even a seil.
Darlan’s face, red and sweaty, betrayed embarrassment as he hitched up
trousers, cinched rope-belt. Said nothing, appeared as though he wished to
bolt. They both should be elsewhere; she churning cream or something, he out in
the pastures with the animals in his care.
“You were what?” Ehlia challenged, although she knew – to some degree. “Why are
you trying to make a baby? Are you going to get married?”
“Yes,” answered Darlan.
“No,” Rhulla responded simultaneously.
They looked at one another, the boy surprised and seemingly hurt, the older
girl merely flustered.
“Why not?” the boy challenged.
“To whit, you’re younger than me.”
“That didn’t stop you from—”
“No matter. This can’t happen again.”
Feeling suddenly ignored, Ehlia interjected petulantly, “I asked you a
question!” She glared from one to the other, arms akimbo. “I want to know!”
“Y-Yes, milady. We were… f—m-making love.”
“No, you weren’t – you were mating.” Ehlia had yet to learn the vulgar – or
more resepectable – terms for the act. “If you don’t want a baby and you aren’t
getting married, why are you mating?”
“Ehh...” the milkmaid replied, “b-because it feels good?”
Ah… as she suspected… “Show me,” the child demanded next.
“M-Milady? We… We couldn’t p‑possibly… you’re too young—”
“Not me, stupid wench – I don’t want a baby! You two! Do it again.”
“M-Milady?” they echoed one another.
“You heard me. I command it.”
Torches on nearby posts guttered as, nervously, they attempted to comply,
Darlan rather eagerly dropping breeches once more, Rhulla assisting.
Fascinated, Ehlia watched as the milkmaid chafed the boy’s half-limp member,
tentatively put it into her mouth as if it were a teat from which she sought
milk – although Ehlia was well aware that milk would not be found therein.
She had seen penises often enow, of course; she had five brothers, and she and
her siblings had shared a bed since each outgrew the cradle. Not all at once,
of course; that would have been crowded. Presently only four, including three
of her brothers and herself, Ehlia being youngest save one, Jordy, who was
about a half an age, or almost five summers. Moreover, at one time or another
they had all bathed together as well – or at least, one after the other, seeing
that one was all that could fit in the small wooden tub before the open fire in
the great hall, the only room in the small keep save the guardhouse and
kitchen. At present, her two older brothers, Shrader and Berne, took their
(infrequent) baths, along with their meals, in the guards’ quarters, whence
they spent most of their time when not practicing in the bailey or otherwise
hunting or on patrol with their father. Else, they all swam in Boles Pond, as
most others their age did – during the short Aldeberran summers, anyway. Of
course, Ehlia’s deceased mother had informed her of the difference between boys
and girls, long before she had told her the reason why they were different. She
simply did not have all the facts, as yet.
Thus, Ehlia was aware of male anatomy, even had acquaintance with stiff members
– which she had always viewed with badly suppressed mirth – and never thought
much about the subject beyond slight envy at males’ ability to piss up against
wall or tree with breeches barely dropped, while she had to squat with
smallclothes all but removed. Not to mention generally needing a wipe, as
opposed to a shake or two.
Until now. She felt hot, heard a rush in her ears, as the older girl
successfully brought the youth’s appendage to attention. It no longer bore much
resemblance to any little boy’s prick Ehlia had heretofore seen; neither did it
compare to, say, a horse’s, but Ehlia instinctively knew that was an unfair
comparison. Then again, she had nothing else with which to compare. Either way,
she was, for the nonce, struck dumb; as the elder girl continued her
ministrations, she forgot exactly what she had bade them do.
Moaning, Darlan appeared to have trouble remaining on his feet as his prick
disappeared half its length down the girl’s throat. Ehlia’s bafflement only
increased as Rhulla appeared to enjoy what she was doing, yet the younger girl
could not imagine why – it was disgusting! Where he pissed from?! For his part,
the youthful groom was obviously in ecstasy; he began to thrust, causing the
milkmaid to gag. She backed off, a series of groans venting from the boy as she
pumped him with both fists. Suddenly gushes of milky fluid erupted from the
prick, splashing cheek, hair, neck as she turned away, eyes closed, grimacing.
He collapsed back into the hay pile as she wiped herself off with her wimple,
expression a curious blend of distaste and delight.
Still speechless, Ehlia could only gape. It lent an entirely different meaning
to the job of ‘milkmaid’ the youngster had never considered.
Vague sounds from outside in the bailey did not alarm them as yet.
“I…” Rhulla began, “I’m sorry, milady. You… should not see that.”
“Why…? What…?” The little errain was still at a loss; stared at the other girl
– who readjusted her wimple about her head – to the boy, lying in the filthy
straw attempting to stow his half-hard appendage. “Stop!” she commanded.
He did so, prick still in hand as she approached, peering at it in the poorly
lit stable.
“W-What do you… want?” he queried.
“What was that?”
The maid replied, tone evincing some smugness, “He… ehh… spurted. Came.”
Ehlia’s gaze affixed the boy’s member, still half out of his breeches as he
squirmed under the attention, tried to cover himself. “What?”
“It’s… ehh… a man’s cream – what makes babies,” the other girl replied.
Cream? What did that have to do with babies, other than they drank it from
mothers’ paps? It made no sense to the youngster, so she altered the direction
of her questioning. “Why did she do that? Rhulla – why did you do that?”
“I… ehh… He was h-having trouble…”
“Trouble with what?”
“Getting hard… A boy has to get hard before…”
“Before what?”
“Fucking.”
The surrounding noises became louder; had any of the three been less
distracted, they would have heard shouting.
“Fucking?”
“Well, I mean, that was not fucking just then…” Rhulla confessed.
“What was it?”
“Pricksucking.”
“Ehh?” Their young mistress interrogated them further, but her bafflement only
increased. “That’s not how you make babies,” she asserted. Although she did not
know the whole truth, she felt right in that, at least. “I want you to make a
baby. Show me!”
The couple protested their reluctance, Rhulla even attempting to tell the girl
that boys needed time to recover after cumming – despite the boy’s prick
appearing to increase in proportion even as they discussed it.
“Cumming?” Ehlia echoed. What do you mean?”
“What came out of his prick,” the milkmaid explained, blushing further. “His
cream – cum.”
Their small mistress’s frustration at their seeming evasiveness piqued. “Just
do it!” she demanded, stamping her leather-shod foot in the dirty straw.
Despite her seeming hesitation, Rhulla licked her lips at the sight of the
boy’s cock, jutting defiantly from his hand whilst he remained supine in the
hay pile; it had apparently outgrown his hand again. Hiking up her gown, she
made to straddle him.
“I can’t see!” protested Ehlia. “Let me see!”
The milkmaid’s remaining disinclination fell away with clothing; sinking to
hands and knees beside the youth, she grabbed his raging member, gave it a pump
and a lick or two, lifted and wriggled her rear, crevice winking lewdly in the
half-light. Darlan needed no prompting to resume his former position behind his
partner, half-grunting, half-moaning as he unceremoniously thrust into her.
Ehlia circled round them for a moment, trying for a better vantage. Still
unable to see exactly what was going on, she got on all fours herself, peered
beneath where the older girls’ bouncing generous breasts threatened to put an
eye out. As the lad grunted and thrust, Rhulla’s moans keeping time, Ehlia
suddenly saw – though still not understanding fully – what was happening.
Outside, yells, punctuated with sounds of battle, all but obliterated by
Rhulla’s exhortations and Darlan’s groans.
“Yes, yes, yes!” the milkmaid shouted, Darlan’s stiff prick plunging repeatedly
in and out of the milkmaid’s encasing cunny.
Ehlia knew the name for the female ‘down there’; she had one too, after all,
although she had never thought of putting anything into it, despite her
discovery some time ago that rubbing and probing at it felt good. Now, however—
She would not finish that thought, as the boy suddenly voiced a shout, a final
lunge causing him to collapse atop his partner, who naturally enough crumpled
over the shocked younger girl beneath. Both flattened her into the dirty straw,
almost completely covering her and knocking the wind from her such that she
could not even shout her surprise. Which was mayhap just as well, since the
world suddenly exploded.
The barn door crashed in; sounds of heavy footfalls approaching; muffled thuds
of weapons connecting with flesh and bone; bodies atop her convulsing
violently. Ehlia heard Rhulla try to shout something after “NO—!” before the
vocalisation abruptly severed and her body jerked; an ugly gurgle, another
twitch or two ere stilling. Instinctively – though she had yet to recover
anyway – Ehlia held her breath; dared not move as the yelling and sounds of
battle outside intensified, then lessened. When she no longer felt the
threatening presence, she dared breathe once more.
Immediately, Ehlia suffered assault from the foul taste of horse-cack and -piss
permeating the filthy straw in her mouth; the iron smell of blood; the faint
pungency of smoke. She sensed more than saw the red-orange flicker of fire; all
was mostly dark and strangely silent otherwise, as she remained beneath the now
dead – she was certain – bodies. Her servants’ life fluids trickled over her,
soaking her shift, pulling bile into her throat as the unmistakable reek of
humans’ emptied bladders and bowels all at once overpowered that of animal
excretions. She began to tremble, wishing desperately – as she had not for
quite some time – for her mother. Then thought of her father… and brothers.
Yet, the keep was still, even as the smell of smoke, mixed with a promise of
rain, intensified. Suppressing her fear and confusion, Ehlia worked out that
Fariddan’s Keep – her home – had been attacked; even now it burned. She could
not imagine why or by whom; she only knew she must not remain, as the detached
barn was undoubtedly on fire as well, and—
She realised that the straw pile on which she lay blazed! Ehlia had little
trouble squirming from under the two corpses, slick as they were with gore –
then immediately gagged. Darlan, breeches tangled about his ankles, had cacked
himself; he now lay prone, head squashed in like a gourd, contents splashed
across the stall and oozing over Rhulla. The milkmaid lay half beneath him, one
arm nearly severed – doubtless having failed to intercept the sword thrust that
pierced her throat. Vacant blue eyes stared with permanent shock at the smoky
ceiling as blood seeped from her slack mouth – the mouth that had just—
Someone tossed a torch into the straw!Thankfully, the pile was soiled and too
damp to burn readily – yet Ehlia knew she must get out regardless, as flames
began to consume at least three of the four walls. Rising, eyes burning, throat
constricted from acrid smoke, the taste of threatened vomit and lingering filth
from the straw, she slipped and staggered toward the open door. Fell before
reaching it, crawled out; collapsed, lay for a moment, gasping, filling her
lungs with relatively fresher air. Heat continued to rise, sparks whirling, so
she knew she must get out – out of the bailey, through the gates into the
countryside that was, presumably, not also afire.
***** Henryc-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Two more major character introductions, both older males -- a paladin
     and a cleric -- former adventuring companions of Myrddin, the wizard
     whom we met in the Prologue.
  
        “The Will of God is the cause of things.” (St. Thomas Aquinas)
The Sisters slowly withdrew their pale visages as dawn broke in magenta
splendour over the low western hills behind Courroi several ninedays later. A
light mist crept from the cool glades; the deep, vibrant hues ascendant belied
the mid-spring morning’s chill. In the shallow vale below, the tiny residence
offered little to daunt the restless mass of foot- and horsemen cresting the
surrounding hills. Less so the two figures at the force’s head. One of these
men, Henryc LeClerc, Seil de Payens, sat his platemail-barded mount atop the
moderate verdant slopes, contemplated the apparent inactivity about the square
tower and its mist-enshrouded precincts.
“It is too quiet,” the paladin murmured to his companion. “Surely the king must
know we are here, hein – and why? Where could he be?”
Tendrils of early sunlight rose, burnished metal armour that almost totally
encased the knight and his destrier, as though enamelling steel plates and
links in blood as the heavy steed shifted its weight. Like its master, the
warhorse evinced disquiet. Yet, also like its owner, its training and
experience allowed no betrayal of its unease to any but the most astute
observers – or closest friends.
The stocky dark figure mounted on a mule near the nobleman returned easily,
“T’is not that especially quiet, Henryc. Nothing to worry about, I am sure.”
The black-robed priest’s own naked mount was not averse to displaying its
unease; it pawed the ground, tossed its head, brayed in short, low coughs. Yet,
like his friend of over three ages, Father Lucianus Novum was a veteran as
well; neither did the hawk-nosed, Aquileian cleric visibly react as a
lifetime’s memories all at once played across mind’s eye.
It felt always thus, when the breath of the dragon blew hot on your neck…
Henryc’s unhelmed, tonsured head had not turned to look at the holy man;
neither did the warrior-priest now acknowledge his companion’s reassurances.
Gaze continued to rove up and down the length of the platter-shaped valley as
he tried to discern any sign of activity – or prepared ambush. At last, twisted
about in his high-backed, plain saddle; soft metallic clink and grind of steel-
on-steel not quite muffling the creak of oiled leather.
The Knight of the Faith regarded his friend thoughtfully from eyes bluer than
the azure displayed in his device: a pennon fluttering above and behind him on
the end of a lance bourne by a squire, bearing the arms of a closed fist
holding a Cross of the True Faith; the same insignia decorated surcoat and
steed’s cruppers. Though the handsome older man’s full lips bore a smile, blue
eyes revealed troubled thoughts. Canting his head, Henryc ran mailed tips of
gauntleted fingers down each side of his face, over the short, silver-shot
golden curls armouring chin and cheeks. Solemn, accented voice asked, “What do
you think we should do, Sîan?” He used the middle syllables of the priest’s
full name as a diminutive, a name from the Dubhe language of Hibernia.
Henryc already had a plan, of course, but he had never been completely
convinced of his ability to make wise decisions, despite being reassured
frequently that he had never let down his friends or any of those who looked to
him for leadership. After all these years, he remained unconvinced. Partially
because he knew that ‘never’ was an exaggeration. It may simply have been a
search for relative consensus that made him always turn to companions for
advice – even though receiving such never sufficed to assuage the guilt that
inevitably followed on the occasional, erroneously chosen path. For his
mistakes had already cost too many lives…
For that matter, so had his successes.
Lucianus smiled knowingly. “Verily,” he suggested, “if I were you, Henryc, I
should send a scouting party down there to look over the situation.”
Henryc nodded. “That is juste what I was thinking. I believe I will do that,
hein?” He smiled, a gesture that almost never failed to disarm, mollify, or
appease, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes, as now, it simply
brightened the early dawn as if the sun had just risen.
Few words were required to dispatch scouts in one direction and a message
regarding the enemy’s disposition – or lack of it – to their commanders, who
remained behind with the bulk of the army. Although the Domard de Lorraine and
a handful of other higher ranking nobles were ostensibly leading this quasi-
diplomatic mission to force the King of Franconia to terms, owing to his
greater experience with such matters – not to mention his incontestable
leadership skills – it was tacitly understood that the Seil of Payens would
actually direct the deployment of their forces. Henryc’s premier duty, at least
for the nonce, was to safeguard his charges from any sort of trap; thus, two
squads of light cavalry moved in opposite directions, pincering down into the
valley to discover and thwart any such possibility.
For the moment satisfied with his decision, Henryc observed his learned friend
as he commenced his supplications.
The Archbishop of the Church of the True Faith at Anvers – a friwic, or ‘free
city’, on the River Escaut between the semi-independent Seildoms of Arton and
Flandris – murmured prayers and made gestures over the moving men. One more
time, Henryc wondered what his friend’s early life and apprenticeship must have
been like to have become the victim of such cruelty as Lucianus obviously had:
Both the cleric’s hands were aught but malformed lumps of twisted, broken bones
and skin, now long healed over but apparently – deceivingly – forevermore
useless. The odd, gnarled digit protruded from the fused mass, and Lucianus’
wrists were both permanently bent inward. This caused his deformed members to
curl in upon his thick forearms and give the impression of a man with two grim,
fleshy-barbed hooks in place of hands. Habitually hidden inside folds of
voluminous black robes, they returned there following the cleric’s prayers.
Yet, in all the summers upon winters they had known each other, the darkly
handsome, sturdy priest had told Henryc nothing about the cause of his
disfigurement, save that it had been ‘just punishment’ for handling a weapon
during his days as an acolyte. Henryc had great difficulty accepting such
treatment as any sort of justice, though, for, in addition to the permanent
physical scars the treatment had left on his friend, he also knew that the
prelate retained a psychological inability to wield any sort of object with the
intent of harming another living creature. Whether or not this was a good or
bad side effect was moot, he supposed, but despite the handicap (or mayhap
because of it), Lucianus Novum possessed otherwise astonishing proficiency to
manipulate other objects, and was blessed with a miraculous power to heal
almost any living thing, even of the most grievous injuries or afflictions –
death included.
Some might interpret the prelate’s phobia as squeamishness or even cowardice,
but Henryc knew the cleric was afraid of next-to nothing. He feared only
inadequacy; lived in dread that he should fail in his ministry to the
collective souls of the world, betray his calling to the One True God. Yet, to
the chevalier, his friend’s sense of deficiency was wholly unjustified.
Now, however, a look that Henryc could interpret as naught but anxiety, with
mayhap even a trace of fear, flashed across the heavy-browed features of his
confessor, advisor, and oldest friend. The paladin all at once realised that
something seemed to have been bothering Lucianus ever since they had been
recruited to lead this tentative expedition to King’s Court. He searched his
mind for a possible explanation for this feeling, but, even as he was unable to
determine one, he nonetheless acknowledged its presence.
“Lucius,” he probed, “what trouble you?”
The priest’s usual demeanour of calm assurance all at once returned; Lucius’
time- and sun-worn face creased into a tanned map of life. “Nothing, Henryc. I
am simply worried about the men… what will happen with the king. I do hope he
will come to his senses and be reasonable, before…”
Knowing what he meant, Henryc nodded. Over the past few seasons, King Gaiseric
had, inexplicably, become more and more tyrannical in his administration of the
small realm of Franconia. Although never a particularly wise or able ruler,
neither was Gaiseric a despot – up until about two winters ago. Since then,
among other things, taxes had steadily risen, serving to push the already
impoverished state of Frankish peasant – and not a few nobles – into
destitution, or near enow. Repeated pleas for the alleviation of such burdens
went unanswered. Indeed, of late no one even managed to see the king, let alone
hope for a hearing in a civil dispute or any other matter. Thus had the
desperate nobility approached the renowned Seil of Payens with a request to
back them at the head of an armed ‘escort’ as they made their way to Courroi
for a personal audience with their liege lord.
If nothing was done, they said, the peasantry would revolt. Henryc, himself a
landowner, found this argument believable; although he always strove to be
fair, he had heard rumbles of discontent from his own tenants, for, lately he
had had little choice but to pass on at least part of the new tax burdens to
them, as his earnings from his long-since adventuring days dissipated like the
dawn mist.
And if the king still would not hear them out…
Peering through the fingers of dispersing mist twining about his steed, Henryc
closed one eye, peered at nothing with the other whilst the corner of his mouth
creased; a mannerism into which the paladin was wont to lapse when faced with
uncertainty. “Lucius, pray that it will not come to…”
The priest displayed a confident smile. “It shall not, my friend.” Placed a
gnarled hand upon the cavalier’s steel-jacketed thigh. “I am certain of that.
But pray with me nonetheless.”
The knight glanced up to meet the steady gaze of his friend. A different kind
of guilt roiled up inside of him: Many years ago, Henryc had been an acolyte in
training for the priesthood himself. Although he had been resolute in his
beliefs – even if he did not hold quite as fervent and consuming a faith as did
Lucius – he found the prospect of life as a cloistered, or even worldly, cleric
unappealing. Thus, Lucius suggested he become a Knight of the Faith.
Both completed their respective apprenticeships simultaneously and chose to go
to Outremer, the Holy Land, on what was supposed to have been a noble heryth –
a crusade.   There, they witnessed such barbarity and deprivation, all in the
name of ‘faith’, that Henryc’s religious outlook became more and more cynical –
which might explain why he was seldom able to produce even the least sort of
arcane miracle, although he should long ago have been able to routinely do so.
Yet, what really juddered Henryc’s theological tenets to their foundations were
the acts of chivalry – infrequent though they may have been – shown to the
misguided souls of the Peasants’ Crusade (as the first and most miserable
effort was known) by the very people whom the Faith branded the enemy: those
‘blasphemers and vile heathens’, the Saracens. As their prisoner for a brief
time, Henryc had even met the Saracen leader, Sula-al-d'hin, and he grudgingly
acquired a great respect for the man; he had difficulty reconciling the obvious
contradictions evinced in this sworn enemy versus what he had always been told
about his people. He just did not know…
Henryc nodded, tried to match the cleric’s self-assured smile. “Bien sûr.”
Bowing their heads over the necks of their respective mounts, the two intoned a
few words ere a staccato of hoofbeats interrupted them. Henryc’s head jerked up
to see one of his scouts returning alone.
Alone? Instantly a feeling of dread gripped the count. The young rider skidded
to a halt, mount’s breath billowing, steam rising from the sweated horse. Yet
the look of fear and horror which Henryc had expected was nowhere in evidence.
Instead, the youth beamed, eagerness mixed with not a small measure of
disbelief, as he began to blurt his report.
“Mon Sieur le Seil!” the young man wheezed, speaking Neustrian. Turning briefly
toward the prelate, acknowledging him in heavily accented Brythonic, “Your…
Grace! C’est… c’est impossible… The… the castle… le roi…”
“What is it, lad? Q’est-ce que c’est?” Calmed the boy whilst dismissing a
further pang of guilt: How can I excuse recruiting children…? “Tell me what is
the trouble, hein? Dît moi, what have you found?”
The youth reined in his excitement. “Le roi… The king, Mon Sieur, is… absent…
disparu! There is… no armée…. Le chateau… deserté, the portes…open…”   As
Lucius handed the boy a waterskin, the messenger went on in a confusion of the
two languages, but Henryc’s thoughts had already turned elsewhere.
Incomprehensible that Gaiseric would not react to what amounted to a treasonous
force. But, the palace deserted? Where could everyone have gone? Why? Not in
fear of this small force, surely – but mayhap just so, as armies, friendly or
not, large or small, were wont to despoil everything they encountered. Although
this one would not.
Nonetheless, attempting to make sense of it from up here would be pointless; he
had to determine for himself what chanced. Thus, the chevalier left the army
and its commanders behind with a suggestion – readily accepted – that he and
Lucius investigate with but a skeleton force.
Along with a few of his fridegn, or ‘free warrior’, mercenary countrymen,
Henryc and the priest descended the valley’s green slopes; rode easily across
the fetlock-deep creek at its floor; clopped through the yawning gates of the
motte-and-bailey fort. Sense of foreboding intensified. The yard surrounding
the small keep – called, somewhat presumptuously, Courroi ‘Castle’ – true to
the scout’s report, appeared nearly devoid of life. Perhaps taking advantage of
the little shade afforded in what promised soon to become a warm day, a mangy
hound sprawled near a well beneath a single spindly, denuded apple tree. At
first, the knight thought the animal dead, till he espied its eyes slit open to
lazily regard the passing company ere closing once more. Otherwise, the place
appeared as lifeless.
Henryc halted his party before the main entrance located in the base of the
castle’s fore-building, a two-storey wooden structure housing the entrance
vestibule, kitchens, and another all-important well. Four offset towers – one
at each corner of the square stone edifice – rose three more stories each, or
about four-and-a-half rods, above this. The donjon itself displayed a sorry
state of disrepair. In many places on the walls and battlements, the fine grey
stone used to face its basic flint concrete had loosened and fallen out;
shutters were either missing or hung awkwardly from darkened, high windows;
even the front door gaped wide. Not a breath of life stirred about the place.
Or so it appeared.
The paladin turned to give the order to dismount when suddenly a scream burst
from the main doorway, followed by a human form and then another. The next
instant saw the warrior-priest dismounted, greatsword swept from scabbard
strapped to his saddle. Echoed by several others, though they proved
unnecessary – at least at first. The first figure, that of a woman – girl,
really – barefoot and in a torn and filthy linen shift, plunged headlong over
the single broad step, shrieking. Stumbled down the sloping entrance-ramp,
fell, scrambled up with a fearful backward look, tore across the short stretch
of yard to hurtle into the massive chest of Henryc’s heavy destrier. The well-
trained animal barely flinched as the girl dropped, dazed, at the beast’s huge,
shaggy hooves.
The second, pursuing figure turned out to be a light horseman of a small
Sächsenaisfridegn company hired to bolster the Frankish army. The soldier
nearly fell, suddenly halting as he recognised the figure all at once
confronting him. Abruptly replaced the flushed, eager look on his face with one
of surprise and apprehension. Saluted – a fist thumped across leatherencased
chest and lowered stiffly to one side – stood still. Henryc remained
motionless, weapon held two-handed horizontally in front of him. Without
adjusting his glare, from the corner of an eye noted Lucius seeing to the
fallen girl.
“You!” he spat at the cavalryman, complexion matching the angriest sunset.
Vitriol further accented his words. “Wair you not warn’d to be no looting
whatevair? No matter what?” Altered the cant of his battlesword; point winked a
handsbreadth from the wide-eyed mercenary’s throat. “These may not be your
people, sallôt, but they are mine!” Glared into the sweating, stubbly face of
the trembling soldier, the stink of fear and unwashed flesh oozed from the
rough leather of the man’s kit. Wondering if the fridegn could even comprehend
him, switched to near-fluent Teutonic. “Where is your lieutenant, filth? Tell
me, before I lose my patience and draw-and-quarter you where you stand!” The
mercenary, to his credit, did aught but close his eyes in acceptance of the
death-blow he evidently expected at any instant.
Henryc felt a hand on his shoulder. Ere reflex took over, he realised to whom
it belonged.
“Henryc,” Lucius placated. “No harm was done. Leave him be.”
“No harm…? I do not care—! I should say, I gave orders…!”
“I know, Henryc, but you cannot punish him like this. Place him under arrest.
But what is more important is to stop the rest of it.”
“The rest…?” Not taking his eyes from the soldier, all at once realised what
Lucius was suggesting: One pillager likely meant more.
Sure enough, a guffaw dropped from a small window high above their heads.
Another scream – abruptly curtailed – emerged behind it. Henryc, springing from
beneath Lucius’ hand, knocked the trembling mercenary aside, lumbered in heavy
armour through the door and into the outer vestibule. Requiring almost no time
to orient himself in the dim, unfamiliar castle, he turned right through an
arched doorway, emerged into a circular stairwell. Regularly placed arrow-slits
ascending the outside of the stonework admitted weak sunlight at the bottom,
but widened as the tower rose. Passing the entrance to the ground floor storage
areas and dungeons, Henryc, despite their steepness and depth, his age and
encumbrance, took the smooth, winding stone steps two and three at a time until
he reached the first floor landing.
The body of a man, clad in the familiar cuir-bouilli leather breastplate of a
Teuton fridegn, lay in a pool of blood. Henryc stepped over it, sought the
source of trouble he knew waited above on the second floor. Entering the large,
rectangular great hall on the third level of the keep, he noted that the
fireplace was dead – highly unusual at virtually any time of year. Sufficient
bright sunlight crept through high, broken shutters to gather amongst the
cloying dust, revealing in deep shadow the heavy beamed ceiling bisected by a
sturdy stone arch. Did naught, however, to alleviate the interior’s chill, nor
the close, depressing atmosphere.
Debris littered the rush-strewn wood floor, as did three more corpses; a small,
naked one sprawled grotesquely below the gallery; two more – leather-plated –
lay prostrated roughly in the centre of the hall. A few large rats and a feral
hound already worried at the bodies; a cat stalked the former through the
filth.
Above these stood another, live man, holding a bloodied sword. By his kit,
Henryc identified a Frankish fridegn lieutenant – injured; blood ran freely
down the torn mail of one arm, dripped into the desiccated reeds.
Henryc presented his weapon enguard. The officer did nothing. The seil
demanded, jaw clenched, “Are you with me, or against me?”
The wounded soldier blinked, sweat dripping from the nasal of his helm to
commingle with the blood in the rushes on the floor. “Mon… Mon Sieur…?”
In his native tongue of Neustrian, Henryc warned, “If you have been looting, I
will kill you.”
The lieutenant dropped his weapon, presented hands, palms out, close to chest;
the gesture could display supplication, surrender, loyalty, or any number of
these in consort. Dropping to one knee, spread arms wide, bowed his head.
Displacing any further doubt, he avowed, also in Neustrian, “I am your
liegeman, my lord.”
Convinced of the man’s obeisance, Henryc canted the broad blade of his espadon,
balancing it one-handed over his left shoulder. In two strides, retrieved the
lieutenant’s sword with the other hand, presented it to him hilt-first; bade
the man rise. “What is your name, sieur?”
“Pothier, Mon Sieur le Seil.” The man’s accent, Silurian, the northern dialect
of the Frankish language, only slightly different from Henryc’s own Ripuarian
extraction. “Lieutenant Gerard Pothier at your service once more.”
“‘Once more’? Ah… Oui. Yes. I know you. You were in my service before. On our
first expedition to the Emerald Isle.”
“Yes, my lord. But, begging your pardon, I was there on the second voyage. I
had not the honour of accompanying you and your Band to Hibernia the first
time.”
Henryc studied the man. A brusque, greying veteran, as far as Henryc could
recall, Liethenant Pothier had been a trustworthy man. Further, as a Frank and
a nationalist (a rare political mindset in any land) it was unsurprising he
took a dim view of the violation of his liege’s seat of royal authority – such
as it was notwithstanding.
Henryc, striding toward the fallen nude body, knelt by it; Pothier followed. In
a lighter tone as he gently examined the injured child – a boy of barely half
an age – Henryc continued, “Now, what has happened here, Pothier?”
“Looters, mon sieur. The Teuton squad surprised my own. Regrettably, I am all
that is left of either. I… took the liberty of dismissing these last two
foreigners from theDomard’s service. I will accept any punishment mon sieur
requires for my disgrace—”
Henryc tried not to smile – found it was not difficult, for the boy, as far as
he could tell, had several broken bones at best, doubtless from a fall from the
gallery trying to escape his pursuers. “If it is true – and I do believe you,
Lieutenant – then I am sure there will be no faulting you.” Although he had no
difficulty picturing the recent events, he asked, “Yet, tell me what you found
here, hein?” Scarred hands, stripped of their mailed gloves, hovered nearly
motionless over a bloody piece of bone grotesquely protruding from the child’s
left elbow. He began to murmur words of supplication.
Pothier described how this youngster – as it turned out, the younger sibling of
the girl they first encountered – had indeed fallen from the balcony whilst
trying to escape the two soldiers the Silurian officer had just ‘dismissed’.
The lieutenant gasped as a pale blue glow limned Henryc’s hands and, growing
brighter, sizzled quietly with arcane power. Blood evaporated from the wound,
shattered bone shrank back into flesh; the gruesome wound knitted, skin
gradually reacquiring healthy hue as the astonished ranker watched. With a tiny
flash and a faint snap, the light vanished; no longer any trace of the injury
save a bit of blood.
Sweating copiously and murmuring solemn thanks, Henryc crossed himself. Pulling
on his gauntlets, he stood just as Lucius entered the great hall; the paladin
beckoned him over. The boy was still seriously hurt, but not for long as the
cleric began to work some much more efficacious miracle-magic than the paladin
could manage.
“Lieutenant,” Henryc addressed the soldier.
Pothier remained kneeling, gauntleted fingers of one hand not quite touching
the place on the boy’s arm where the wound had been. He glanced up, awed, from
his commander to the unconscious child, and back again. Slowly he rose, crossed
himself devoutly. Though he had surely witnessed it before, having accompanied
their Band of Nine, such magic never became routine.
Henryc reddened, dismissing the homage, stowed his sword in the scabbard slung
over his back. Taking the lieutenant’s elbow, they withdrew a short distance to
let the healer-priest work. Pothier finally related to Henryc how they had
found next-to no one about the castle, only a few servants and starveling serfs
whom had taken refuge from their poor, crowded hovels to claim squatters’
rights in the inexplicably abandoned keep.
“If I may say so, Mon Sieur le Seil,” Pothier ventured, gesturing about the
dingy interior of Courroi’s great hall, “I do not see how men could be moved to
sack this unhappy place.”
Henryc voicelessly agreed with him, added aloud how many men craved more than
material wealth. Reminded of the wife left behind at his estate in Payens,
Henryc suddenly wanted Lianys with him. Soon, he would be home.
Upon rooting out and questioning several terrified domestics, Henryc discovered
that Queen Jeshira had long-since disappeared – lost, and, if the stories were
to be believed, no doubt dead after wandering off one day in her state of
catatonia. They further related that well before that day a castellan had been
virtually governing the kingdom, the precise amount of Gaiseric’s input during
this stewardship uncertain. Strangely, this caretaker, named Hamai, of whom
none in the party had heard, also seemed to be missing, along with the entire
royal household. More importantly, where was the king?
A listless former stableboy showed Henryc and Lucius a tiny, windowless alcove
inside a thick wall on the ground floor. Upon a filthy, lice-infested straw
pallet lay a nude, gaunt old man, barely recognisable as Gaiseric. The stench
of illness, unwashed flesh, and various body excretions created a palpable
miasma.
But… this cannot be the king…!
Outraged, Henryc turned from the noisome place. Leaving Lucius to administer to
the obviously sick and likely dying sovereign, he ordered the room in best
condition cleaned and aired for their ruler, likewise the rest of the castle,
whilst organising a search for Castellan Hamai and other courtiers. Turning to
the now-idle army officers, he instructed that they ask anyone with skills as a
carpenter, stonemason, or the like, to report to him immediately for
assignments. Both looked askance.
“I do not care what the men think,” the chevalier declared, knowing the
officers’ minds. “Soldiers or not, they will do as I say. Tell them they will
get full pay – with bonuses, though there was no battle – if they cooperate in
seeing this… palace put into some kind of order.”
At the promise of money, the captains brightened, saluted, left.
Just then, two more soldiers came by carrying the inert form of Gaiseric.
Lucius, sweating, doubtless due to recent magical exertions, accompanied them.
Advising the men to proceed upstairs with their patient, the cleric paused
before the paladin, asked, “H-Henryc. W-Where do you suppose the boy is?”
The seil remembered that there should be a crippled mute boy, the king’s
surviving son, about whom everyone had heard, even before the lad had
apparently tried to kidnap his newborn brother, the elder prince nearly dying
along with his sibling. Yet, Lucius’ anxiety seemed… different, somehow. To
have diverted his thoughts from the dying king… it seemed out of character.
Henryc ascribed it to his friend’s compassion. “Do not worry, Sîan, he will
turn up. I have heard he is a strange boy, not right in the head. He is
probably—”
“He is not addled!” Lucius shot back. The priest seemed to immediately regret
his outburst and apologised. Laying a hand upon the paladin’s shoulder, he
admonished, “But you should not prejudge anyone, Henryc.” Smile once more in
place, along with something of a haunted look in dark eyes.
Henryc, rather taken aback at the vehemence of his Confessor’s protest, wanted
to ask what really bothered him, what made him so certain about the missing
prince’s state of mind; but the cleric swept up the stairs after the litter-
bearers. Instead, the chevalier accosted the next officer he saw and ordered
another search, this time for a lame, mute princeling.
Not long ere Lucius returned, telling Henryc that there was little more he
could do: Gaiseric had in fact died some time ago.
The knight peered circumspectly at his friend. “There is no question… that you
might…?”
The patriarch’s eyes widened. “No!” he responded, horrified. “I am not worthy.”
“Perhaps not, Sîan,” Henryc allowed, familiar with his friend’s self-perceived
failings. “But the king is most worthy, hein? The life of a kingdom, its
people, depends on him. If there is any chance he might be raised—”
“No, Henryc.” Lucius’ lower lip trembled. “Verily, I f-fear his soul has too
long departed; I would not be able to recall it should I even deem myself a w-
worthy vessel to channel Our Lord’s Spirit.
“What is more, Henryc, he would be… ill. Like as not unfit to rule, as he has
proven recently – the reason we are here, no? Mayhap even worse.”
Henryc doubted his friend’s assessment of his own talent, but realised that if
the cleric lacked self-confidence, such a solemn undertaking had an equally low
chance of success. Moreover, regarding the state of mind of the king should he
be brought back from the dead, ofttimes elsewise perfectly healthy souls did
not survive the transference, body and mind intact.
Thus, bearded chin dipped, wide shoulders sagging slightly as he acquiesced.
Responsibility began to weigh upon the paladin. Looked again at the prelate.
“What am I to do then, Sîan?” This time he truly felt unsure, even as he tried
to dismiss the persistent voice in his head emphatically directing him.
King Gaiseric’s surviving son – young, physically infirm, probably mentally
impaired as well, no matter Lucius’ sentiments – would be unfit to take over.
Moreover, should word drift to the various stuffed breastplates still awaiting
word up in the hills, chaos might ensue as each tried to seize power for
himself – if not immediately, then undoubtedly ere long.
Civil war!
Lucius offered the solution he would not himself admit: “You must take the
regency, my friend.” Placing one mangled hand on the knight’s armoured
shoulder, he replicated the voice in Henryc’s head. “No one else is suited,
much less competent. You know as well as I—”
Henryc protested anyway, shrugging from beneath the disfigured hand that seemed
only to add more weight to his already increasing burden. “I could never do
such a thing, Sîan. It… it would be treasonous…” Suddenly fatigued beyond his
middling age, he sought a chair or stool in the grimy great hall, found a small
bench tipped on its side near one wall, righted it; gingerly, as if afraid it
may collapse beneath him, lowered his considerable armoured weight onto it.
Unslung his sword by the baldric, laid it gingerly across his knees. Lucius
remained standing.
"You cannot conspire against a dead king,” the priest reasoned. “And do you
honestly believe that any of the others would make a better ruler?”
Henryc waved a gauntleted hand. “That is not the point, Sîan. If I simply
claimed the crown for myself, I would be no better than any other who might
try, hein? Further, I am not the ranking noble of the realm – the Domard of
Lorraine or Normandie would be. And what about the prince?”
Lucius effected a fleeting, pained grimace.
What could be troubling the man…?
“You would not be claiming the throne, Henryc, merely the regency. Until… Well,
as you have indicated, the boy… the boy is probably unfit to rule, not to
mention too young – even if we can f-find him.” Lucius swallowed, unusually
pale.
Henryc’s curiosity grew.
“Nonetheless, there is a difference: You will have the support; most of the
army is yours, as I am sure you are aware. It has always been so. You need only
say the word, or pay them off and—”
“I will not do it!” Henryc’s attempt at indignance fell woefully short as the
flimsy wooden seat collapsed under him the instant he made to surge to his
feet; the knight fell into a steel heap, cloak whipping around to completely
envelope his head.
Lying amongst the dirty rushes on the floor, he tried to rise but found he was
too tired… or too old… Or too something.
Unwinding the cloak from his face, he rumbled, “Well, do not just stand there
laughing, you cursed old necromancer! Help me up!”
Lucius made no move to comply. “I am not laughing,” he prevaricated. “Despite
your resemblance to a caparisoned turtle.”
Henryc withdrew a handsbreadth of naked steel from the scabbard he still
managed to hold. “Did I ever tell you that I know at least nine ways to skin
someone alive?” he enquired, losing most of his pique to self-amusement.
The cleric feigned distress. “Where might you ever have learnt something like
that? And with a battlesword?”
“Almost a year captive amongst the Picts can teach you a lot, hein?”
Both half-grins faded as unpleasant memories once again surfaced.
Lucius smiled, reached out a warped hand to the cavalier. Henryc, weapon
stowed, took a grip on his friend’s wrist without flinching or even so much as
glancing at it; one became used to cruelty…
Suddenly, employing a deceptively agile gait, an emaciated and grimy, nearly
naked child hobbled from the far end of the great hall, heading rapidly for the
other end; several shouting guardsmen followed apace. Without breaking its
awkward stride, it glanced up for only an instant at the wide-eyed pair by the
wall.
Lucius, emitting a strangled cry, rushed to intercept the boy ere the soldiers
could reach him. Wildly flailing arms, legs, teeth assailed the cleric. Henryc
all at once felt a palpable heat, seeming to emanate from the child! Henryc saw
his friend and veteran companion of many years close his eyes, jaw clench;
evidently, he fought some sort of battle with the lad other than physical.
Henryc sprang awkwardly to help, as did the guards. Yet, the intensity of the
wasted child’s telempathy proved too much; as though they tried to make their
way through an invisible inferno. Staggered and nearly helpless, Henryc could
but stand and watch as the boy’s wild struggles gradually slackened, ceased.
The atmosphere of the large room cooled.
Lucius’ eyes remained closed, lined, dark features sweat-sheened, drawn, as if
in great pain. Lips trembled; he seemed to be either praying or incanting a
spell – or both. At last the skinny form clutched tightly yet tenderly in the
priest’s embrace relaxed, went limp. The archbishop straightened, lifted the
boy in his arms. All at once, the child leapt from his grasp and limped out of
the hall; silence all that followed for a few grains, though recapture was
pitifully inevitable.
Realising the obvious – that they had found the enigmatic young Prince of
Franconia – Henryc observed from inside the main entrance on the ground floor.
A wry smile lifted one end of his golden moustache as he imagined Lucius’
consternation at the boy’s resistance to his magic. Then the paladin’s lower
jaw sagged, aghast at what he witnessed his friend do next: Lucius released
Waryn la Gaiseric. Dumbfounded, the Knight of the Faith and several retainers
stared, as, after a moment hesitation, as if expecting a trick, Waryn turned,
hobbled through the gates, doubtless as fast as he could.
Abruptly, a gaunt roan destrier burst from the dilapidated stable, galloped
after him, whinnying indignantly. The cripple, halting his flight as the
warhorse thundered by, swept astride; both anon lost to dust and groundswell.
Lucius remained staring after him on the road as if spiked to it.
Shocked, and thinking he should yell for his own steed but unable to articulate
words, Henryc made to lumber in the unconventional duo’s wake. Mail-clad arm
caught in a strong grip as he passed the prince’s erstwhile captor, he turned;
the cleric’s normally swarthy face ashen.
Henryc demanded, haltingly, “What…? Why…? Sîan, in all the Names of the One
True God, what have you done?”
“I w-was instructed by God.” Lucius swallowed. His dark eyes betrayed
unidentifiable emotions. “I shall p-pray for him.” The surprisingly strong grip
on Henryc’s arm advised him not to try to reverse the priest’s inexplicable
decision.
“What? Are you mad? Sîan, he will not survive – has no chance, alone, crippled
and mute. You must let me bring him back.”
“No, Henryc. He will not stay – there is no place for him here.”
“What? Where will he go, then, hein? Are you mad?” Shaking off his friend,
Henryc turned toward his own mount. “I will fetch him back.”
“Henryc. No.” The cleric’s face, no longer pale, had hardened. “He has…
options… He will not be alone.”
“How do you know, Sîan?”
“God told me. It must be so.”
Consternation multiplied in the seil’s mind, but Henryc had the feeling he did
not want to know all the reasons the prelate had seen fit to turn a crippled,
half-starved child out into the world; the political ramifications alone began
to overwhelm him. Then a twinge of foreboding crept into the pit of his
stomach, would not desist. Turning again to his friend, intoned, “Pray for us
all, then, Lucius. Pray for us all.”
***** Akzir-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Several major characters from a 'middle eastern' background,
     including a brother and sister.
          “And they say: By no means leave your gods, nor leave Wadd,
      nor Suwa'; nor Yaghūth, and Ya'uq and Nasr.”  (The Qur'an. 71:23.)
 
He always began his lectures the same way: “Now, talab, a most interesting
subject…”
More often than not, ‘interesting’ was not a word student Akzir Mosdan would
have used to describe school, the town’s outdoor maqtab. However, today the
announcement of ‘far away lands and their inhabitants’ actually elicited some –
for Akzir, anyway.
At an age-and-three, the slight, dark-skinned youth, wearing aught but sandals
and dhoti – short, puffy breeches – as well as the ubiquitous emãmah wrapped
around his head, latter both white, leaned forward in his cross-legged posture
upon a cushion. Had he believed in him, Akzir could almost ignore the sungod,
Malakbel, glaring down at him whence he sat on the carved stone slabs girding
the fountains in the central ryad of the Akmari city of Bakkah.
Mudarri – all teachers in Akemar were simply known as teacher – continued: “We
have much to learn, and much to gain, from respectful contact with ajnabi. Take
the the name of our land; elsewhere it is known as Achernar, Akernar, or
Acamar. The papyri I write on to show you these different names, what we call
waraq, is from faraway Qattarâ. The charcoal stylus I use we can get anywhere,
as are the wooden ones you use to etch your wax tablets. But for the most
important writing – such as recording the prophecies of the great god Hubal,
the commands of malikas and emirs – only the best ink, from Thuban, must be
used, along with q'oso lama'ah like this one.” Holding up a reed pen, the tall,
bearded man in a full thawb and emãmah, yellow, denoting his status as mudarri,
paced in sandals before his small class of youthful mixed genders. Continued,
“Talab, I want you to use your mum – you see, even that word is from Thuban,
where we get much of the wax for your tablets. I want you to write the names of
the gods I am going to give you now.
“Regarding the gods,” he went on, “the mudarris of the New Faith would tell you
there is but one god, Al'lah, yet this disregards the fact that many lands have
many of the same deities; they simply go by different names. For example, where
we have Al'lah, the Father of the Gods, in nearby lands they call him El. The
Nabateans, who live under the Great Mountain, call him Dushara, ‘Mountain
Father’.” He wrote as he paced, holding his paper before each to show them.
“The Qattarâns, of whom we just spoke, name him Amun, or sometimes Osiris. In
Thuban he is Shiva.”
Akzir wanted to interject something about false gods, but his sister
interrupted first.
“But, Mudarri, what about the Mother?”
Though two years younger, Zeniah had this aggravating habit… Akzir wished she
would get a scolding, but interruptions – questions – were encouraged in
maqtab, even from little sisters. Still, once away from here he would pull the
decadent blue ribbons from her hair that she wore hidden under her white
chador, and—
Teacher chuckled, stroked short black beard. “Ah, little Zeniah, always the
curious one, sē? Of course we have the Mother, Atargatis. In Thuban she is
Tiamat; in Qattarâ, Heket. There are many more deities, of the sun, sky, moons,
as well as those for love and war and even learning – who is Nabu, here in
Akemar.
“Now, talab—”
“But, Mudarri,” Zeniah interrupted again. “Who is the goddess of love?”
She will get a beating now, thought Akzir angrily. Their father, Hemub, who
followed the Prophet of the New Faith, disapproved of girls even going to
school; surely, he would not be pleased that his daughter interrupted to ask
foolish questions about love goddesses. Only because of their mother, a Quraysh
emira, could she get away with such behaviour.
As a princess of the ruling tribe, their ummū outranked their father, a mere
sheikh, and thus, even against their ābbi’s wishes, mother got her way. Yet,
Akzir would not let it alone, nor wait until he got home. “What does it
matter?” he snapped. “There is no god but Al'lah. And even if there were
others, the god of war would be much more important now. Is that not right,
Mudarri?”
Their instructor sighed. “Ah, atfaal. You both test the patience of Ba'al
himself, He Who Waits for the Rivers to Fill the Seas. Indeed, Akzir, we, the
Quraysh, are in conflict right now. The adherents of the so-called New Faith,
led by their prophet, Imdal, of the Koreshites, have rebelled against their
lawful malik, your mother’s father. And they have attacked our fanduk, robbing
the caravans under Quraysh protection. Worse, they have done so in the
forbidden month of Munṣil – therefore, may Al-Quam strike them down for
plundering his fanduk, and may Manāt show them no mercy. There, I have now
invoked the god of war and the goddess of justice and luck against the infidel.
As for love, little Zeniah, may Al-'Uzzá bless you with a loving husband, and
may Atargatis grant you many children.
“You should know, talab, that Al-'Uzzá, who is also the Morning Star, as well
as Al-lāt and Manāt, are the daughters of Al'lah, while—”
“Blashpemy!” cried Akzir. “Al'lah has no daughters or even sons!”
“How do you know this, Akzir?”
“The Prophet says it is so.”
“The so-called prophet does not speak for the Quraysh,” interjected an older
boy.
“Fadir, you—”
Mudarri intervened. “This is not the time or place, talab. Now, I think we
should move on, if no one has any more questions.”
Zeniah did, of course. “But, Mudarri, why is Munṣil forbidden? And what is
forbidden?” Dressed in only a light tunic and male dhoti, chador cloak not even
held closed and only partially covering her hair, she sat eagerly forward.
Akzir fidgeted in anger.
“Are you asking the meaning of ‘forbidden,’ sughraa, or what is it that is
forbidden?”
‘Little sister’? Akzir fumed; even mudarri had no right to address another’s
relative with that diminutive.
His sibling smiled. “Both, Mudarri.”
Laughter in the maqtab; jeering from Akzir.
“Now, talab, you must not mock questions in maqtab – we do not judge the worth
of a question nor the questioner. Therefore, Zeniah’s enquiries are worthy of
reply. And, since it seems that many of you already know the answers, who will
give them?”
“Mudarri,” Fadir responded, “the meaning of ‘forbidden’ is ḥarām – that which
is not permitted according to law, of gods or men.”
He had not laughed at her; now smiled instead, the young girl returning the
look frankly – further incensing her brother.
She should be veiled and—
“Very good, Fadir. What about the second part of Zeniah’s query? Anyone?”
Fadir answered again: “Making war during Munṣil is ḥarām because it is the
month of pilgimage. All dutiful Quraysh must make the pilgrimage, the hajj, to
honour the gods, and this means that… ah…”
“Yes, Fadir. Go on.”
“That is, so all Akmari can do their sacred duty, the roads must be safe from
bandits and infidels for travellers—”
“They are not infidels!” Akzir objected. He had heard enough. “They are
Quraysh, like us. My father says the malik expelled them unlawfully from their
own homes!”
“They chose to leave,” the older boy countered. “They wished to preach their
false message of ignoring all the gods but one, so the malik banished them.”
Rising part-way to his feet, Akzir shot back, “To deprive a man of his home and
property is ḥarām! What else can they do, but take from those who—”
“That is not the meaning of ḥar—”
Again, Mudarri intervened. “Both of you, stop! That is enough. I have already
said this is not the place for such debates. In fact, that is all for today,
talab. Tomorrow, we will discuss the domains of the gods, as well as the nine
elements that comprise life – and death – on the whole of Aard. Also, time and
calendars, comparing them throughout the Lands. That is, if we have the time.”
Akzir felt so angry with Fadir on the way home he forgot all about his sister’s
audaciousness. Did not recall it until they returned next morning.
As promised, Mudarri began to explain the roles of the gods; how they were
sorted into nine ‘spheres’ of influence, each of which, however, subsumed many
other aspects of life on Aard. (The world itself, he told them, other peoples
variously called Erd, Oeth, Anonna, Terro, Pr̥thvī, and so on, in their own
language.) In consort, the ‘elements’ of these spheres engendered all life on
Aard.
“Write this on your mum, talab,” he instructed, “just so:”
 
Flesh+Air (breath)+Water (blood)+Essence (life)
+Earth (plants+animals =food)+Wood+Metal+Fire
=life+Time
=death
 
“This ‘equation’ explains how the Creator deities made the first Flesh, into
which they breathed Air, then added Water, which became blood when the Creators
gave life by finally adding Essence. From that time on – disregarding the
intevention of deities governing fate, disease, and the like – humankind is
left on its own to ensure other necessities, so that life may continue. That
is, we must generally gather Wood to make Fire. Then, we take a pot, made of
Metal, into which we put the fruits of the Earth, namely meat, vegetables,
grains – and cook and eat them. Such sustains life. However, what happens when
we add Time to the formula?”
“Death,” all students replied at once.
“Correct, talab. Time will be the death of all mortals – other methods
notwithstanding.”
“But, Mudarri, what about death in battle?” From Fadir, this time. He neared
the age when he would graduate from the maqtab into the company of men and
their interests.
“Ah, Fadir, ‘what about battle?’ you ask. Indeed, what about the many other
ways to die – accident, starvation, the like? What do you think, young sayyid?”
“Well, if you cut off a man’s head, he dies.”
“Yes?” Teacher looked at him expectantly.
“Ahh… that is…”
“He bleeds!” exclaimed Akzir.
“Yes, Akzir. You deprive him of blood – one of the elements, as it is Water –
and he dies.”
“The same if you take away real water or breath or food?” Zeniah queried.
Again her brother’s ire prickled; she always had to outdo him!
“Yes, Sayyidāt Zeniah. Take any of the elements away, or add enough Time, and
life is ended.”
“But, Mudarri, not all food needs to be cooked. Why is fire and metal and wood
needed at all?”
“Ah, Zeniah, let me answer you this way: Can you imagine eating only fawaakih
and mikassaraat all your life? As good as they are, and even in their great
variety – much of which we get from foreigners, as it happens – eating only
fruit and nuts would become boring, sē? Even qameh, which we grind and make
into ȑajiin, must be baked before we can enjoy round loaves or flat raġiif. The
divines gave us these blessings together to enjoy life; without one or more we
would be spiritually poorer than we are, sē?”
“But, Mudarri, what is Essence?”
“Another excellent question, Zeniah. Does anyone care to answer?”
“It is life,” her brother supplied confidently.
“Well, yes, but it is more. Anyone?”
“What about magic, Mudarri?” The almost inaudible question came from the
youngest in the class, the son of a minor noble of the Hawazin tribe, relatives
and subjects of the Quraysh ruling family.
“Yes, Hadim. Magic, though very few are blessed with it, is a part of Essence.
Some say they are the same, as life is something of a mu'jizah, a miracle. But
clearly, there is a difference, as not all who are alive can do magic. Is there
anything else that could go with Essence?”
Blank looks.
“What of the soul, or spirit?” he supplied.
The last remaining talab, dressed in the full black niqāb and burqah prescribed
for girls whom had been visited by Manaf, the moon goddess, and were thus
considered women, asked, “Mudarri, do souls not go to the Underworld, with Al-
lāt after death?” Normally, such girls would be married and have no need to
continue to attend maqtab, so Tesil added a spice of mystery to their small
company.
“Ah, that is the question, is it not, Tesil?” their teacher mused. “Some
peoples say that if one does evil in one’s life, then one’s soul or spirit goes
to Abaddon, to suffer eternally in some fashion. Most also have a place where
the righteous go upon death; we know it as Jannah. Either way, the soul leaves
the Flesh, all that is left behind here on Aard.”
Zeniah spoke: “But, Mudarri, what is Flesh made of?” provoking more laughter –
only from her brother, this time.
“Talab, what did I tell you yesterday?” their lecturer cautioned all. “Zeniah’s
question is more astute than you realise. She asks, ‘What did the Creators use
to fashion humankind, if it did not exist already? Am I correct, sughraa?”
The girl smiled boldly at the elder, nodded.
She will get a beating today, her brother silently promised.
“Yet another very good question,” Mudarri praised – infuriating Akzir even
further. “Some peoples say the Creators used clay, or their tears or even their
own flesh. Some say the first people came from an egg, like taa'iraat. Others
say the Creators simply vomited forth the sky, the moons, stars, Aard, and
everything in it, from chaos or nothingness or maybe Water, the only element
that already existed. Still others assert that the first people came from
another world, or deep within this one.”
“But, Mudarri, who is right?”
He chuckled. “Ah, little Zeniah. Always the hard questions. Who is to say,
sughraa? Every people in every land think they alone have it right – but then,
how can they? Not every tale can be correct, so perhaps no one has it right.
Then again, perchance there is a little truth in every story, and if one weaves
together the right threads, the whole naj'udō appears.”
Zeniah pressed, “But, Mudarri, who was the first Flesh?”
“Ah, you wish to know whether the Mother and Father created male or female
first, sē? Well, that is uncertain, Zeniah. Most Akmari believe it was woman,
which is the reason for our matrilineal and matrilocal society – which is to
say, the reason you take your mother’s family name as your nasab, and not your
father’s. But I fear these concepts will have to await explanation another day,
since I see by the height of Malakbel above us that it is time for a break.
Come back after taġadda, talab, and we will learn to tell time in different
ways.”
The class broke up to go home for lunch. As soon as they were out of sight of
the ryad, Zeniah pulled off her chador, made to roll it under her arm. Akzir
caught her, held her arm as he yanked the ribbons from her hair, threw them to
the ground, crushed them into the paving stones with the heel of a sandal.
“Ow! No! Stop! Let me go!”
Akzir slapped his sister across the face. “Little sharmūta! Put your chador
back on!”
Zeniah started crying. “N-No! Ummū says I do n-not have to—”
Her brother slapped her again, knocking her to the rough flags. Her nose began
to bleed. “Do as I say! Ābbi will punish you worse when I tell him how brazen
you were in maqtab. Shameless! Your name should be Zaaniaa, instead!”
Sobbing, hand to dripping nose, Zeniah made no move to comply; white cloak lay
in the dirty street beside soiled ribbons. Akzir raised his hand again—
Caught in a stronger grip, he turned, fury rising.
Fadir!
“If you strike her again,” the elder, much larger youth told him calmly, “I
will beat you likewise.”
“But she is—”
“Whatever she is or is not, you have no right to hit her.”
“I have every right! Father says we must protect our women and ensure—”
“You protect her by beating her?”
“I must ensure she remains chaste, else she bring dishonour on us!”
Zeniah remained on the ground, holding her nose to stop the flow of blood; not
too bad, withal. Crying ceased as she witnessed the struggle of wills.
“How has she dishonoured you?”
“You saw how she acted in maqtab!”
“I heard her ask a lot of questions,” Fadir observed. “There is no shame in
that.”
“But she… she looked at Mudarri – and you!”
“She looked at us? A grave sa'yi'aa, for certain.”
“You jest about sin, Fadir, but the Prophet says that girls should be modest –
remain covered and not look at men who are not family. Now let me go!” Akzir
tried to wrest free, could not break the other’s grip.
“As I already told you,” Fadir remonstrated, “the so-called prophet does not
rule Bakkah or the Quraysh – that is why he is exiled. Your mother’s father
rules as malik, and his law says that only noble born girls who have seen their
first moon-flow need go out veiled. To distinguish them from commoners and
whores.”
The younger boy glared, refusing to debate further, especially if it escalated
physically, which he was certain to lose.
“Before I let you go, Akzir, you will promise that you will never hit your
sister again. No matter how angry you are or what wrong you believe she has
done. Do I have your wallah?”
Akzir’s breath caught for a moment; the other youth asked for his sacred vow,
something not lightly given. Gave it withal.
Fadir released him. As Akzir massaged his sore, reddened wrist, the older boy
helped Zeniah to her feet. “Are you badly hurt, sughraa?”
How dare he call her that, Akzir mentally muttered. Whose little sister was
she, anyway? Look, how she stares at him with moon eyes as he wipes the well-
deserved blood and tears from her face with his sleeve.
How he hated Fadir! The son of a mushir, the older youth arguably outranked
Akzir; but for the younger boy’s mother, a princess, Akzir would indubitably be
of inferior status. If only he could call down the wrath of Allatum upon him –
both of them!
The irony of invoking a female war deity, in whom he ostensibly did not
believe, upon his sister and her protector, never occurred to the youth.
 
Later that day, Mudarri told them that most cultures throughout Aard grouped
their divinities similarly, more or less corresponding to the elements
previously discussed. Other than the Creator maternal and paternal deities,
however – generally known as the Mother and the Father, governing Essence and
Time, respectively – the other elements presided over various spheres. He gave
the example of nature, seasons, animals, and agriculture deities, whose spheres
were grouped together under the element of Wood; the relationship, he
explained, dealt with nature and growth; thus trees; hence, wood (an actual
rarity in Akemar; the scrub miramiya trees and their smoky pitch made poor
cooking fires, thus causing the brown or black, flammable rock, faħm, to be
preferred for such). Similarly, sky, moon, and sun divines assembled under the
element of Air; love, sex, fertility under Flesh; and so on. Nonetheless, in
many places a divinity had dual or more roles, such as sun and fertility,
fertility and agriculture, or moon and love; therefore, these categories were
not mutually exclusive, at least not in most cultures. In addition, myriad
variations and local deities existed, such that they changed from village to
village in the same land, or even from one household to another in the same
village. They also varied in importance due to differences in culture, or
simply due to the times.
Taking the example from yesterday, Mudarri likely need not have elaborated that
war deities became more important in times of war, whilst during peace,
humankind’s thoughts turn toward love and fertility – of humans, animals,
crops. In seasons of planting and harvest, the gods and goddesses concerned
with fertility and abundance took precedence. Yet, cultures that placed little
importance on agriculture – maybe they hunted and migrated with the seasons and
game, or with herd animals – would naturally instead put their faith into
nature and animal deities. Therefore, some peoples had many divinities grouped
in the same sphere – perhaps one for each animal, for example – and maybe none
at all for other aspects.
“An example of this,” their teacher explained, “would be 'Ulū Es al-Houb. As
strange as it may seem, the People of the Steppe have never seen a great sea,
and so they naturally have no deities for them. Perhaps for rain and rivers,
and even large lakes, but not seas or oceans.
“Incidentally, talab, know that our lands, as vast as they are – no one knows
how far one can travel west or east – but it is said that we are surrounded by
a great, unknown ocean, infinitely more vast than even our Seas. There is no
end to it, and it is where, some people say, we came from.”
“But, Mudarri, where are the 'Ulū Es al-Houb? And what is a steppe?”
“Ah, Zeniah. Well, a steppe is like our lands, but where we have scrub bushes
and more trees, the true al-houb is drier, with long grass and very few small
trees, with some hills but no mountains. Thus they stretch, it is said, as far
as the eye can see. There are many tribes living in many such lands in Aard.
But the ones I speak of are far, far to the north and east, beyond Thuban and
Medaea, and even Askella. They inhabit the region before one comes to the lands
of Chert and Chow. Some know these lands as Scythia, Geryon, and Cimmeria.”
Mudarri paused, looking over his students; most wore rather confused
expressions. “Hmmm. Perhaps I will try to get a harida, to show you.” Of
course, he then had to explain what a map was, and how the rarity of them would
likely preclude him finding one.
“Now, talab,” he went on, “a most interesting subject.” He turned a shrewd
brown eye upon Zeniah, who, for the first time, had arrived at maqtab with
chador fully covering head and clutched to chin; aught but wary brown eyes
visible. Even so, when rapt in his lecture, she let it slip a little, and
Mudarri could see that her nose and face were bruised, swollen. Plus, she had
been unusually silent all afternoon, her one recent query notwithstanding. A
quick glance at her brother and Fadir, whom she sat next to instead of her
brother – the latter shooting frequent glares at them both – the teacher
continued.
“All the civilised lands of Aard have a way to tell time, both of the day and
of the year. First, however, know that many do not say ‘year’; they count years
in terms of summers or winters, depending on which season they experience the
most – although, some will refer to the opposite instead, as a way of looking
toward the preferred season.
“Now, talab, this is a horarium. The hourglass comes from far Northern Lands…”
He demonstrated how the device, marked with lines and symbols, was inverted
when the sand ran completely out of the top into the bottom half of twin
conical globes. When turned accurately, it marked the hours accordingly. From
it also came, teacher explained, expressions using ‘grain’, as in a grain of
sand; for example, ‘wait a grain or two’, by which was meant ‘wait a moment or
two’.
“The day, talab,” he continued, “is divided into nine hours, as you know. We
have adopted these also from the Northern Lands, as follows.” He bade them
retrieve their tablets and styluses; had them copy as he wrote the Hours,
followed by the time of day it fell:
 
matins – midnight
lauds – first hour after midnight
vigils – second hour after midnight
prime – sunrise
tierce – third hour (prime not included)
nones – noon hour
sext – sixth hour
compline – supper hour
vespers – evening hour
 
“Now, remember, talab, that some countries use twelve hours in a day – some
even use twenty-four. Clearly, that is too many, but regardless, today I have
brought some other devices to show you. Though I have not brought the
bez'wullah, as you all know it – and there is one right here. Come.” Mudarri
noted that Zeniah all but hid behind Fadir, otherwise they all gathered around
a large sundial in the square betwixt their fountain and its twin. Of stone, on
a like pedestal, simple carved lines radiated from its bronze gnomon, like a
fish’s dorsal fin, casting its shadow upon markings surrounding it. “This is
how I know when it is time for taġadda or to go home for the day. For example,
when the gnomon casts no shadow – or a very short one – it is nones, and time
for the noonday meal…”
Mudarri went on demonstrating how to use it, cautioning that, depending on the
time of year, the marked ‘hours’ could be shorter or longer. Nonetheless, for
most people, he said, time was relative; seeing where Malakbel shone in the sky
sufficed to let them know when when midday came or darkness approached. Of
course, when Malakbel’s brother, Yaghūth, brought storms and rain, telling time
using the bez'wullah became problematic.
“And what about Salāt, Mudarri?” Akzir displayed more than his usual
belligerence. “My father says that the Prophet tells us to observe morning and
evening prayer, at sunrise and sunset. How does an amin” —he glared at Fadir as
he used the word ‘faithful’— “tell when that is if there is no sun?” He looked
as though he defied anyone to challenge him for not using the sun god’s name.
“Ah, young Akzir. If one cannot use the bez'wullah, and one has no horarium,
then one can only guess. Still, it is not too much of a guess, for with
experience, the sun can still be made out behind clouds. Enough to judge its
height, anyway. Then, depending on the time of year, one can estimate the time
reasonably well. As I said, it comes with experience. And to many people, it
does not matter a lot.
“For most, it is time to start work when Malakbel casts sufficient light. Time
for taġadda when he is at his full height, and time to stop and have supper
just before it is too dark to see. Some choose to work at night, but, as shem'a
and fanus' – or at least neft to fuel lanterns – cost money, for most it is not
efficient to do so. By the way, talab, know that beeswax for the best candles
also comes from the same place as your mum: Thuban. Most people use dahan
rendered into tallow to make shem'a, or else simply the melted pool of fat into
which a wick is placed and lit, made of twisted linen, perhaps.” Mudarri saw
his students’ interest waning like a spent shem'a; as elite nobility, they did
not hold much interest in what ‘poor’ people did or did not. With the
exception, perhaps, of Zeniah.
Hesitantly, it seemed to their teacher, she asked, “But, Mudarri, why would
anyone not wish to see at night?”
The question provoked a few good-natured chuckles; since one came from their
teacher, he admonished no one. “Ah, sughraa. Well, some people – most, in fact
– do not have money for candles and the like. Therefore, they simply go to bed
when it is dark.”
“You mean, they do not read or weave or…?”
A discussion ensued during which Mudarri diplomatically explained to his
students that they were privileged youth; the way they lived was, by far, the
exception in Akemar and all other lands. Most people could not read, he told
them, had no time to do so anyway. Further, weaving or similar activities,
which his students might see as ‘hobbies’, others did either to make their own
clothing, for example, because they could not afford to buy them, or else as an
occupation. He could see, however, most did not understand – or care – again,
other than Zeniah, who looked thoughtful behind her chador.
“Now, return to your seats, talab.” Moving the short distance back to their
outdoor classroom, Mudarri placed a big clay pot in front of the students.
“This is a fenjaan – the idea comes from Medaea. Some of you may have seen its
like; they are used when your family’s fellaheen water your crops.”
“I have!” exclaimed little Hadim.
“Good, Hadim. Do you know how it works?”
“No, Mudarri.”
“Observe, then. Who would like to fill this pot with water from the fountain?”
Several volunteers – save Zeniah – had it filled in no time with a jug Mudarri
had also brought. Now producing a copper bowl with small hole in the bottom, he
bade Hadim place it on the surface of the water in the pot. “Observe, talab.
When the bowl becomes full, it sinks, and the khaneh fenjaan – a trustworthy
man appointed to manage the waterclock – empties the bowl and puts it back on
the water. He records the number of times the bowl sinks by putting small
stones into a jar. When the number of stones equalling a farmer’s allotment of
water is reached, the irrigation is chanelled to the next fellaheen’s lands,
and so on.” He awaited a question from Zeniah. None forthcoming; when he caught
her eye, the girl looked away, clutched her cloak tighter.
“Now, talab, we will look at tahk'ouin. I have brought calendars from Qattarâ,
Medaea, and the Northern Lands, as well as ours…”
Mudarri, unrolling several papyri scrolls in turn, showed them the various
calendars. The similarites he pointed out included how each used a system of
twelve months per year, with an intercalary period of a anything from a few
days up to a month, added every so often, in order that the lunar cycles kept
up with the solar cycle. Otherwise, he told them, people would end up not
celebrating harvest until the middle of winter, for example. Of course, most
lands had different names for their months – and ‘month’ might be called
monath, araḫ, and so on – commonly named for the culture’s dieties. Other than
that, they were all quite alike.
The differences, he explained, lay especially in how the Northern Lands –
places the students had seldom heard of, with exotic names such as Benetasch,
Neustria, Gaul, Aldeberran, Denoçes – had separate festival days built into
their calendar, rather than simply having them fall on a particular date or
dates. They also counted but 27 days in each month – the cycle of the moon some
named Lítha, which of course was Manaf, in Akemar. In other places a month
varied, mayhap a great deal, but generally between 28 and 30 days. Further, the
northerners had nine day weeks, which they called, naturally enough, a
‘nineday’. Other countries followed seven- or eight-day weeks.
Mudarri could see Zeniah fidgeting, as if burning to ask something. “Zeniah, do
you have a question?” he prompted.
She darted a nervous glance toward her brother; shifted position ever-so-
slightly nearer Fadir. “Y-Yes, Mudarri. “Why nine – I m-mean, why do the
northerners have a nine day week? And why nine hour days?”
“Those are good questions for which I wish I had an equally good answer,
sughraa. I believe it must have something to do with their months having
twenty-seven days – do you remember your mathematics? Nine goes into twenty-
seven how many times?”
Akzir, grabbing his abacus, tried desperately to work it out before anyone—
“Three,” Tesil answered quietly.
“Correct, Tesil. Plus, there are – as we have recently learned – nine elements,
and I understand that some of their systems of government and justice revolve
around the number nine, as well. Although, which influenced which, is hard to
say. However, I believe it is mostly due to the fact that the moon Attar-
shamayin – the one they call Terítha – comes but once every nine years, or an
age. By the way, Ruda is known as Lÿlla in the north, and cycles every thirty-
six days. Which brings us to the next lesson.
“As you all know, talab, an ‘age’ is nine years. But I want you to write this
as well, with the answers in years, using your abacus – which comes from Medaea
– and the mathematics you have learned. You older talab should help the young
ones with this difficult problem.”
 
age=9 years
era=9 ages [81]
epoch=9 eras [729]
aeon=9 epochs [6561]
 
Tesil easily worked out all the challenges, whilst everyone else took quite a
bit longer.
“Excellent work, Tesil,” Mudarri praised.
No one could see the black-clad student’s expression; kept eyes downcast, said
nothing.
“Finally, talab, you should know that Manaf invented the calendar – it is said,
so that the goddess could better track her moon-cycles. As for following other
dates and seasons, most peoples use the system of dating using ages and eras
and so on, but many date things from important events, such as a new ruler.
However, this becomes very confusing for trade and diplomacy, since not
everyone knows everyones else’s leaders and the rest. Thus, all of Aard
struggles to agree on a single system. So far there is none, alas, but at least
most agree on time of day.
“Speaking of which, it is getting late, talab,” their teacher concluded. “Is
there anything else before we end the day’s lessons?”
“But, Mudarri, wh-what about the third hour?”
The tall man chuckled, stroked dark beard. “I wondered if anyone would notice
that, Zeniah. It seems odd, yes, that the ‘third’ hour, tierce, is actually the
fourth, after midnight, or matins. I suspect that, some time ago in their
forgotten history, the northerners added a ninth hour, just to keep the theme
of nine that we have discussed. Nevertheless, it does not seem to matter, as
everyone simply knows it as the hour after sunrise, arriving about mid-morning,
before nones, or midday. Then another hour until the sixth, after which comes
supper time. So, who can tell me what time it is now?”
All the students save Zeniah – and Fadir, who acted a little more dignified –
rushed over to the sundial. Ere anyone could work it out, however, Zeniah said,
“Half-past sext.”
Stunned, Mudarri looked at the girl, who pointed to the horarium, chador still
gripped tightly about her bruised face with the other hand. For her to have
learned in virtually an instant how to use a new device to correctly deduce a
foreign system of chronology…
***** Imyryn-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A sex slave from a 'Persian' background, as well as her slave.
“I am the first and the last.
I am she who is honoured,
     and she who is scorned.
I am whore and holy woman;
I am wife and virgin.
I am he, the mother and the daughter;
I am the limbs of my mother.
I am the barren woman,
      and many are my offspring.
I am she whose wedding was extravagant,
     and I have no husband.
I am the midwife,
     and she who has not given birth;
I am the comfort of my labour pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
     but it is he who gave birth to me.
I am my father’s mother,
     my husband’s sister,
     and she is my child.
I am the slavewoman of him who served me;
I am she, the lord of my child.”
(The Thunder: Perfect Mind. Based on translations by George W. MacRae; Hal
Taussig, et al.)
 
By the time Imyryn was of an age, little was left of the child. Her mother, her
mother’s mother, and her mother, as long as any of them could remember, had
been fahsh. A girl born to a courtesan in Medaea became fahsh; a boy, castrated
and given to the aghat, the imperial household guard. Should a mukhannathun be
born, het (neither he or she, but both), implicitly sent by Inanna, would be
specially dedicated to the temple as a revered padārī, to perform the most
sacred rites of the deity on Inanna’s festival days. None had been born for
ages.
Imyryn knew all this since she had been old enough to understand what any of it
meant. Now that she was almost an age-and-a-half, and her moon-cycle had begun
more than two summers ago, she had been fahsh since.
Prized and despised, free yet slave, fahsh knew no other life, could aspire to
naught. Fahsh was their condition and vocation; therefore, not ‘a’ fahsh but
simply fahsh, there to serve the populace – at least, the wealthier ones – all
income accruing to the state. If lucky, fahsh could expect a life of relative
luxury in the serai, the Medaean imperial brothel, whence she may rarely,
mayhap never, come to the attention of a customer (unlikely lest one happened
to be ill-favoured by Inanna). If very fortunate, she may catch the notice of a
noble or even the sultan, and receive an ‘invitation’ to join his harem as a
concubine or, more rarely, spouse, whence life could be even more opulent. If
she were unlucky…
Neither, however, would be Imyryn’s fate. A pretty, audacious (especially for
fahsh) young woman, many were her patrons – yet at the moment, fire consumed
the city of Susa. As smoke drifted in over high walls into the serai’s inner
courtyard, her sisters screamed, cowered in corners, or hid, mostly naked,
under furniture, hangings, cushions. Imyryn would flee too, but the doors to
the sanctum were barred from without; in naught but her diaphanous pāradarśaka,
she pounded on them, shouted at the omnipresent aghat on the other side; no
response. Although she did not know it – had no way of knowing, as no one
deliberately communicated timely information with fahsh – the Dhenebans had
breached the gates, concluding a moons-long siege.
Screams, shouts echoed over the walls as the smoke intensified. Imyryn knew
nothing of battle – indeed, knew aught of the world outside the enclave – thus
did not recognise the noise. Withal, it took no special education or
discernment to comprehend the sudden wrongness of things in her sequestered
world. The girl continued to bang the gold-chased high-relief, depicting
various sex acts, on the double doors with her small fists; she may well have
tried to blow the smoke back over the walls.
Abruptly, they opened. Noise burst all around her as she was knocked back into
a heap of silk cushions piled against a wall. Struck a small table, toppling a
golden statue of Inanna twice the size of her head, cracking her skull. Thus
she did not see the final sack of the palace, the defilement and murder of her
sisters by the Dhenebans; did not witness her own violation; knew aught else
until...
 
Imyryn awoke in pain; aches in her groin, head, mouth; pain all over. Saw only
darkness; smelled only sweat, her own fear, faint smoke. Tasted blood, thirst,
some man’s intrusive vīrya, around a piece of cloth stuffed in her mouth. Lay
with something – furs or fabric or both – bound so tightly about her that she
felt smothered, hot. Though sensing motion, she could not move; trussed, knees-
to-chest, arms wrapped about her legs; a large, cold, object clutched hard
against her, thrusting at stomach, breasts, crotch.
Having no experience of vehicles, she could not determine that she rode in a
cart, said conveyance drawn by an aghat, the sole surviving from the Medaean
palace at Susa. Every jounce, caused by she-knew-not-what, jolted the cradled
object against tender flesh. Tears of fear and pain arose, spilled.
Dear Inanna, Imyryn intoned in her mind, deliver your sister from… from this. I
promise ninety-nine rituals in your name… Please… please deliver me…
She cried herself to insensibility.
 
When next she woke, the jolting had ceased at last. Although Imyryn felt no
more movement, pain remained, along with terror, stifling pressure of continued
trussing. She heard muffled voices; felt some of the weight on her shifting
away. Bright light penetrated, striking her eyes seemingly far brighter than
the single sun she liked to absorb lying nude, eyes closed, middays in the
serai courtyard...
 
Arynna, the serai Os-emqua, berated her for darkening her pale brown skin.
“High One,” Imyryn would reply, “Utu gives us light in the sky, his sibling,
Inanna, hergink, hispintle. We enjoy the fruits of the land of Tammuz, and
Dumuzi’s flocks and herds. All the gods’ gifts are good. Why would I turn away
from any of them?”
 
Now, however, she did turn away; Utu pierced her eyes like ninety-nine Utus…
“Here is the rest of my goods, coryphaeus. Is she not exquisite? Obliged to tie
her thus, lest she give away our flight and be killed, then of little value to
me – or use to you. Allow me, good masters, to release her, that you may
partake of her beauty. But perhaps the good masters might allow me a little
time, to clean and dress her appropriately? For such great ones as yourselves,
surely, you would but wait a little? Yes, coryphaeus, do have a closer look…”
Imyryn slitted her eyes enow to make out a portly, round-faced, green-turbaned
man in matching pantaloons tying back a curtain of some sort; thick leather
belts crossed his otherwise dusky, sweat-streaked naked chest. Torso, along
with bare arms, sported several fresh though none-too-serious wounds, most
bound with bits of vari-coloured cloth. The hilt of a tulwar protruded from a
similar belt round considerable waist. The girl recognised him as aghat – one
of them, anyway – her and her siblings’ sworn protectors; why would he do this?
It sounded as though he tried to sell her! Fahsh were not for sale, only for
hire…
Two richly dressed men, long, conical black beards fashionably netted, almost
identically dressed in high, golden headresses, white pantaloons, colourfully
embroidered blouses, stooped to peer at her. They did not look Medaean. All at
once, both of them leapt at her – at least, their heads soared into the cart,
one smacking into a bare ankle, the other striking her in the shoulder, rolling
away behind her. She screamed soundlessly through the gag as blood splashed
across her bound nakedness, gouted from the headless torsos ere both collapsed
out of sight.
Though she thought to vomit – doubtless drowning herself – instead swooned.
 
“Ah, liṭala bōna, nine million humble apologies for this deplorable treatment.
Can you ever forgive this worthless one, little sister?”
Imyryn focussed, made out the aghat; sweaty, beardless face barely a
handsbreadth from hers. “G-ya…” She tried to say ‘Get away’, but her mouth,
throat, too dry – at least the gag was gone.
“Here, liṭala bōna.” He held a flask of some kind to cracked lips; the sweetest
water she had ever tasted trickled into parched mouth, down her throat; she
nearly choked. Even though he invaded her personal space most rudely – it would
have earned him a flogging, if not worse, back at the serai, had he even been
able to get this close – she decided she would not tell him to go away after
all.
“What…” she managed at last, voice rasping. “Where am I?”
“On the road, little sister.”
"Road…? What is your… name, aghat?”
“Ah, of course, little sister. My name is یک میلیون سیصد هزار بیست چهارصد و
یک.”
“What…? What was that again?”
“One million three hundred thousand four hundred and twenty-one, little
sister.”
“That is not… a name,” she croaked. Imyryn could not count, but she knew that
withal.
“Correct, and not so correct, little sister. That is the number of my creation.
At least, so I am told; I find it difficult to imagine there have been that
many of us.” Held the flask to her lips once more. “Yet, this one has no other
name.”
Draining it, she demanded, “More.”
“Respectfully, little sister, I would advise against it. You—”
“I said… more!”
“I obey, liṭala bōna.” The aghat retrieved another leather flask from the
contents of the wagon, held it for her.
Imyryn tried to drain that one, too; got down two or three mouthfuls, spilling
most, ere she heaved it all forth, passed out.
 
Awakening once more, she felt as though cool night had descended. No movement,
albeit thirst remained, along with dull hunger. No longer bound, she could move
her arms and legs – though it hurt to do so. Cold, too, though dressed – such
as fahsh were ever clad, in a filmy robe made of fine Medaean kārpāsa, a puffy
white fibre from Thuban woven into cloth. It felt torn and filthy; she wanted
to change it. “Ag… Aghat,” she mumbled. “Where—”
“Here, little sister.”
The flask relocated against cracked lips; this time she sipped.
“Where…?” she began again.
“Still on the road, little sister, though we stop for the night. I believe
toward Thuban – I trust, toward Thuban.”
“You… you do not know?”
“Alas, little sister, I am ignorant of the road. This unworthy one was educated
only in the art of accounts and household management, in addition to guarding”
—his words thickened a little— “his little sisters. This one only vaguely knows
the direction to Thuban. It lies either up this road, or down the other way.”
That did not sound entirely helpful, nor confidence-inspiring, to the girl.
Imyryn demanded, wishing she could see the eunuch’s face, “Is this an… an
abduction, or a rescue?” She had to search for the former term, it being beyond
her ken; though it seemed the latter, she would confirm withal.
In his slightly high voice, the aghat answered, sounding amused, “Why, a
rescue, of course, little sister. I must repeat my abject regret of your
treatment, although I assure you it was absolutely necessary, that I could
spirit you away from… there.”
She let that pass, asked instead, “Why Thuban, aghat?” Felt him shift his big
body in the darkness; she now made out they reclined in a cloth shelter of some
kind – it must be a tent; she had heard of them in stories – he sitting beside
her whence she lay against one ‘wall’, amidst some blankets and pillows.
Sitting up and pulling a cover around her shoulders, she smelt the wind that
ruffled the tied-back entrance flap; different, somehow, than in the city, her
limited world of gardens, fountains, indoors; a dry freshness, like… she did
not know what compared, although she caught a pungent, spicy scent. Suddenly,
she realised she was outdoors! Knew not whether to be terrified or thrilled.
Ere she could ponder or the big eunuch could answer, yip-yip, yip-yip-yip!
sounded from without, answered by at least ninety-nine more, surrounding them;
she clutched aghat’s arm, felt the big body stiffen as well.
“It is only salep, little sister. I have heard of them – like the pets some of
your siblings keep. Not dangerous, though in packs…”
“Pets? Pakṣī do not yelp.”
“No, little sister, not birds – dogs.”
Mention of her brothers and sisters, her former life – and the sudden,
terrifying cacophony that arose all around them – brought her to wracking sobs.
Aghat enveloped her; somewhat awkwardly, patted her head, began to stroke the
courtesan’s normally silken, now matted, long black hair – a gesture that would
certainly have meant execution in the serai…
Anon, the cries faded, wind the only sound rippling the tent.
“I am hungry, aghat,” the youth complained, drying her eyes on her flimsy,
soiled garment. She yet trembled.
“Here, little sister.” He struck one of her dumu with something. “AEEIII! Nine
million pardons, little sister! I did not mean to… to touch… to touch your…”
Despite herself, Imyryn giggled; decided she would not have him put to death.
“Give it to me, aghat. And I shall have to stop calling you ‘aghat’ – it is no
more your name than mine is ‘fahsh’. But yours is preposterous… I cannot call
you by a number. What is it, again?” Feeling about it the darkness, she found a
clammy, thick arm; followed it to the big hand, which held a fruit of some kind
– a dadama; though the skin was inedible and it had no flesh, curiously, the
seeds were succulent.
Aghat repeated his name.
“Hmph.” Around a mouthful of sweet, juicy pulp, pronounced, “Sefr it is, then.”
“‘One’, little sister? This one’s name is to be ‘One’? It would seem this one
has moved up in sequence, if not, perhaps, in significance…”
Sefr also had some bread, but Imyryn decided she would not berate him for
having no meat to offer, and only water, no milk, nor honey to put in the milk.
She had more than a sense that her circumstances were altered, although how
much her world had gone awry, she had only begun to guess. For the nonce, she
thought it proper that she continue to be the unquestioned mistress, Sefr her
subservient wardu. Even though the youngster knew she owed the eunuch her life,
it was only her due; she was fahsh, he aghat.
Once more, sleep commenced taking over her mind; ere it did, however, she
wanted to know: “Sefr, why Thuban?” Snuggling against the eunuch, pulling
another kārpāsa blanket about her small frame, she ignored, for now, her filthy
condition; she would never have gone to bed in the serai without bathing,
although she sensed that Sefr must have cleaned her up some before dressing
her. She even managed to ignore Sefr’s sweaty odour and sticky feel.
“Liṭala bōna—”
“I think you can stop calling me ‘little sister’ – if you like, Sefr. My name
is Imyryn.”
“But, little… that is, I would never presume…”
“It is all right, Sefr. But, call me what you like. Why Thuban?” She was almost
asleep.
“Lit—Ah, gracious Imyryn, I take you to Thuban because it is the only place –
or at least the closest safe place – where a young lady of your talents and
station might continue to live in peace and comfort. My little sister, my l-
last little sister” —the gentle voice shook— “d-deserves no less…”
In his lap, the girl snored softly.
 
Imyryn’s worldly education began when Utu awakened her next day. Customarily,
she would stretch, use the chamberpot – whichwould be immediately taken away by
her bandakaafter the slave wiped her – mayhap bathe again in the heated baths,
whence many other slaves would help her and her sisters rub scented oils into
their variously hued skins; then (barely) dress ere aghat brought breakfast to
the doors, handing it to the bandaka, who fed their mistresses: Fruit, bread,
soft cheese, milk of the baka… Then, mayhap stories from the Os-emqua, the old
mother; a little more massage, intermingled with sēksa play with her sisters,
until customers began to arrive.
Today felt different right away; she awakened to yipping. Instantly bolting
upright, she found herself alone in the tent, full day illumining her
surrounds. “Agh—Sefr!” she cried, panicky.
The eunuch, grinning, poked his head through the untied opening.
“Little—Imyryn!” Teeth, whites of grey eyes shone, contrasting against dark
skin, green turban. “Worry not – the salep mean us no harm. At least, not while
I have… Shamshir!” Thrust huge sword into the tent.
The girl, remembering what he had done with it, shrieked; shrank from the
weapon as though expecting him to use it, thus sought escape through the far
wall.
Withdrawing the weapon, the eunuch exclaimed, “Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine
apologies, little sister! This unworthy one wishes only to demonstrate you are
safe. Is my lit—Imyryn hungry? Come… I have breakfast.”
Recovering, she protested, “But I must… use the ouranē and wash first. Where is
it?”
Sefr disappeared momentarily, placed a gilded urn inside; it appeared to be
made of bronze, not silver; not even a chamberpot.
“Sefr! This is… is unacceptable. I will not make water in a vase. Bring me the
ouranē I asked for – and quickly, before I piss myself!”
“Regretfully, that is all there is, Imyryn.” Cheerful visage altered not at
all. “You may otherwise seek the nearest bush. I will guard your honour. As for
washing, ah, yes, well… problematical. Regretfully, water enough only for
drinking. This one knows not where the next might be obtained. Happily, this
one… liberated provisions from those headless gunēgāra who sought to harm
little sister. This party’s gharry is now bigger, with a varzā to pull it –
thus, the need for more water. Varzā big, horned beast. Hay on the gharry is
doubtless to feed the varzā – this one has heard of these things, thus it is
known.” Shining black face withdrew from the entrance.
Her outrage left her speechless. Use a bush? It was… it was absurd!
“Breakfast awaits – and the road, Imyryn!”
Swallowing her distaste, she quickly used the urn. All at once realised she had
no bandaka to wipe her. “Sefr!” she called again, squeaked as a huge hand,
holding a few wisps of straw, thrust in through the flap. Momentarily at a loss
– never before had she to wipe her own gink after urinating – she did what
seemed correct; squealed in pain! Much too scratchy on her tender gink. “Sefr!
I demand cloth to… to… I demand cloth.” The hand reappeared, holding a scrap of
red-splotched blue kārpāsa. She recognised it, like as not once belonging to
one of her would-be buyers’ tunics; wrinkling her tiny nose, used it anyway.
Momentarily stumped as to what to do with it, dropped it into the vase.
Emerging into the brightness, she felt the sun already begin to burn through
her transparent attire.
“Empty the ourane, Sefr.” Added, “And I must wash!” as sternly as she could.
However, Imyryn had to admit to herself that she did not feel especially
threatening, standing almost nude in the outdoors, squinting in the full smile
of Utu. He ignored her; busied himself emptying the tent, dismantling it. “Can
I… Can I not… just splash my face… please?” When Imyryn wanted something from a
patron, for example jewellery, new sandals orpāradarśaka, she had only to use a
certain tone – indeed, was no longer aware of her expression or posture; had
been taught such artifices virtually from birth.
“Wellll…” the aghat drawled in his falsetto, “perhaps a little, then – to
splash your beautiful face only.” Even a eunuch, it seemed, could not remain
aloof from fahsh.
She hugged him – had to practically climb him in order to do so – felt rather
repulsed by his slickness, odour. Alighting, Imyryn yelped, hopped from one
bare foot to the other; the dusty ground amidst patchy clumps of long yellowish
grass was hot; unnoticeable until she stepped off the rug Sefr had placed
before the tent entrance. “Sandals!” she squealed, jumping back onto the small
gabbeh. “Where are my sandals?”
“Nine thousand apologies, Imyryn… This one does not have your sandals.” He
rummaged inside a whitish-felt canopied, low sided four-wheeled wagon,
harnessed to a complacent ox. Held out a pair of men’s felt slippers, gaudy
red, sequined with lapis lazuli, embroided in silver and gold thread. “A
headless one had small feet, and I took these from him. Likely still too big,
and very impractical for walking, I fear, little sister, but you need not walk.
Please, put them on your dainty feet, splash your gēli face, and I assist you
into the wagon.”
Imyryn noticed the ox and vehicle; goggled, burning feet forgotten. “Wha… what
is that?”
“Ah… Here we have an ox and cart, Imyryn. Do not fear – despite its size and
feasome horns, the varzā is quite tame. The gharry is for transport, of goods
and fine ladies such as my little sister. Again, do not fear – you rode in a
smaller one when I… spirited you away from the temple.”
The girl, one eye warily on the animal and the contraption, cupped her hands
into which Sefr poured a small amount of water; splashed her face, wet the back
of her neck. It felt so good, she desperately wanted more; Sefr did not give in
this time, however. Helping her don the slippers – which were indeed too large,
despite the eunuch tying them on with some cord – he assisted her into the
wagon. Showed her a small ‘nest’ of cushions prepared for her; the wagon
otherwise roomy, save for a few crates, bolts of cloth, other objects. A golden
statue of Inanna occupied her spot; vaguely, Imyryn remembered it, rubbed the
lump on the back of her head, hesitating. “Is that…?”
“Yes, little sister. I could tell that Inanna saved you, and so this one saved
het, brought het with us. This unworthy one was forced to… place het against
you when he wretchedly tied you like a bolt of cloth, so that we might all
escape together. But this one thought it important… Does little sister—Imyryn,
approve? Did this one do wrong?”
On the contrary, the young courtesan thought she owed the eunuch much
additional gratitude – although how, exactly, she would repay a eunuch, she had
no idea. Furthermore, she realised she now had debt to repay to the deity of
Love, Light, and Life. The thought suddenly made her aware of her nipples,
brushing against her diaphanous chemise; brought tingles to her gink as she
reclined in the wagon. Had she not felt so dirty, tired, hungry, she may have
begun there and then, with a ‘dedication’ on her own; it had been a while,
after all, and there was no one else…
Repayment, however, as well as assuagement, would have to wait – at least until
after breakfast.
***** Ehlia-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Ehlia tries to survive, meets an orphaned boy even younger than her.
“Following the storm,
   clouds disperse;
Behind the tempest,
  sun emerges;
After the rain,
   newness”
                                        
                           —Hollis Bentwich of Larne
 
Ehlia awoke with Ēostre, goddess of the dawn. Choking on mud and gods-knew-
what-else, she spat – or at least tried to; thirst almost let her ignore her
headache and sudden shivering. Shift but scraps of filthy material, she tried
to clutch it around her near-nakedness despite its uselessness as she rose from
the ditch. At the same time tried to stop her teeth from chattering, banish the
fuzziness from her mind, tentatively peer about.
Faraway thunder – Taranis was angry, the girl recognised – rumbled. The air,
reeking of smoke and death, acquired a fresher scent, the promise of rain. The
little errain remained beside the road just outside the yawning, half-burnt
gates of her former home. In the half light, embers glowed in piles of rubble
and charred timbers, from which smoke still spiralled weakly. Bodies littered
the yard, over which crows and one of the hunting hounds vied. Ehlia fought
tears as she tried to remember what happened.
Someone had attacked her home, killed everyone. She dimly recalled crawling out
of the burning bailey, standing up outside the gates, supposing to walk to
nowhere – then, a flurry of riders thundering past, a horseman knocking her
into the ditch… and nothing until now. Just as well; she dimly understood that,
even in that, she had been lucky, for had anyone noticed her she would likely
be dead, not merely left with sore arm, shoulder, as well as head. Only wished
she knew why.
Young mind reeling, Ehlia considered what to do. First, she thought she must
find more clothing, or she would freeze to death. Despite the early summer,
nights cooled considerably in Aldeberran; rain beginning to patter only
worsening the misery. Ehlia could not remember being so cold, even in winter.
Also thirsty – and hungry. At the thought of food, her stomach growled – then
rebelled, as she recalled recent images, along with the realisation that she
must go back into her destroyed home and seek salvageable necessities.
Feet dragging her through the gates, it began to rain in earnest as the thunder
god closed. Stepping gingerly over the first body, crows squawking away
indignantly, she encountered a warning growl from a hound ripping at the next
corpse. Trying not to see whose bowels the animal tore out, she tried to sooth
it, assure it she was no threat; she thought she recognised him:
“T-T-Tuft-ter,” she managed. “G-Good-d b-b-boy.” She had always been on sound
terms with the keep’s hunting hounds. Though the job of caring for them
belonged to Kammen, Master of Kennels, he had always grudgingly let her feed
them, play with the puppies, until they became old enough to train for their
purpose: to flush deer and other game from the woods for her father and
brothers and other hunters.
She suppressed another sob; something clutched at her insides, twisting them at
the thought of her family. Where were they? Her father and two or three of her
elder brothers had gone hunting that morning as usual. Tufter – though none of
the rest of the pack – had obviously returned; so, where were her kin? What
about Jordy, her younger brother? He usually played in the great hall or
outside, generally having the run of the place, unless his nanny (and hers),
old Mae, kept a close eye on him.
The hound bent once more to its grisly meal, ignoring her for the nonce.
Gasping, Ehlia almost choked when it became a gag: Tufter was eating Kammen!
She knew she ought not to be even a little glad – Kammen was not a nice man –
but could not help it. Essaying desperately to ignore her surroundings, she
turned once more to her tasks.
Virtually nothing remained of the keep beyond a couple of stone walls still
half standing, therefore her bedspace in the great hall. Embers and too much
heat persisted withal; her light shoes would be no proof against such. Thus, no
extra clothing or treasures – at least until the rain, now pouring in earnest,
soaked the glowing spots sufficiently. She would have to strip bodies, check
all for anything she could use.
First, the well, just a little farther. She approached it; wooden bucket and
attached rope missing, windlass empty. Sagged to her knees, throat constricting
with renewed grief, horror. Another body – naked female, nearly decapitated,
bloody smallclothes around its feet – lay against the well’s stone wall. Ehlia
tried not to look at the ghastly wounds, especially at the corpse’s crotch; nor
did she want to know it had been Cecily, the goosegirl. Trembling
uncontrollable, she inspected the girl’s nearby torn garment; found nothing.
Discarding her rags, donned the oversized, stained shift withal; at least it
was in better condition than her own. Peering over the edge of the well, she
looked for the bucket; gone.
Falling to her rump in the bloody, muddy dirt, she denied tears once more. The
rain showed no pity, now drenching her, a thunderous downpour. Suddenly she
tasted the rain; laid back in the mud, opened her mouth, extended her tongue,
eagerly tried to lap in the moisture. Surprisingly, Ehlia felt better, thirst
now not so dominant.
She stiffened, held her breath as a deep snarl rumbled near; tried
unsuccessfully to stop shivering. Moving only her eyes, she saw a black shape
slowly approach, growl intensifying. Smelled wet fur; bloody, dripping jowls
hovered over her face; she could make out bits of meat (Kammen!) between the
hound’s bloody teeth. “T-T-Tufter,” she quavered. “G-G-Good-d d-dog.” The
beast’s rumble deepened; Ehlia, petrified, closed her eyes as the huge hound’s
slavering jaws descended…
Abruptly, growling ceased; a whine, warm tongue lapping her face; maybe he was
thirsty too…?
“G-Good b-boy!” Immensely relieved that she would not, at least for the nonce,
be eaten, she reached up, hugged the soggy beast close as it continued to whine
and lick at her inquisitively. Too cold to control her chattering and avoid
biting her tongue, the girl murmured reassuringly, petting the animal.
Squelching to her knees as she clutched the hound, rose to her feet in a
widening puddle. One hand kept clenched in the beast’s heavy mane, she looked
around the bailey.
Rapidly resembling a muddy swamp, she sloshed about the yard, searching for
anything useful. Tufter remained close, even when the girl let go to
investigate another corpse or turn over some rubble. Eventually, she found a
mostly intact wooden bucket that she set to catch rain, several rags of
clothing, a few tools, including a knife with its handle burnt off and a
similarly half-burnt axe; some useful faggots for firewood; two short lengths
of rope. The firewood put her in mind, naturally enough, of fire; she would
need flint and steel or equivalent, and she knew where to find them.
Despite the repulsiveness of the task, she made out the byre’s remnants;
swallowing her gorge continually, searched the blackened corpses of Darlan and
Rhulla – she could no longer tell one from the other. The groom would have
them, since he needed to make fire to scare off wolves, or mayhap stay out
overnight if he was caught in a storm or the like. She found them; had to
separate them from burnt flesh, clothing, leather belt pouch.
Elsewhere she found the remains of a half-eaten apple and a melted puddle of
cheese, both of which, barely wiping away the mud, she immediately consumed,
sharing the latter with Tufter. Using a piece of rope to belt her too-large
shift – over which she donned two more ragged, partially burnt tunics – Ehlia
placed the knife at her hip. Bundled the other clothes together, tied them to
the axe handle in preparation for travel.
For now, however, she sought what shelter she could, huddling with Tufter in a
small nook created when some of the keep’s stonework collapsed around a charred
beam. Something in her belly, body warmed somewhat by the hound’s presence, her
shivering marginally subsided. She fell asleep.
           
Awakening to a rough tongue scouring her face, Ehlia moaned, pushed the animal
away. “Go ’way, M-Mince,” she mumbled. Persistent, the tongue scrubbed cheek
and ear; accompanied by a whine, the girl abruptly realised it was not Mince,
the cat, trying to wake her so they could beg some cream from Rhulla. She
started awake.
Still dark, she saw aught but shiny golden-brown eyes. A howl – far too close,
not from Tufter – clutched at her guts. Glowing orbs disappeared as a fierce
growl rumbled, charging paws juddered the mud beneath her. Sounds in the
impermeable gloom: Vicious snarls, snapping jaws, animal yelps of pain. Brief
cacophony ceased, a number of yipe-yipe-yipes fading into the night.
Tufter – his eyes, at least – reappeared; she heard panting. Reaching, Ehlia
clutched the huge beast closer; smelled blood on him through the wet. Unable to
discern his injuries – he had obviously fought off wolves scavenging the bodies
– the girl merely held him, grateful for his warm presence, his protection…
 
In magenta pre-dawn, rain still drizzled, mist creeping about the ruined
bailey. Ehlia began – if she had ever stopped – shivering once more. Tufter’s
huge black-and-white muzzle loomed, a tilt of his sodden head, amber eyes
questioning hers. Recalling with a whimper where she was and the wolves from
the night before, she tried to examine him for injuries; none serious that she
could make out in the poor light. Petting the animal and stretching as she rose
from the mud, she thought to look for the chamber pot, fought away another sob.
Briefly, she considered squatting with her shift hiked up to relieve herself,
but felt so thoroughly soaked anyway she supposed it would make no difference;
the warm stream running down her leg, though briefly comforting, provided only
ephemeral relief. She once more envied boys.
Stomach rumbling as she stepped from under the rubble of her home, she looked
to the bucket she had left out; almost brimful of rainwater. Bending, thrust
her face into it, drank deeply. Sputtering, almost choked; paused to recover;
drank till she felt bloated. It would do for the nonce. Responding to Tufter’s
curiously shrill whine, the girl moved the bucket toward the big beast. Another
inquisitive cock of his head, as if seeking permission, ere he bent to noisly
lap his own fill. Ehlia idly wondered why he had not drunk already – did the
fearsome hunting mastiff really need her approval? – but thought no more of it
as her hunger prodded.
The scavenged cheese and apple long gone, she – despite her belief that she had
already thoroughly searched – looked again for something to eat. Finding
naught, she eyed several corpses speculatively; shuddered, dismissed the notion
as it threatened to regurgitate the little she had in her belly. They appeared
somewhat more savaged than the day before – doubtless due to the wolves Tufter
had driven off. Not to mention crows, rats – in fact several of the latter
creatures hopped and scurried about in the mud puddles or glared at her from
atop bodies. She doubted Tufter would be so fastidious, however, and thus,
suppressing queasiness, led him to an unoccupied corpse; trying not to look at
it, patted his head, turned her back, withdrew a ways. The hound did not
hesitate; horrific wet ripping sounds confirming that she was understood and
that, oddly, the animal now looked to her for approval.
The dispossessed little errain only wished she really knew what to do.
Considering, she took stock: She had a serviceable axe and a knife; some
(soggy) clothing; rope. And a hunting hound. Tufter appeared beside her, longue
lolling, satisfied grin on his blood-foamed jowls. Ehlia ignored the mess,
scratched around his ears, stroked his white-striped snout.
She did not know much about hunting dogs, other than they ate meat and their
pups were cute. Every time she had begged to go hunting with her father and
brothers she was told that, for one, girls did not hunt; for another, she was
too young. She knew only that the hounds did not actually kill the game – at
least, they were not supposed to. They merely ran it to exhaustion or just
flushed it from cover for the hunting party to take down. Nonetheless, she had
heard of ‘bear-baiting’; her brothers spoke about having seen hounds fight
bears (she had never seen a bear) at the summer fair in Alterion they had once
attended. There were also wardogs, and guard dogs… Ehlia decided she would
simply take advantage of Tufter’s presence and seeming empathy. For now,
focussed on base comforts, such as food.
Beyond the gates once more, she took care to remain off the road, wary of
everything. The surrounding fields – deserted, other than scavengers feeding on
more corpses – would be her best choice. No cottars’ holds remained that were
aught but ruins, but she would search them and their environs regardless. Soon,
she had a decent, though big, pair of wooden shoes – taken from a body, Tufter
having run off a number of squabbling crows for them. (Though more than a few
children’s corpses availed to search, few peasant families could afford shoes,
so she was lucky.) She found nothing else useful, save a broken sword. Ehlia’s
excitement over this discovery almost helped her forget her predicament. She
had always wanted a sword, but her father and brothers would not let her have
one, even a wooden one – not for girls, they said! Even Jordy had his own
wooden sword – it was simply not fair! Of course, this one was broken, but at
least that made it more her size. Proudly, she stuck it in her rope belt,
shifting knife to the other hip; depite its shortened length, the broken blade
still very nearly dragged in the mud.
As she searched, the rain let up, though clouds remained, clinging to the
ground like smoke. Despite the greening fields having been trampled – nothing
would be ready this early yet anyway – she thought she might find some leeks or
cabbage in a root cellar below a burnt out hut. Before she had rummaged long,
however, Tufter voiced a low growl; standing on three legs, he snarled into the
mist toward the road. Ehlia heard it too: hoofbeats, then voices!
Desperately, she looked for somewhere to hide. The root cellar, piled with
rubble from the hut – and one small, mud-slimed body – would suffice, as long
as she could convince Tufter not to give them away. Shushed the animal; though
she felt, rather than heard, rumbles in his massive chest continue, he
otherwise obeyed, lying beside her as she rolled under a charred, broken chair
and moved some large rocks (likely from the hearth, once above them) around
her. She even tried to move the muddy corpse – that of a naked little boy –
atop her; started when it whimpered. Instinctively, she instead pushed the all
at once curious hound away, the limp child behind her, further into the rubble;
told the boy to shush as well. Tufter ceased his growls as the girl’s fist
seized his ruff.
Ehlia guessed the riders to be a party of soldiers or hunters, albeit she could
not understand them. At least one came closer; harsh laughter approached their
hiding place. A gobbet of spittle splatted against her leg from above; she held
still, resisting the instinct to immediately wipe away the greenish slime.
Abruptly, warm rain splashed down – but no, it was not rain; the man pissed
into what he doubtless assumed was aught but a debris-filled hole. Ehlia
gagged, tightly closed eyes and lips as it continued for what seemed like ages.
As a second stream mostly missed, she remained, through sheer will, immobile,
though it splattered Tufter; feeling the big animal tense, tightened her grip.
The boy whinged as an object splatted softly into the mud near her feet. The
girl, recognising it as a discarded apple core, once more restrained her
instinct to grab for it. As it sank into the muck, she forced herself to still
her trembles, remain as if part of the cellar’s wreckage.
Ehlia heard one of the men presumably ask a question of the other. Doubtless,
he had heard the little boy’s soft cry, wondered what it was. Groping behind
her, she found a mud-slimed small appendage that she did not immediately
recognise by feel. Fondling it, she tried to discern whether she held a finger
or…? The lad, curiously, settled with a quiet sigh. Almost without volition,
the girl rubbed, knowing the boy would remain calm as she realised what she
held.
The men, apparently deciding they had heard nothing, departed. Ehlia,
remembering to breathe again, smeared the gobbet from her leg, tried wiping
away the noisome liquid from her eyes and matted hair with one muddy hand; it
made no difference. As the voices and splashing hoofbeats faded, she turned;
confirmed she held the boy’s tiny prick in the other hand, having stiffened
into a semblance of a little finger, rather than a tiny worm. Briefly
fascinated, she suddenly let go as if burnt withal.
The nude child, incongruously, appeared asleep in the gloomy drizzle beneath
the ruins of the hut. As the girl studied his filthy, wasted body, she recalled
that her mother had, on more than one occasion, soothed her baby brother Jordy
to sleep using much the same manipulation. Although her mother had merely
rubbed her brother’s tiny genitalia with small circular motions, whereas she
had handled this boy’s as if shaping a mudpie, she believed it was much the
same thing, was it not? Whilst she knew that there was nothing exactly wrong
with the custom, an aura of naughtiness clung to it nonetheless. She had
witnessed other parents doing the same with small children of both sexes –
doubtless, the best way to calm them, especially whence many people must live
communally – and once, when her mother caught her attempting to ‘soothe’ Jordy,
she was told, not ungently, that she was doing it wrong (his cries only
increased) and to betake herself to bed or somesuch.
Through observation and experimentation, she had learned even so, often doing
it for Petry and Moldur, her next older brothers, when she heard one or the
other crying in the night – especially Peet, as was his wont, being the brunt
of his elder siblings’ torments. Yet, when she tried it with Moldur, after he
reached about an age-and-four or so and had been beaten up in the practice
yard, he had been outraged; snatched her hand away, turned way from her in
their shared bed. However, ere he did, she noticed – aside from its enhanced
size – the feel of coarse fur; recalled how older people had hair down there
(her mother assured her she would as well, some day, though she was not sure
how she felt about that). Was this, then, the difference? Did growing hair in
one’s groin preclude one from feeling ‘soothed’ any longer? No, Ehlia intuited,
that was not correct.
Thus, her confusion; when was it acceptable, when not? Ehlia seldom, if ever,
cried, therefore could not remember ever needing the treatment herself.
Nonetheless, she had self-experimented withal; the sensations, decidedly
pleasant, had the effect of soothing her to sleep as well. Thus, she often
indulged amidst the night sounds in the great hall of Farridan’s Keep – which
served, strangely enow, to enhance the feelings.
The thought of her home put a lump of mud in her throat; she swallowed it down.
Qualms aside, her actions appeared to have worked on this little boy, at least
for now. But, what was she to do with him? Tufter had left them, doubtless to
explore – she hoped he was hunting; the thought of a deer to eat made her jaw
ache, stomach growl. However, food once more premier in her mind, she plucked
the part-eaten apple from the mud, cleaned it as best she could in the pail. As
she was about to attempt to stuff it entire into her mouth, she saw the boy’s
eyes on her.
Pausing, the morsel almost in her mouth, she studied him a moment. He stared,
trembling slightly from the cold or fright or both. Something in his gaze gave
her pause; a buzz tickled her entire body, staring from her toes buried in
muddy shoes, up her legs, through loins, spine, neck, scalp, all the way to
fingertips. Physically shaking the baffling sensation away, she continued her
scrutiny of the waif.
Barely discernible beneath muddy slime, bones protruded from sore-infested,
wasted frame; plastered mop of dark hair nigh covered dull grey-blue eyes; in
those a mien of dispassion. She thought he might be three or four summers,
though hard to tell; he was so small… Lowering the reclaimed fruit, Ehlia
remembered how he had not moved when, thinking him dead, she tried to hide
under him; and again, like a sodden ‘man-in-rags’ – the mannequins peasants
made to scare creatures from their fields – when she thrust him behind her at
the riders’ approach. Like as not, she surmised, he was too weak to move
himself; mayhap not far from death, as well.
The thought steeled something in the young girl; she would not let him die! For
some reason, much as she sensed that making babies was not an entirely
unpleasant endeavour, she also knew that letting this boy die would be… a
mistake.
Approaching him, his resigned gaze followed her. Offering him the apple, the
boy made no move. She put it to his lips; he merely stared, no effort to take
or bite it, even when she broke the soiled core in half, picked out the seeds –
ate them herself – tried pushing it into his mouth. Though he did not resist,
neither did he attempt a bite. Indeed, he seemed unaware of aught else about
him, continued to look nowhere but directly into her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ehlia demanded. “Here – it’s good.” She ate the other
half, thrust the remnants at him; aught moved but hollow pale eyes. Though the
fruit tasted muddy, the core, woody, she savoured it, swallowed; willed herself
not to eat the rest. About to rail at him some more, thought of how she had
herself been feeling lately, besides hungry – scared, confused, alone; changed
her tactics. Instead, tried, “What’s your name?”
Still no response, gaze unwavering.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll die. Do you want—?” She bit off the question, the
thought occurring to her that maybe he indeed did not care any longer. She had
to make him care. “I will help you,” she went on. “But you have to try. Mayhap
you’re thirsty?” Retrieving the bucket, Ehlia scooped some more accumulated
rainfall from the cleanest debris she could find into it, tried trickling it
into the boy’s mouth. He did not open it; stared blankly at her as it ran down
his dirty chin, neck, shallow chest.
Just then she sensed movement behind her. Dropping the bucket, whirled,
instinctively reached for the next-to useless sword in her rope-belt. It
tangled between her legs, and she fell in a splat, crying out in pain; the
sword cut her. Tufter, splashing through puddles, dropped a large, dead bird
before her in the mud. Panting, a black-and-grey feather or two protruding from
his slightly blood-flecked jowls, he seemed pleased with himself. Indeed, a
rabbit would have been more likely, but…
A grice! Ehlia’s stomach lurched, hunger pangs clenching; hurt leg almost
forgotten, she grabbed up the game bird. Popping the last of the apple into her
mouth, swallowing nearly without chewing, she grasped the bird, feathered foot
in each hand, stood on its wings. Wooden shoes awkward for this task, she
kicked them off; yet, barefoot in the slippery mud whilst trying to peel its
skin and feathers by pulling on its hind legs, simply did not work as it did
normally. Returning to a time, not long ago, when she had been too small to do
this by herself, someone else had to stand on them until she gained strength
and size sufficient to do the rest, as well.
“Tufter,” she bade the hound, “come here.” Obediently, the big hound took a
step closer. “Now, Tufter, I want you to bite the grice’s wings,” she
instructed, presuming without reflection that the creature would understand,
“but don’t eat it.” Folding its wings back upon one another, she held them
before the dog, who, grasping them in his huge jaws, firmly held the bird
whilst the girl tugged. Its head ripped clear through its gut cavity, innards
tearing out along with feathers, leaving its skinned body, legless, hanging
from the hound’s jaws by its wings. “Good boy!” Tossing the viscera aside for
the nonce, she quickly reclaimed the bird, got out her knife, hacked at its
wings; used to sharper knives, she finally simply broke them, sawing away the
final few sinews. The wings she gave to the hound, along with its entrails and
feet (unlike a chicken, a grice’s drumsticks were virtually non-existent;
though, had she not been acting by rote, she may have claimed them regardless).
Tufter gobbled his share in two or three crunching gulps.
Knowing she would not get a fire lit in the rain – and having no patience to
build one anyway – Ehlia regarded the little boy once more. He continued to
stare at her blankly, as if his eyes had never left her. “Now, whelp—I’ll call
you ‘Whelp’ if you won’t tell me your name… Whelp, you must eat something. I
will make this so you don’t even have to chew – all you have to do is swallow.”
Ehlia, recollecting what mothers did for older babies to help them eat real
food, gnawed some of the raw grice meat away from breastbone, chewed it into a
paste; spat it into a grubby hand, stuffed it into the boy’s mouth. Taking his
chin, she made chewing motions with his jaw, massaged his throat. The child yet
made no move; pinkish juices dribbled from his slack mouth. Ehlia, reaching for
the bucket, slurped a mouthful of rather muddy water; pressing her lips to his,
she squirted the liquid between them; he would either drown, or swallow. He did
the latter, though not without significant choking and gasping. Even so, it was
as much life as he had thus far exhibited.
Alarm passing once he recovered, Ehlia felt a strange sense of satisfaction;
the boy was, after a fashion, eating – and drinking! As she wrapped him in her
smallest spare rags, lifelessness otherwise continued; stared at her, causing a
frisson in spine and gut every time she looked into those pale eyes…
Yet, mayhap he would not die after all. Lying beside him in the filth, the girl
reached beneath his rags, soothed him to sleep.
***** Waryn-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The narrative returns to see how Waryn fares on his own, including
     faithful companion Redwine.
             “When a master sends two servants to the same place,
        it may seem, to them, a chance encounter.” (St. Thomas Aquinas)
 
Waryn noted the terrain he traversed lately had changed from mostly flat,
golden farmlands and rich black pastures lying fallow, to low, wooded hills.
However, the main difference he noted was the emptiness of the land and not its
aesthetics or topography; Waryn also realised that if there were no farms and
cottages, there was also nothing to eat – at least, nothing readily available.
            Clinging like a large dun burr to Vinrouge’s neck, he urged the
roan farther into the woods, toward a thin needle of blue smoke that stabbed
straight up into the high, preternaturally yellow haze. The tiny hut yonder was
the only evidence of habitation hereabouts, and therefore the boy’s objective.
            With but half a thought, he willed the horse to a halt, sat erect.
A single scrawny chook ignored the strange pair, continued scratching and
pecking at invisible delectables in the dirt of the otherwise empty yard. The
woven reed door to the tiny structure – naught but a rudimentary wickerwork of
branches plastered with mud to provide a modicum of insulation and stability –
leaned, unhinged, against one exterior wall. The dark interior appeared
unoccupied.
            At the base of each wall on either side of the edifice, and
presumably questing toward the dense forest to its rear, a meagre garden plot
still clung to its curiously prolonged life; harvest time was nigh come and
gone. Traces of wood smoke still edged the warm air, as did mixed odours of
animal faeces and human toil, overlaid with the deep, earthy pungency of the
nearby forest. Wafting between the still-laden apple and cherry trees, where
birds argued vehemently over the best pickings in the day’s waning warmth,
Waryn detected a fresh, saline fragrance. It resembled the smell of the salt
cellar – a wooden bowl or hollowed out crust of bread on the table containing a
household’s precious supply of salt. Yet, this was somehow different: wetter.
            The bedraggled rider sat his proud mount (the horse had fared much
better than the boy over the past two seasons), brown, cord-thin legs locked
round Vinrouge’s withers, awaiting some sign of human presence. Spirits began
to rise when no such evidence appeared forthcoming. Nonetheless, he did not
believe the place abandoned; the smoke, if aught else, attested to that. Even
so, despite the silence and solitude, Waryn felt at ease; this place
represented no threat. Neither did he consider how he knew this; he just did.
            The princeling-cum-beggar had learned to trust his instincts.
Uncanny though they may be, Waryn took them for granted, thought nothing of how
he had come to have such acute intuition. It was there; it served him; he used
it. Did one question why one breathed? Well, maybe that was not the best
analogy, for Waryn had often done just that, once nigh to the point of
unconsciousness. He decided that, although it may be inexplicable, breathing
was indeed necessary to sustain one’s life – or at least, one’s senses.
Vinrouge, the boy also noticed, took in air and expelled it, more quickly and
deeply when he exerted himself, as when trying to race both of them out of
life-and-breath situations. Even his heartbeat Waryn had noted and pondered.
Again, however, experimentation in arresting or accelerating it had seemed
counter-productive, not to mention painful…
            Another cursory examination of the surrounds revealed nothing
threatening; Waryn released a hopeful breath, cautiously dismounted. Slipping
to the ground beneath Vinrouge’s barrel, he alit so gracefully the lone chook
did not so much as take note, let alone flee. Not quite able to believe his
good fortune at finding the shack apparently deserted, he approached the dim
doorway. Heart began to thump distressingly loud and fast; a small effort
slowed it. One final glance about the yard, a reassuring, horse-like snort to
his attentive steed, and Waryn entered, dragging his deformed limb over the
earthen threshold.
            A single small, unfettered window permitted hazy sunlight. Yet the
slight breeze also allowed thereby did naught to alleviate the foetid
atmosphere. The tendril of smoke spiralling from the all-but expired fire in
the central hearth escaped by means of a crude hole in the roof-thatch. In the
close, dim interior, the boy detected the smells of recent cooking; his mouth
began to water. Ignoring all sorts of other items running from the mundane to
the unrecognisable, he instead concentrated upon that which might resemble
something edible. Catching Waryn’s attention, a small iron cauldron supported
by a soot-blackened tripod hung over the smoky hearth. Doubtless containing the
potage nearly every household had more or less continually ‘brewing’, it
emitted pungent steam into the humid cottage.
            Two unorthodox strides later, Waryn placed a tentative hand on the
upper surface of the pot to test its temperature: warm, though not overly so. A
dipped finger confirmed. He tasted, withdrew the digit from his mouth and
grimaced; if it was broth, it was bad broth. Still, he had tasted worse.
Awkwardly, he braced himself by grasping the warm andirons, leaned and
tentatively dipped pursed lips into the warm liquid. He had intended to drink
of it until it became to hot to bear, but he was forced to jump back after his
second gulp – the first had barely caressed his palate. Gagging and choking, he
spluttered his distaste into the reed-carpeted floor. It was bad potage. Tasted
like mouldy cabbage leaves and old leather – and Waryn should know; he had
tried both. Well, maybe there were some vegetables floating in it somewhere, or
– oh, Blessed Sisters! – mayhap even some meat!
            Ere he could check, he espied a reed basket hanging from a skinny
rafter above the hearth. Snatching it down, he discovered it, as expected,
filled with various plants, especially mushrooms and other colourful, grotesque
fungi. Several of the plants Waryn recognised and unhesitatingly consumed. The
rest he did not trust; he had already had more than one bad gastric experience
with such flora. The cauldron was probably a better bet anyway.
            Discarding basket and remaning contents, Waryn thrust his arm into
the potage, fished about until he felt something small, roundish, solid. The
soup was still too hot, so he had to pull his limb back out before he got a
good grip on whatever it was. Hastily, he dried his arm on his buckram shift,
waved it about in the air till the pain dulled, tried again. Triumphantly, he
brought forth… a rock? Puzzled, and irked by his discovery, Waryn dried his arm
again, turned the flat, impossibly cool, shiny black object over in his hands.
Indeed a stone, insofar as he could tell. Gingerly, he bit it… spat; definitely
not edible. Why would anyone put a rock in their potage? His mind suddenly
abuzz with mounting confusion, he was about to hurl the apparently useless
thing against a wall, when his arm stilled and he froze in mid-cast; Vinrouge
had snorted nervously.
            Danger!
            Waryn bolted for the door. Upon the lone chook before he knew it,
with one he hand reflexively tried to grab the startled creature as he hobbled
over it in a brown blur. Unsuccessful, the bird fled, squawking and flapping in
a dusty fright. At the same moment, despoiling the quietude entirely, an
outraged female voice leapt into the yard from the direction of the woods,
screeching in Neustrian patois: “Thiefs! Robbers! Help us! Help!”
            Waryn mounted in a flash. He and Vinrouge burst through the grove
of fruit trees, only to abruptly find themselves in the middle of a sunset-
drenched cornfield – in the process of being harvested by several surprised,
then angered, peasants. Needing but a brief mental nudge from the boy to change
course, he and his mount crashed back through the orchard just ahead of a small
pack of scythe-wielding serfs. A large, firm apple still attached to a branch
bounced solidly off Waryn’s head, addling his already swimming senses; yet he
managed to stay on the racing stallion.
            Calls for aid from the elderly, female resident of the hovel
continued apace: “Help us! Stop, thiefs!” The obese old woman, dressed in a
dark grey linen wimple, cotte, and a rough, red woollen shawl that was trimmed
with what almost looked like – incongruously – threads of gold, stood in her
yard waving her thick arms frantically. As horse and rider swept by, Waryn’s
breath caught as he glimpsed her fleshy face contorted with rage and something…
else. Upon one of these wing-like appendages another basket hung; suddenly it
tipped. The woman let out a strangled cry, ceased her squawking, plucking
instead at her goods strewed about the dirt. Stooping and pecking about like a
rather large hen, she muttered indignantly whilst reacquiring her treasures.
            Waryn tossed a dizzy glance back toward his pursuit. When they saw
the boy and his steed were about to plunge into the darkling forest, the
peasants abruptly halted.
 
            The cold seized him at once, the darkness an instant later.
Vinrouge stopped so suddenly that Waryn was taken completely by surprise. His
addled mind had already ceased functioning normally, and the boy could not
react; losing his grip on the horse’s neck, he vaulted into a weightless sea of
night…
 
            Waryn woke. The darkness had gone, replaced by bright, swirling
colour. He felt sick, likely would have retched had his stomach not been so
empty. At last, his head ceased pounding and he managed to sit, orient himself.
Gloom beset him once more, but the boy realised this was simply because the sun
had almost set. He seemed to be in the woods – then he remembered.
            Looking into his hand, discovered he still held the strange stone.
Maybe it was a luckstone – and he needed all the luck he could get. Stowing the
object inside a pouch beneath his capacious shift, he mentally called for
Vinrouge; a low, equine snort answered from just behind and above him. Waryn,
sitting up, turned, as the large horse leaned down to nuzzle him. Recognising
the animal’s unease, the boy grinned, voicelessly calming the destrier. The
steed would not, however, and Waryn all of a sudden sensed why:
            Someone was nearby!
            Snapping his head fearfully around, he made out, not a rod away,
under the darkening canopy of a huge oak tree, a strange, cloaked and hooded
figure. Waryn froze, not daring to move; maybe he had not yet been seen? His
hopes were sundered.
            “You need not know who I am,” the figure said quietly.
            The boy was shocked; rarely had anyone spoken directly to him, let
alone answer an unvoiced question. This… person seemed to know his thoughts
exactly.
            “Names hold too much power to give freely,” it went on. “But I know
you, my… my son, which is all that m-matters.”
            Waryn squinted into the rapidly deepening gloom of the woods; the
form, indistinct, almost unrecognisable as human, resembled a great, dark
raven, perched on the ground as if eyeing its next meal, ascertaining whether
the morsel would fight or not.
            “You would like to repay the peasants for their ill treatment of
you.” Not a question so much as a statement, offered in a flat tone. Waryn did
not deny it. “Come, then.” With seeming reluctance, it moved toward the edge of
the forest; unlike human or even grounded bird, it appeared to glide,
unnervingly.
            Waryn followed. By purplish fading dusk, the cottage looked the
same. The chook, quite recovered, had returned to scratch in the dirt. More
importantly, Waryn knew any inhabitants would be in for supper right now – a
thought which caused him to salivate, stomach urging him on. Yet he also knew
they would be out to herd their animals into shelter ere long, thus the need to
act quickly, even though he looked to the stranger for direction.
            The latter said only, a note of regret in its low, cultured voice,
“Do what you must.”
            Waryn stared at the bulky humanoid form. He began to see, somehow,
images in his mind, images of fire and death, of retribution… Turning toward
the hut once more, he carefully dismounted, commenced a mental coo and cluck as
he approached the oblivious fowl. It perked, cocked its head, regarded him with
a golden eye, inner lid flashing opaquely. Began to strut away from him.
Suddenly it froze, turned, walked right into the crippled boy’s grasp. Without
the bird having raised a single protest, Waryn wrung its neck, gripping it
tightly until quivers and spasms ceased. Returning to his waiting mount,
clambered up, glanced at the shadowy figure – which gave no indication that it
was aught but an indistinct statue – turned once more to face the cottage…
 
            Pale yellow light, seeping from the ill-fitting wickerwork door,
seemed to waver, dim, flare up again; a fat tallow candle caught in a strong
draught. Warynbecame dizzy, almost fell off the horse as the hovel’s entrance
suddenly loomed close; it faded, disappeared, and he could make out the
interior as if he were standing inside. Confused, excited, the boy wantedmore!
            There, the candle. He saw it flicker, wobble in a sudden breeze
that sprang up inside the cottage. The homely woman sitting at a crude table he
had seen before – the one who called him a thief! – slurped at a wooden
trencher half-full of steaming, lumpy liquid. She jumped, spilling the potage
as she snapped her head up to regard the guttering candle before her. Pig-eyes
narrowed in a round, double-chinned face; peered suspiciously about the cramped
residence, as if looking for something… or someone. Head twisted to squint at
the single tiny window, already shuttered against approaching night. Back to
the candle, which danced more violently. Pushing her trencher aside, she rose,
backed away.
            Waryn allowed himself an exhilarated mental chuckle. The woman’s
head swivelled toward the entrance to her hut; narrowed golden(!) eyes appeared
to look straight at him! His heart gave a wrench in his chest as a sudden gust
of wind overturned objects, raised dust and debris, rattled flimsy walls.
Candle erupted in flame, became a whirling pillar of fire, bursting at the
underside of the dry roof thatch; punched through, consuming bundles of drying
herbs hanging from the spindly rafters, their initial burnt pungency quickly
obliterated by a thicker, more stifling smoke.
            Screeching, the woman threw her arms up before her face against the
flames. Fell backwards onto the bare dirt floor as its former covering of dry
rushes began to whip about and dive through the inferno. Igniting, the crisp
reeds streaked thither-and-yon, torching everything they grazed – flammable or
not.
 
            Waryn’s perspective retreated, until he was staring at the hovel
once more from his natural eyes.   Engulfed in flame, the horrified, pain-
filled screams of its occupant ceased abruptly. No sound save crackling, hungry
red tongues of living fire. Appalled, yet left with a sense of perverse
excitement, Waryn turned to question the stranger about what (how?) had
happened. Nowhere in sight.
            With a shrug, the crippled boy turned to watch the conflagration
quickly subside into smoking embers. The odd, tiny patch of flame remained here
and there, resembling scattered bonfires on some dark, distant plain. A
charred, vaguely human shape protruded grimly from beneath the overturned
cauldron. A rivulet of its spilled contents, hissing like a great snake, seeped
toward a tiny residual flame on a fragment of red wool attached to the remains
of an arm of the hovel’s resident; the limb’s blackened digits twitched, groped
in mute agony. The dot of fire, probed by the seepage, hissed and died. Waryn’s
exhilaration similarly cooled, yet he felt little horror or guilt.
Turning Vinrouge into the little orchard, a short distance found him before a
larger wattle-and-daub structure looming out of the near darkness. Recognising
it as a communal barn, the dispossessed princeling’s spirits rose somewhat as
he realised he would not have to sleep outside tonight after all. Then he
remembered the dead chook nearly forgotten in one small hand.
            A furtive scouting mission confirmed that the animals were already
inside the byre for the night, thus he eased open the ill-fitting gate, urged
Vinrouge inside, re-latched it. Hardly taking note of the acrid odours of
animal sweat and droppings that immediately buffeted him, he sent mental
murmurs to sooth all the resident creatures – whose presence he only sensed in
the near complete darkness – then tried to decide what to do about the inky
interior.
            Though reluctant to relinquish the dead fowl, as if afraid it might
suddenly animate and run away, Waryn finally set it down by the door. Riding
back to the remains of the hut, whilst avoiding the grisliest remnants of his
anger, he found a stout piece of still-smouldering rafter that felt cool enough
on one end to grasp, returned to the barn with it. Groping about for some
straw, he wrapped it around the smoking end of the stick. He failed to get it
tight enough, however, and could not use his bare foot to hold the straw while
he tied it in place; too hot.
            Frustrated, he tried to think. Called Vinrouge and, with a little
coaxing – the animal naturally did not care for the smell of smoke so close –
Waryn got the horse to stand on the torch. Following a few failed attempts and
adjustments, the boy at last got it wrapped satisfactorily. He secured it with
several of the strongest strands he could find, then bade Vinrouge remove his
hoof to reclaim his handiwork. Luckily, the brand had not been smothered.
Uneasy stirrings and low clucks began to arise from the building’s inhabitants;
Waryn told them to quiet.
            He thought some more: he did not want the torch to burn too fast,
so, leading Vinrouge outside again, the pair halted before the vague outline of
a tree in the small apple grove. Completely dark by now, Lÿlla had risen;
though showing less than her full visage, she shed just enough pale mauve light
to allow the boy to see adequately. The horse turned its haunches toward the
fruit tree; a few blows of a heavy rear hoof tore a chunk of bark from its
trunk. As well, nearly all the remaining fruit tumbled to the ground. Waryn was
vaguely bothered by the mutilation of the innocent tree, yet clenched his jaw
and continued, first by gathering up the tree’s fallen bounty and stowing them
in his voluminous clothing.
            Unable to see well enough to prepare the torch the way he might
have wanted, Waryn simply rolled the straw-bound end of it into the shiny patch
of bare wood until he thought he had enough rather watery pitch smeared over
it. Then, heart pounding wildly, he blew on it; anon, rewarded with a
reasonable torch. It sputtered, smoked, stank, and illumined quite badly, but
Waryn was delighted nonetheless.
            As he expected, inside he found a central hearth for heating the
byre in the winter, a stack of faggots pre-stocked in a pile nearby. Jabbing
the butt end of his torch into the earth through layers of filthy straw, the
boy built a fire with a flint knife he had… found. Finally, sweating copiously
with his efforts, Waryn had a much more satisfactory source of warmth and
light. Retrieving his stolen chook, he took a seat in a pile of fresher straw;
briefly considering the fire, decided he was too hungry to wait for the bird to
cook.
            He tore into the warm carcass, ripping away feathers, spitting out
those few which got in his way, bloodily consuming the entire bird, save bones,
head, entrails. The latter he wrapped in the cleanest straw he could find,
stuffed them inside his shift; would save them for later if need be. Eyeing the
goats, cows, sheep, swine, and the many chooks roosting not far above him in
the rafters – all of which eyed him apprehensively in the poor, flickering
light – he hoped he would not be obliged to eat the bird’s viscera.
            Finishing his grisly meal, he scrubbed his bloody face with dirty
straw (ameliorating his frightful appearance hardly at all). Waryn felt
thirsty. He got up, approached and calmed a nanny goat, stroking the animal’s
matted coat until it stilled. Grasping a teat, the boy bent his head, proceeded
to milk the beast. It recently had been, of course, so Waryn was forced to try
the same thing with several cows and ewes ere he managed to squirt enough warm
liquid into his mouth to be sated. Then, feeling better than he could remember
in a long time, he located a mound of the freshest straw available, burrowed
into it up to his neck. He intended to curl up and go to sleep, but could not.
            He watched Vinrouge; the stallion had found the only other horse
present – a squat, shaggy dray – to be very interesting. Waryn grimaced; a
female. He knew about the ways of males and females, of course; even during
such intimate encounters between humans, he could make himself unnoticeable.
Until recently though, he could not fathom why they – human males and females,
that is – found each other engrossing enough to want to do anything like that,
though… Invading participants’ minds at such times was at first no more
enlightening. In fact, it was rather more confusing, with all the alien
emotions conveyed to the youngster that way. Yet, he was becoming more… curious
about the opposite sex; even more so since he had had no opportunity to learn
through interaction with his peers, as others normally could.
            He watched the stallion try to coax the mare into accepting his
advances; she played coy, kicking and nipping and turning away from him in the
confined space of the byre. Waryn grimaced; much the same as with humans, he
thought.
            Later, Waryn discovered that sleep had stolen upon him like a chook
thief in the night, and that his torch had gone out. He woke well before dawn
to find his thoughts drifting back over events of the recent past. Emerging
from his nest, added another chunk of wood to the fire’s red coals, persuaded
them to burn cheerily, sat back to study a straw singled out among the many;
idly twirled it betwixt fingers.
            First, he turned his attention toward Vinrouge, wondering if the
stallion’s persistence had paid off. There was no sign of either horse in the
shadows, but the boy’s questing mind found his steed’s, and sensed a sort of…
satisfaction in the animal. Waryn’s curiosity about copulation – mating, or
‘fucking’, as he had heard others refer to it – piqued once more, but, having
no focus for it, he found his thoughts drifting to the… accident.
            Although he felt a little remorse for what he had done to the
cottar, it did not compare at all to the thrill he had felt when wielding his
new-found power. He had actually produced fire! Well, he had not quite conjured
it out of nothingness, because the candle, he intuitively felt, had acted as a
catalyst. But he had manipulated it.
            Waryn wondered if he could actually create fire, purely by virtue
of his will. He tried it, concentrating on the wisp of straw till sweat broke
out, bathing his dirty young face. Nothing happened. Angrily, Waryn made to
twist and crumple the straw, intending to jump up and stomp it in amongst its
fellows for its obstinacy.
            It sprang to life. Shocked, the boy dropped the brightly flaring
thread, into a pile of its brethren. The flames spread quickly. Waryn stood up,
mouth open in perplexity. How to stop it now? He wasted critical moments trying
to mentally extinguish the blaze, then tried with his feet; crippled and
barefoot, managed only to scatter and worsen the blaze. He thought of the
animals. Shouting voicelessly for the creatures to quit their stupid, useless
bawling, he bade them ready themselves to run.
            A mounting sheet of fire blocked the exit! Smoke began to choke
Waryn, irritate his eyes. He scrambled upon a nervous Vinrouge. The big horse
lunged, lashed out with its rear hooves, shattering a hard but thin mud-and-
stick wall. Kicking twice more made a large hole. The fire now quested amongst
the chooks in the rafters; they squawked and flapped anxiously, launched
themselves in a sudden, simultaneous rush of short, heavy wings, some appearing
to swoop through the flames as they escaped through the makeshift exit. Boy
clinging to horse’s neck, Vinrouge whirled, plunged through the broken wall.
Waryn urged the other animals to follow; soon all the creatures made it out,
and Waryn smiled at his mischief as, in various directions, they all trotted
off into the magenta pre-dawn.
            Whilst he observed the consumption of the barn, Waryn pondered.
Here was a way, he shrewdly recognised, to get back all that had been taken
from him, and all that he had never been allowed but was his by birthright. He
only need determine how he could control his powers and use them to his
advantage. Yes, Waryn decided, that was all he need do. But how?
            Many loud voices off to his right startled him; the locals arrived
to investigate! Commanding the horse to an about-face, fled whence he was sure
they would not, for some reason, follow:
            Into the forest of Broceliande.
 
            As expected, Waryn easily out-distanced his pursuers; rode through
the darkling woods at as expeditious a pace as he sensed Vinrouge would find
comfortable. The boy, however, felt anything but comfortable; as if all
resident eyes were upon him, that they noted and resented his intrusion. The
usual woodland voices seemed muted; a thick carpeting of moss even muffled the
big roan’s hoofbeats. What sound of their passage not thus absorbed became lost
amongst moss-draped limbs, branches appearing to intertwine, like huge gnarled
fingers seeking to impede the pair’s progress. Others seemed to reach out, try
to sweep Waryn from the animal’s back. Hanging on with an embrace that
threatened to asphyxiate his steed, the boy kept eyes squeezed shut, head down
against the horse’s neck; all other senses attuned to the forest. Gritting his
teeth, shrugging off its defences, he let the animal have its head. Some time
later, Waryn realised he was going to get hopelessly lost – if not already.
            Suddenly realising it seemed to be early morning, he ordered
Vinrouge to a halt, sat up; glanced about to find himself in a small glade.
Sunlight had yet to poke through the heavy forest roof and thread its way into
the gloom – if it ever did. Perhaps this was what deceived Waryn’s eyes: Just
as he thought he had adjudged the size of the clearing, its perimeter appeared
to shrink.
            He caught his breath, eyed the dense, encircling woods. Vinrouge
tossed his head, shifted nervously from hoof to hoof; with effort, Waryn calmed
him. Then it happened again: Every time the small rider managed to affix his
apprehensive gaze to a spot, just at the edges of his vision, with no actual
movement he could precisely discern, he saw the trees shuffle closer. It put
Waryn in mind of an illusion he had once seen, performed by some charlatan
adept at the sort of festive court mummery that had once kept idle Frankish
nobles entertained.
            Yet this was magic – of a very real sort. Of this, the boy was
certain.
            Nearby, at the edge of the glade, a rabbit sat placidly on its
haunches, observing him.
            Waryn neared the point of panic before the encroachments seemed to
stop. Then, curiously, a feeling of relief and… peace settled upon him. He all
at once felt so comforted that even Vinrouge calmed and stood patiently without
the boy’s intervention, began to crop at the verdant grass. Suddenly he heard a
voice in his head:
            Do not be afraid. No, do not run away – I shall not harm you.
Dismount and we shall speak together.
            Uneasy again, Waryn glanced about, spotted the rabbit; the creature
was not that difficult to make out even in the scarce light of the forest, for
it had a curiously purplish tinge to its fur – which was already silvery-white,
despite it being but early autumn. It sat immobile, ears forward and attentive,
forepaws on the ground in front of it. Nose twitched, naturally, the way all
rabbits’ noses twitched.
            Of course, this was no rabbit at all.
            Fascinated, Waryn’s heart threatened to leap out of his chest. An
intense feeling of excitement, as though this were the most important moment of
his young life, consumed him. Wide-eyed, he sat erect, hands twisted in
Vinrouge’s long mane. Dismounted, only a little apprehensive.
            The strange voice continued: Try to answer me the same way. You
will be understood.
            Waryn tried, formed a response in his head.
            Yes, very good. Yes, I understand you perfectly. But I shall not
give you the answer to that question at this time.
            Somewhat belligerently, Waryn thought back, Why not?
            The rabbit’s pale pink nostrils flared. Let us just say that I
must… test you, first.
            You’ve got to do no such thing, Waryn countered. I’m the one you
seek.
            The voice evinced a note of surprise as it replied, So you can read
my thoughts, can you? Well then, I shall not deny what you seem to have found
out for yourself: You are indeed one whom I seek.
            What do you want with me? Waryn demanded.
            The question I put to you, my boy, is, ‘What do you want fromme?’
            Waryn stared at the nearly immobile form of the rabbit, gazed
straight into its startling golden eyes, depthless, unnaturally elliptical
pupils. Took a hesitant step toward it, as if daring himself to approach it yet
at the same time defying the animal to run from him.
            You already know that, too, he mentally crowed. You have to teach
me! About magic! And you will because… because you have to. Waryn’s confidence
faltered a little. Then his mental tone developed a sneer as he realised even
more of the truth. You have to teach me, even though you don’t want to. Because
you know I’m better than you – that I’ll someday even surpass your puny
greatness. And you’re weak and old.The youth’s dark eyes shone. Step by
dragging step, moved nearer until he stood close enough to make out the long,
drooping silver whiskers of the creature.I don’t know who you are, but I know
you’re afraid of me too, just like everyone else!
            The creature sat like a strange plant, nose still the only part
that moved.
            Well, the voice observed, emotions now carefully concealed beneath
surface indifference, I suppose I shall have to be more careful in regards what
I allow to get past my barriers. You seem to have an aptitude for Mind-magic
that is more acute even than what I expected. Yet, so much the better, for you
shall be easier to instruct. Thus shall I be rid of you that much sooner.
            The rabbit wavered, shimmered, appeared to shift out of phase with
its surroundings. Waryn unconsciously leaned back, repositioning his bare
clubfoot to run. Chary, though rapt as a starving serf observing his lord’s
preparations for the communal feast of Samhain, every nerve in his small body
tingled; every pore receptive to the forces eddying about him in the dim glade.
The creature seemed to grow, change in deft, rapid stages, incomprehensible for
the boy’s uninitiated mind to follow. At the same time, the forest grudgingly
withdrew.
            All at once, a man stood before Waryn. Well, maybe not precisely a
man, for the youngster had heard dread whispers of this race of non-humans
before: Coranéid – wizard! This one now appeared in its usual form of a very
tall, slender human male with pale, almost translucent skin and fine, shoulder-
length silver hair. Large, cat-like eyes appeared as out of place on humanoid
as on rabbit. Robes of brocaded purple silk swept the ground; belted low about
the sorceror’s almost non-existent hips, a tasselled rope of thick, gold
braids, from which a small bag and a gold-embossed leather pouch hung. The
belt, Waryn dimly remembered from somewhere, denoted the wearer’s rank as
Archimage; a rare few in all the Lands having ever attained throughout
remembered history.
            It could belong to none other than Myrddin, wizard of the famed
Band of Nine – also known as the Nonagon – adventurers of some renown, though
Waryn also recalled that they had mostly retired some time before his birth,
scattering to the Nine Lands or dead by now.
            Picking up his thoughts exactly as he had left them in rabbit form,
the wizard spoke aloud: “For you are correct in your deduction of my dislike
for you, young man.” Tone a low, hypnotic murmur. Turning the smooth, silvery
wooden staff he held in one hand, pointing its iron-shod foot accusingly, he
continued, “You are a rude, brash, insensitive whelp, whom needs be taught some
manners – beginning with respect for your elders.”
            Harsh, unintelligible syllables crackled from Myrddin’s pale lips
as his free arm gestured abruptly; the air pulsed with power that thrilled
Waryn to the marrow. Mitigated, somewhat, when the boy’s feet suddenly left the
ground and he found himself suspended a rod above the clearing’s grassy
surface. Frightened, he kicked, pawed the dense air; made no purchase. Looking
toward Vinrouge for aid, saw the horse grazing contentedly some distance away,
unconscious of its young master’s distress, and apparently unmindful of the
magical manifestations in such proximity.
            Leaning upon his staff with one waxy, long-fingered hand in an
attitude of boredom, stretched the other toward the boy, palm up; turned,
cupped it; Waryn bent almost double, shift falling down around his waist. Held
there by his rope-belt, grimy buttocks bared, various items dropped amongst the
wildflower carpeting, while other packages, tied to his filthy body, dangled.
Waryn struggled, cried out voicelessly, grabbed for his knife. The kurcist’s
expression remained neutral as he made a slight gesture and the large knife
spun out of the youth’s grasp across the clearing. Tone now that of a nanny
disciplining a naughty toddler:
            “Four, I believe. Yes, four strokes should be equitable.”
            Myrddin’s hand closed into a fist, gestured toward the forest; four
times a slender switch from a yew tree stretched, bent and delivered the boy’s
punishment, leaving reddening welts across his buttocks. Waryn winced mutely
but ceased struggling; tried unsuccessfully to squeeze back tears of pain and
humiliation. Turned upright once more and set upon his feet, he stubbornly
refused to touch the source of his hurt; adjusted his shift, picked up his
packages.
            Myrddin ignored his new pupil’s indignant glare, instead turned his
attention to his belt-pouches.
            Curiously, Waryn felt angrier with himself than with the mage. Not
because the simple example of power manifested by the ex-adventurer intimidated
him – for he instinctively knew it to be a relatively simple levitation trick.
Rather, he sensed that he had somehow deserved his mortifying treatment. Far
more important than any antagonism he may feel toward the wizard, however,
Waryn realised what could be learnt from him. And, if learning magic meant he
would also have to swot obedience and even respect, he would do so, for as long
as necessary. Until he could learn no more from Myrddin Mageorn.
            “Wood,” the mage said perfunctorily. Myrddin still did not look up
as he squatted into a cross-legged posture on the ground, continued rummaging
through his pouches. Setting aside various objects, elaborated, “We need wood
for a fire.”
            Waryn swallowed instant resentment and, recovering his new attitude
along with remaining belongings, began to hunt up several armloads of dry
sticks from the woods. Tried to keep an eye on the wizard whilst
surreptitiously massaging stung flesh. But the Coranéid’s actions appeared
incomprehensible in their ordinariness: Myrddin indeed appeared to simply be
building a campfire.
            When Waryn at last believed he had gathered enough wood, he placed
the last load carefully near the sorceror, took a step back, observed. Mouth
sagging in awe, the boy watched as the adept conjured fire out of aught but
air, began to prepare a meal. Waryn tentatively requested that Myrddin teach
him to do the same.
            “Try it.”
            Waryn blinked.
            “Concentrate on causing that stick in your hand to burn.”
            Waryn glanced down, surprised to find that indeed a stick remained
in his hand. Raising it before his eyes, he glowered at it until he broke into
a sweat and the veins on his temples distended like tiny purple worms.
            Nothing happened. He cursed soundlessly, mind shrieking his
frustration.
            The twig exploded.
            Chuckling as the shocked, excited boy nursed singed fingers,
Myrddin muttered a simple cantrip that extinguished the scattered embers,
advised him, “So, young Waryn la Gaiseric, you appear to have completed your
first lesson: to control your mind. An uncontrolled thought from one with
abilities such as yours can be dangerous. Power can escape one’s restraint and
grievously affect you and those about you.
            “For now,” he went on, altering the subject somewhat, “you will
learn to cook. Eating one’s meat raw is not considered acceptable in polite
company. Therefore, you will learn patience, as well…”
            Meat…?!
            Soon ready, Myrddin offered the meal to the boy. Waryn glanced from
the proferred silver bowl of steaming, fragrant meat broth, the hunk of bread
topped with white cheese in the Coranéid’s other hand, to Myrddin, back again.
Grabbed at the food as if afraid it would be mockingly snatched away.
            The wizard seemed not to notice, mind for the nonce focussed on
whatever thoughts the boy could no longer read. Until Myrddin glanced up in
time to observe the mute cripple devour his food in but a few quick gulps and
slurps.
            “Your next lesson, my young lernanto,” he opined, “should perhaps
include the basics of social etiquette.” Noting the princeling’s grimy,
deshabille state, he added, “Including rudimentary personal hygiene. And we
shall have to procure you some new clothing…”
            Waryn appeared to comprehend the dry humour; grinned, much like a
hungry wolf. Mentally, he requested more victuals of the wizard. Myrddin
obliged; repeated till the boy was sated, Coranéid observing with detached
disgust.
            Waryn, emitting a contented sigh and a hearty belch, moved twisted
foot to a more comfortable position beneath him, asked what Myrddin would teach
him.
            “And what do you wish to learn, Lernanto?”
            More than you can teach me.
            Without rancour, Myrddin warned him, “Watch your tone, Lernanto.
You shall behave and conduct yourself as a proper student for the duration of
our association.” Saurian eyes affixing the boy, the wizard concluded, “And you
will address me as ‘Mentora’. Do you understand?”
            Unflinchingly, Waryn returned the mage’s stare. Yes, Mentora. He
broke the eye-lock, rolled onto one side, went to sleep.
            The mage produced a soft felt blanket that was much too thick to
have naturally fit in the pouch from which he produced it, laid it over the
small, somnolent form. Observing the sleeping boy momentarily, grunted, turned
away to prepare his own bedroll.
***** Henryc-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Now King Regent of Franconia, Henryc deals with troubled realm as
     well as marriage.
              “All fear springs from love.” (St. Thomas Aquinas)
 
The midsummer sun had already set by the time Henryc rode his weary mount into
the bailey of Courroi Castle. A handful of servants and others traversing the
yard acknowledged the knight’s return to the royal stronghold; some were
friendly, a few even sincere. Most displayed apprehension, only slightly
improved from the kingdom’s attitude of near despair when the warrior-priest
assumed the regency three seasons ago.
            Expelling a resigned breath, he dismounted before the entrance to
the repaired stables. Despite fatigue, smiled, handing the reins of his war
mount to the stableboy, Régis; asked the whereabouts of his wife.
            “I’m sorry, sire,” the straw-haired, gangling youth replied, a shy
grin of his own. “I don’t know.”
            Pulling off gauntlets, Henryc’s smile faded as he idly slapped the
heavy, metal-ringed leather into a large, callused palm. He noted the boy
appeared to await further orders, so gestured with the gloves, bidding Régis
see to his warhorse. Turned toward the keep, feeling very tired, as though his
armour weighed twice as much these days. Looking forward to nothing more than
supper and seeing his wife, yet could not dismiss the problems of his
struggling new protectorate, as well as those of his uneasy marriage.
            Entering the smoky, draughty great hall, the paladin took in at a
glance the ambience. At the far end of the hall, above the head table where the
throne ought to be – having apparently been stolen, doubtless broken up for
firewood, its modest gilt inlay melted down and sold – Henryc’s heraldic
bearings in the form of a large tapestry hung. The motto captioned below the
device read optima est vermas, Sarin for ‘truth is best’. Although he had
objected to its placement as presumptuous, his friends and courtiers argued it
necessary that the people be able to see that someone was in charge of the
kingdom. He refused to allow anyone to place a chair as a stand-in throne,
however; he would not sit in it regardless.
            Raised on a low dais, the head table itself – rough boards laid
atop carven trestles and draped with yellowed floor-length linen cloths – was
set for a meal, though no one yet sat. Children played in relatively fresh
rushes around the central hearth, but even they, in their subdued chatter and
restrained manner, betrayed the kingdom’s mood; as if the people of Franconia
expected their recent good fortune to end as precipitously as it had begun.
            However, as Henryc made his entrance, the youngsters set aside
their subdued play, abruptly became boisterous. Leaping and scurrying from all
corners of the great hall, nearly a dozen swarmed the chevalier, all hanging on
arms, cloak, or begging to be picked up. Fatigue and troubles forgotten, he
engaged them for a few moments, ruffling hair, teasing, handing out treats.
Until parents and nannies came to claim them, shooing them away with apologetic
bows, or, in some cases, fearful glances.
            Henryc sighed once more; he wished he did not have such an effect
on older people. He wanted to be their friend, but as their regent he could not
seem to find the right words, the right actions. Already the rightful lord of a
distant demesne, of course, yet, ruler of all Franconia, as well…? The smallest
children, obviously, were not reserved, although their elders remained
uncertain. Mayhap it had something to do with how he had threatened some
parents when they disciplined their offspring corporally the first few times
they became boisterous in his presence. Sovereign in name he may not be;
remained a formidable presence withal.
            The paladin had been adamant in his refusal to take the crown – and
well-nigh cursed for it. Yet, he just could not; he had no right. Though
agreeing to act as regent ‘until a suitable ruler might be found’, everyone,
including Henryc himself, realised that no one with any legitimate claim who
was also fit to be Franconia’s sovereign, existed. Even those of higher rank
than himself still lacked royal blood; none was related by blood to Gaiseric’s
house. His queen, Jeshira, was actually minor nobility from the Principality of
Denoçes, a land as distant from Franconia in custom as in travel. His advisors
informed him that Denoçes would have no claim, even should they attempt to
press it from so far away.
            He made his way upstairs to his rooms, began to shuck armour and
weapons. Instantly attended by two more squires, they assisted, hanging his
equipment on several perches – hooks and rods affixed to bare stone wall.
Relieved of nearly four-stone of metal and leather, Henryc felt no lighter. A
squire named Thierry arranged his things whilst the paladin cupped some water
from a bowl resting on a nearby laver, rinsed hands and face. Dried them on a
coarse buckram towel that his other squire, Aldys, held for him; the youth then
draped it over the wash stand as Thierry helped him into a heavy fur cloak. The
latter servant then turned to his primary duty of maintaining his liege’s
weapons and equipment.
            Abruptly, a naked, shrieking little shape of female childhood
bolted, dripping wet, from a nearby anteroom, leapt into the knight’s embrace.
“Hineth! Hineth!” the toddler squealed.
            “Cendryth!” Henryc scooped her up. “How is my littlest girl, hein?”
Here, in this small child, he had found the brightest spot in this dreary
place. Not simply due to her shockingly red mop of hair – just now plastered
all over her body, streaming rivulets of bathwater. The paladin thought she
might be three summers old, though perhaps only two, despite how well she
already spoke.
            As quickly as her old bones would allow, a nurse scuttled in from
the kitchen, began apologising profusely. Henryc held up his hand, beckoned for
the towel she held, assumed the job of drying the tot as the child related to
him the horrible treatment to which she had been subjected from the household
servants: baths and being forced to eat vegetables, and having to go to bed. He
removed his cloak, wrapped it around her in addition to the towel; as usual,
quite chilly in the castle. Henryc shifted the girl, at first supporting the
wriggling child in the crook of his arm. It had been sore and a little numb all
day; seemed to be spreading to his legs, as well. So, still trying to dry the
child’s soggy, fiery curls, he kissed her damp forehead, sat on a nearby bench,
Cendryth perched on his lap. He did not want to take a chance on anything
happening…
            Fatigue and old age, Henryc supposed wryly.
            Cendryth was not Henryc’s natural offspring – none of the dozen-or-
so children present in the castle were his or his wife’s. A foundling, one of
many the new king had taken in during his residence in this place – which
explained the presence of a lot of children about the royal keep despite there
being relatively few adults. All were orphans, or simply abandoned. Henryc
thought that Cendryth would be the kind of daughter he and his wife would have
borne, though, had Lianys been able to conceive. But she had not, and in all
likelihood never would, now. The knight had learned to live with his
disappointment, took care to not blame his spouse for her ‘deficiency’, in
words nor attitude.
            “I fine, Hineth,” Cendryth informed him, despite her prior
complaints. “Did you kill dragontheth d’day?” The knight held the youngster
close as she tangled her pudgy fingers in his thick beard, stared at him with
huge green eyes, other thumb in her mouth.
            Henryc grinned. Despite repeated drills in the proper use of the
title (‘Hineth’ was, of course, a lisped ‘Highness’), the cognomen stuck. To
the little girl, mayhap the equivalent of ‘papa’; the regent hoped so.
Nonetheless, she was the only one who could address him thus without his
inwardly rebelling.
            “No, Cendy, I am afraid I did not see any.”
            The little girl frowned, brightened again. “I did,” she declared.
“Me ’n’ Arlo kilt ’im… Kilt ’im, we did.” Thumb returned.
            “You killed him, did you? All by yourselves?”
            “Ah,” Cendryth admitted, “th’elvth help uth a liddle.”
            “The elves helped, hein. Eh bien, I hope you and Arlo and the elves
did not leave a dragon carcass in the bailey.”
            “No, Hineth,” Cendryth denied, shaking her damp head solemnly.
“Th’elvth ate’ im for thupper. I want thome, but Ollya say no – turnipth.” She
wrinkled her nose, glared crossly under her rather heavy red brow at the uneasy
nanny hovering nearby.
            Henryc said, “Oh.” Suddenly wished – again – that he had more than
turnips, leeks, cabbage to feed his charges. Sometimes hunting was good, and
soon the harvest – such as it was – wouldbe in, and then— He dismissed such
thoughts. “But turnips are good for you, mon petit chou.”
            On occasion he had difficulty deciding how much the child made up
from her extremely fertile imagination, and how much of what she told him,
seeeming in all sincerity, was the truth. He supposed it really did not matter.
Yet, he did not believe there had been any dragons or elves about of late…
Perhaps, he mused, he should refrain from embellishing his stories to the
palace children of the Band’s old adventures – even though, to tell the whole
truth about many of them, would be both difficult and frightening for almost
anyone, let alone a child.
            Eyeing Ollya, the nurse, he changed the subject. “Speaking of
supper, you have had yours, Cendryth?”
            The girl concurred with her guardian, nodding her flaming little
head vigourously. “Yeth, Hineth!” Began to repeat her disclosure of the grim
torture to which she had earlier been subjected.
            “Ah, yes,” Henryc cut her off gently. “But all little girls and
boys need their vegetables, hein? And their sleep. So why are you not in bed,
Cendryth?”
            The child pointed to Ollya and made a face. “Bath,” she said with
manifest distaste.
            “Are you finished your bath?”
            “Yeth!”
            Ollya appeared about to voice an objection; did not.
            “Bedtime, then.” Henryc kissed the little girl. “And do not forget
your prayers.” He made to hand her to Ollya.
            “NOOOO!” Cendryth protested, clinging to Henryc like a pink leech.
“Thtory!” she pleaded.
            Henryc made a half-hearted attempt to extricate himself from the
child’s clutches; like trying to escape a giant octopus in a kelp bed. “Very
well. I will tell you a story after you let Ollya put you to bed. D’accord?”
            “Promith?”
            “I promise.”
            “Et bien, d’accord!” Cendryth, clapping her small hands, allowed
herself to be carried off by the elderly nanny. Henryc gazed after her, rubbing
his numb arm distractedly.
            Aldys approached him, proffering his reclaimed cloak; helped
readjust it over his liege’s shoulders. “Sire, would you take your meal now?”
            Henryc, abruptly returned to the adult world of here-and-now, did
not answer at once. Instead enquired, “Where is my—hein… the queen regent?”
Tone became anxious. He reluctantly allowed Aldys to complete the simple task
of clasping his mantle with an ornate silver brooch set with the magically
preserved eye of a basilisk.
            “In her chambers, Highness.”
            This time Henryc resented the formal address, but showed it not. A
sense of relief at his servant’s news only briefly alleviated some of the
would-not-be king’s unease. “Has she eaten?”
            “No, sire. But neither does Milady Queen wish to sup in the hall
again tonight.”
            Henryc decided not to correct the lad on yet another erroneous use
of the title in respect of his wife; he was not king, she not queen. “Does she
know I have returned?”
            “Yes, Highness. I told Queen Lianys of your arrival a few grains
ago. But Her Highness did not reply…” The boy shrugged.
            Henryc sighed. Chest tightened, innards churned. “I will take my
supper with her, Aldys,” he advised. “Tell the rest they may have their own
meal when they wish – they need not wait on us, for we will not be down.” The
squire bowed as Henryc turned to mount the spiral staircase. Emerging from the
first-floor landing, and trying not to look into the curious, half-veiled
stares of the older folk below, circled halfway about the gallery.
            So many lives, so many responsibilities…
            Henryc raised a hand to slap the low stone arch above the curtained
entrance to his wife’s private chamber. Then, almost angry at himself, pulled
aside the tan dyed wool hanging, went inside. (Though it was not his room, his
apartment did adjoin Lianys’ through an inner private salon; and they were man
and wife, were they not?) A dying fire in the large hearth, together with a
single stubby candle on a stand near the partially draped bed, and a fading
mauve sunset through a small open window, dimly lit the interior. Fresh air
from the portal lent a decided chill to the room. Henryc stared at the outline
of the huge bed until his eyes adjusted to the poor light. Diaphanous curtains
tied back from its perimeter allowed the paladin to make out the straw-filled
pallet suspended by a rope at each corner from the heavy oaken ceiling beams,
the dim interior whence feather pillows and bedclothes jumbled. Looking small
and lost in the bed’s bulk, an indistinct human form lay curled atop the linen
coverlet; faint, irregular snores drifted from it.
            The knight noted that Selian, Lianys’ handmaid, had as usual been
banished from the room, by the fact that the pallet on the floor near her
mistress’ bed lay unoccupied. (She would, once more, probably find herself a
berth in the kitchen with the rest of the unmarried household women.) Henryc
empathised with his wife’s discomfort at having a servant sleep in the same
room; tonight, withal, pleased that Selian was not there, as he wished to be
alone with Lianys.
            Pausing at the window, he looked over the panorama below: Serfs
heading home to evening meal in the sunset, scythes and other tools canted over
their shoulders, resembled reapers wading across fields of blood. Henryc
shuddered; he cared not for that image. Gingerly shuttering the narrow portal,
he turned, inhaled wistfully. The small boudoir smelled of hot tallow,
woodsmoke, oiled steel and leather, recent wood and stone construction, and new
fabric, including fresh straw ticking in the mattress. Subtly permeating the
atmosphere, one of Henryc’s favourite scents: that of vital femininity. It
rarely failed to make him smile, at least inwardly, although of late the
knight’s thoughts of his wife disturbed him.
            He had known Lianys Tursa for many years ere they were married not
that long ago, following their last adventure together with the rest of their
famous Band of Nine. Henryc had always loved her – seemingly since before they
had even met; so relieved and happy when she at last agreed to formalise their
unspoken quasi-commitment. Yet, ever since then Lianys had acted more and more
ill at ease, and Henryc could not fathom why. Although he was painfully aware
that his wife detested feeling ‘trapped’, obligated to do anything, or beholden
to anyone, he had done his utmost never to give her cause for such emotion.
Moreover, he did not see how their relationship could have been adversely
affected by the performance of a formal ceremony – which had not even been all
that formal: Lucius had married them just before they all returned home from
that expedition, their whole company standing on the muddy bank of the swollen
River Escaut in a squalling rainstorm, not half a league from the gates of the
great city of Anvers.
            Lianys, greatly surprising Henryc, had suddenly turned to him and
pleaded – demanded, almost – that they be conjoined upon the instant.
Obviously, she had come to her decision rather impulsively, doubtless as a
means of somehow holding on to whatever false sense of security she felt she
needed at the time and mayhap saw slipping away (for that had been a very
dangerous and sobering quest indeed). And so, despite vigourous protests from
the rest of the group at their miserable situation – comfort being scarcely an
hour’s ride away, and most of them were injured – he had had the feeling that,
were it ever to be done, it would be then or never. Thus, he had begged the
party’s forbearance and Lucius’ services, and it was done.
            For fair or foul. Ever since, however, to his dismay and
bewilderment, Henryc found himself drifting emotionally further and further
apart from his spouse.
            As softly as his large frame allowed, he approached the small
figure curled upon its side, facing him in the middle of the vast linen-covered
straw mattress. Lianys had, as usual, fallen asleep without fur coverings,
leaving lit the candle on its nightstand, hearth nearly expired. Henryc did not
want to start an argument again, so he would not mention any of it – how
wasteful and dangerous… Bending beneath the undraped canopy, stretched his full
considerable reach in order to gingerly pull a fur over the one-time
nightthief’s naked form.
            Tears rose unbidden to the paladin’s eyes as they travelled
worriedly over his late-middle-aged wife’s petite, yet solid and still young-
looking, dusky body. Hair cropped square below vaguely elfin ears, Lianys’ dark
head bent chin-to-breastbone. The strong features of her round face looked taut
even in repose; pursed, slightly pouting lips twitched and quivered as if in
reply to a difficult question posed by her dreams. Even in the dimness, made
out a prominent old scar, notching left earlobe and travelling down her jaw
till it met strong, short neck. Henryc could not remember where she had
acquired that one – did not care; it only made her more beautiful. But one of
several dotting her compact musculature, none that severe or, at least on
Lianys, what might be termed a blemish.
            As though to ward the room’s autumn chill, the small woman’s sinewy
brown arms knotted tightly around powerful legs folded against torso, knees
hiding small breasts. She breathed in shuddering heaves, entire frame
quivering; yet perspiration beaded all over. Henryc had the sense that she
coiled as if to spring into a series of leaps and tumbles at which she had
become so incredibly adept.
            Gently covering his wife, kissed her cleft earlobe, tasted faint
saltiness. Stood back, gauntleted hands fidgeting before him. As he kept his
pained, somewhat helpless gaze upon his restless spouse, he tried without
success to quell the lump in his throat. Certain that Lianys’ reactions had
nothing to do with the room’s ambience, he felt as though she quailed at some
menace guessable only by her subconscious. The warrior found that impression
unnerving, for he had rarely seen his wife evince much fear, even in the face
of innumerable threats which they had confronted together through the ages.
Though he knew Lianys had frequent nightmares, as she had often woken up
clinging to him and trembling, when she woke fully she withdrew, both
emotionally and physically, and refused to talk about it.
            The knight swallowed, removed his gloves, set them on a nightstand;
ran a hand over flushed face and beard. He knew he should not stare – heard it
had a tendency to wake the sleeper – but could not help it. Massaged sore left
arm absent-mindedly. Managing at last to tear his gaze away, strode to the
hearth, stoked it, laid another log across the andiron, turned once more.
            “Hello.” The weary greeting came from the bed, just a shade this
side of annoyed.
            “Hâllo, ma chérie,” he replied, trying to keep his own voice from
betraying unsettled emotions. “How are you?” He tried to make out his wife’s
expression in the shadows.
            Lianys stirred, pushed aside the fur her husband had just drawn
over her, sat on the edge of the bed, small hands gripping the straw-stuffed
ticking. Kept eyes downcast toward disproportionately large bare feet, crossed
over one another as they dangled just above the floor. The suspended bed swung
gently. She shrugged, said nothing.
            The firelight shivered along her fit form; Henryc followed it,
eyeing her lean petiteness, from rather square shoulders to small breasts, dark
caps stiff in the chill; slightly thickened waist; almost hairless crease
between closed, compactly muscled legs.
            Henryc, though well into his fifth age, felt a stirring in his
loins. For a woman near his own number of summers, Lianys looked like she had
acquired barely half that. In fact, although she had never confirmed or refuted
it, he suspected that she was actually older than him by several summers,
putting her at something close to five full ages, or forty-five summers. Yet,
she could easily pass for a woman of not quite middle age, three ages at most;
moreover, depending on her mood, makeup, and whatever unfathomable esotericism
that was beyond his ken, he knew Lianys could appear even younger – or older,
if disguise required it. Not that the paladin was wont to lust after barley
nubile maidens (those days were over)… It was just that—
            A hand-slap on the lintel above the entrance to their room
interrupted his thoughts, a timorous voice from the other side of the curtain
enquiring, “Dinner, Highnesses…?”
            Henryc pulled yearning gaze away from his wife, took two long
strides to the door, parted the hanging, relieved Aldys of their meal tray,
thanked the youth with an unforced smile. Turning back, pushed his gauntlets
off the table onto the floor’s rushes, making room for the tray. Lianys still
sat, head down, swinging gently on the pallet, scuffing one bare foot across a
giant bearskin. Henryc’s throat tightened; squeezed and flexed numb shoulder
and upper arm.
            “Are you not hungry, chérie?” he asked her finally.
            “Not really.”
            The cavalier knew there was no point in saying aught else, but
tried anyway. “Please eat something, sweetheart.”
            No response.
            Henryc’s eyes began to flood. Lowered himself slowly down beside
his wife, sat beside her. “Lia, what is wrong?” She moved a little – either to
make room or get away; he was unsure which.
            “I…” Lianys shook her head. “Nothing.”
            Henryc squirmed. Wanted so badly to hold her his chest began to
ache along with the rest of him. Compromising, tentatively reached for a hand.
Spouse still did not look up as he raised it limply to lips, lowered to lap,
held it there. Seemed cold, almost lifeless; mayhap only the knight’s own
unexplained lack of feeling in his extremities.
            “How are you?” Lianys said at last, glancing up but not holding his
gaze.
            Henryc smiled. “I am merveilleux,” he fibbed.
            “Where did you go today?” Smoothed imaginary wrinkles in the linen
coverlet with her free hand, plucked a protruding straw of ticking, tossed it –
missed – toward the hearth.
            “Hein… A… a little village called Souçis over on Normandie border.
The… owner of a tavern there… died and his creditors were threatening to evict
his wife and young daughter.” Henryc swallowed; prevarication did not come
easily to him, but this time it was, he deemed, essential – and not a total
fabrication.
            “You paid his debts for him?”
            “Yes. Mer— hein… that is, his wife swore to pay me back somehow…”
            Lianys smiled at him; Henryc’s heart gave a lurch, his eyes glowed
with sudden hope. Perchance today would be different…
            “Everything else okay?” the woman asked him.
            “Formidable.”
            Silence reigned.
            Lianys suddenly looked at her husband, directly into his half-
worried, half-felicitous visage. “Why are you staring at me?” she demanded
sharply.
            Henryc winced. She did not mean to use that tone; and one might
think he would be used to it by now…
            He softly answered, “Because you are beautiful and I love you.”
            Lianys snatched her hand away. “What in the Hells is that supposed
to mean?” She sprang to her feet, suddenly looking for all the Lands like a
caged panther as the bed lurched, nearly flinging the paladin to the floor.
            “Lia, I…”
            “By all the gods, don’t patronise me!”
            “Lia, I did not mean… I did not say—”
            “You don’t have to say anything! I know what you’re thinking. And
I’m tired of it!” The woman stormed about, jumping into a pair of leather
breeches, soft-soled felt boots. Flung open the door to a cedar wardrobe,
grabbed a light cloak from within. One hand wrenching aside the partiton in the
entrance-curtain, turned toward him. Dark eyes glittered.
            Henryc, steadying the bed, half-rose, impotent and hurt. Pleaded,
“Lianys, please. You are being unreasonable…”
            “I don’t want you taking responsibility for my happiness or feeling
sorry for me any more, Henryc. I can take care of myself!” She stalked out.
            The Knight of the Faith sagged, stilled. Hands in empty lap, head
hung dejectedly. Tears streaming down lined face, Henryc de Payens listened to
his wife’s footsteps fade down the gallery; anger obvious by the fact she
normally moved with no sound at all. Wrapping arms about chest, he felt as
though he were about to burst wide open. Or be crushed under an intolerable
weight.
 
            In the great hall a half-handful of courtiers sat nursing flagons
of wine or mead following their supper. All subdued banter ceased abruptly as
their partially clad queen all but sprinted past. Ignoring them, plus one or
two servants whom she encountered on her way and who were also shocked out of a
couple years’ apathy, the woman headed for the stables, wrapping the cloak
about her shoulders. Having forgotten a brooch to pin it, she clutched it about
otherwise bare torso. Whilst she ordered her horse saddled from an incredulous
Régis, Lianys removed two tied leather bundles from under a pile of hay in the
loft. There she dressed fully, armed herself, leapt lightly down to the straw-
littered floor. Stowed her gear, mounted, galloped away as though the Hordes of
Hades slavered at her calves.
 
            At the unfettered window high in her chamber, Henryc saw accreting
gloam quickly absorb the dark form of his mounted spouse as she bolted from the
gates like a fired crossbow quarrel. A sudden pang of anxiety seized his chest;
stomach knotted; mind and body hollow. Would he ever see her again…? Rubbing at
his tingling arm, Henryc brushed off a fleeting impression of dread; this
incident was not that unusual for his restless wife. She would be back.
            He could not have known that it would be too late.
***** Imyryn-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Imyryn is on the road, fleeing Susa with Sefr. Her worldly education
     begins.
“Inanna abandoned Heaven, abandoned Earth,
and descended to the Netherworld.
She abandoned her office of holy priestess,
and descended to the Netherworld. ”
(Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth. ‘From the Great Above to the Great Below’.
Diane Wolkenstein and Samuel Noah Kramer. Harper & Row. 1983)
 
Imyryn continued her education on the road to Thuban. (From other travellers,
Sefr confirmed they proceeded in the right direction.) Bored, hot,
uncomfortable, she complained – a lot. Otherwise, she slept in the gharry as he
trudged along, leading the varzā.
“Sefr! I am hungry. I demand that we stop and eat.”
“Imyryn, there is a package wrapped in kārpāsa near your feet. Therein you will
find food. You may eat it while we continue. We have a long way to go.”
“I am thirsty, too.”
“A flask of water lies with the package.”
Later, “Sefr, I require you to stop so I can use the ouranē.” Ere they got
under way again, “Sefr, I have used the ouranē. I demand that you remove it at
once – it is offensive, and I do not wish it to spill on me.”
The aghat did so, though, when he brought it back, and she complained of its
continued malodourousness, he reasoned, “Regretfully, Imyryn, we cannot spare
water to rinse it out. We have a long way to go, and we know not what the
goddess Nidaba – great is her wisdom – might have planned for us.”
Still later, “Sefr, stop the gharry. It shakes so that I cannot sleep.”
“Regretfully, Imyryn, we have a long way to go, and cannot stop before
nightfall. Else we will never find out what Nidaba – great is her wisdom – has
planned for us.”
A day or so later, “Sefr, I demand that you stop to fan and cool me – it is too
hot.”
“Regretfully, Imyryn, we cannot stop, and I fear it would make little
difference anyway.”
Two nights and a day later, “Sefr, I have used the ouranē again.”
All at once, they stopped. Sefr approached the waggon, halted, regarding her.
She felt a prick of alarm.
“Imyryn,” the eunuch articulated. “You are my precious little sister. You are
tired, uncomfortable, a long way from home… frightened. As am I. Nidaba – great
is her wisdom – has cast this fortune upon us. The goddess has deemed us both
worthy of her trial. We must therefore show her our wisdom by seeking that
which she has sent us to find, do what she wills, succeed in what she asks of
us.” Sweat sheened the eunuch’s broad, dark face, muscled torso, arms; stained
faded green turban and pantaloons. Holding her in his stern gaze, he resumed:
“We have travelled far, Imyryn, but have much farther yet to go. Constant
abhiyōga of your situation shows disrespect to the goddess. What is more, it is
not at all helpful. From now on, little sister, you must begin to care for
yourself. You will start by emptying your own ouranē – else you will get out of
the gharry and go behind a bush. You will also assist with setting camp each
night, and taking it down in the morning. I will teach you to cook, and other
tasks such that I myself have learned only in books or in conversation, for
example finding fire materials, and harnessing and un-harnessing the varzā. Do
you understand, little sister?”
At first appalled by the aghat’s effrontery, as he went on, Imyryn felt guilt
and shame; indeed, he looked tired, exasperated. Thus, she could only nod in
response.
“Very good, Imyryn. Soon, we shall stop for sapara, and your first cooking
lesson will begin. It is most fortunate – all honour to great Nidaba – that the
headless ones were baņika from far Askella, and they left their goods to us. As
a baņika and his mēẏē, we have been able to trade for some necessities with
other travellers. And today, I think we have just enough water for little
Imyryn to bathe – but only if she is very helpful.”
What was he talking about: ‘a merchant and his daughter’? Oh… The girl realised
he meant the two of them; he had been passing them off as such, to other
travellers. It instilled a strange feeling, never having had a father…
Sefr returned to lead the ox. Imyryn, half-petulant, half-ashamed, slumped into
the cushions and rugs as the waggon lurched forward once more. Though he kept
trying to engage her in conversation, she refused to respond; for the rest of
the long day, said nothing. Bored, she began to think idly of what she might
normally be doing at this time; played with nipples through sheer gown; stroked
thighs, flanks, flat belly… crept lower, toward neglected cleft as she drew up
her shift – until another jolt in the road tossed her askew. Flouncing, she
gave up; curled into a ball of sweat. It was simply too hot, and she too filthy
withal. Recalling Sefr’s promise of a bath perked her somewhat.
That evening, alighting from the waggon for the night as the sun set, Imyryn
noticed her surroundings for the first time. In oversize men’s slippers and
filmy robe, voluminous dark hair in chaos about near-bare shoulders, she stood
awestruck by the colours on the horizon. As far as she could see – heretofore a
wall or dwarf tree in the serai garden – the vista glowed with purples,
oranges, yellows… other colours for which she had no names. Utu, a ball of
golden flame, sank behind the scrub of the low hills beyond. “Oh…” she began.
“What…?” Once again lacked words.
“Ah, Imyryn… This is Utu, going to rest for the night in the house of his
great-grandfather, Anu, the sky. Sūryāsta, as it is known. Geli, yes? Just like
my little sister. Who, this one believes, should put on more clothing, thus to
not… ah… attract too much attention. Merchants’ daughters do not often dress
like this, I venture. Look at what I have here.” He held several garments, yet
a long moment passed ere the girl took note, tore her gaze from the sunset.
Wonderment only grew as Sefr proffered the clothing, a piece at a time.
First, he bade her reënter the waggon for a modicum of modesty; they had begun
to acquire company on their journey. Although she did not have a grain of
modesty in her – never had any reason – the eunuch told her that she would
‘stimulate some to have impure thoughts’ about her, or some such. He did not
have to explain that meant fucking her without proper payment to the temple,
along with invoking other rituals (she did not have a word for ‘rape’). Thus,
she sat awkwardly beneath the waggon canopy to remove her pāradarśaka. He
helped her put on a pleated white cotton robe that turned out to be long enough
to sweep the dusty ground. Disembarking once more, she held her arms out
through its voluminous sleeves as he placed a long red cloak, bordered with
green, over narrow shoulders; small brass knobs on the ends of a gold-chased
leather strap fit through holes in the corners, securing it at her throat. A
braided golden belt went round almost non-existent hips, through which a green
fold of the cloak was tied, creating a sash and allowing the remainder of the
cloak to form the bottom of, essentially, a second robe that trailed the ground
behind her. Finally, he handed her a pair of pointed yellow leather shoes that
actually fit. Soft-soled, still not meant for overland travel, but an
improvement upon the slippers. Looking herself over, Imyryn felt ecstatic; she
had never seen such a costume, let alone worn anything like it (even her female
customers arrived mostly undressed ere she saw them, either in the communal
baths or a private anteroom). Smiling with pleasure, she hugged the eunuch.
“Hmmm… Yes, very becoming. This one is happy Imyryn is pleased. If only we
could do something about her hair… Now, little sister, this is an impractical
outfit for travel. I suggest you remove the bernous – the outer garment – other
than when you ride in the gharry. It may be too warm in any event, so you may
wish to leave it off unless the night is cool. Now, let me help you remove the
bernous that you might help with camp and supper.”
She did not want to take any of it off, ever, but realised the necessity – in
truth, it was rather warm – and she actually did wish to help. The girl also
resolved to pay more attention to what went on during the day; obviously, Sefr
had done business whilst she slept in the waggon, and she so wished to see from
whence this marvellous apparel came – and more of it!
Anon, supper concluded and tidied, Sefr hung a large kettle on andirons over
the fire, into which he poured the contents of a big clay water jar. A shiver
began at Imyryn’s toes, scampered up through knees, thighs, gink, stomach,
nipples; set scalp a-tingle – which all at once itched wretchedly.
“Regretfully, this will not be a normal bath, Imyryn. My little sister will
obviously not fit in this cauldron, so I will have to put it inside the tent,
thus to bathe herself in there.”
“Bathe myself?” she echoed. How did one do that, without a bandaka? She
supposed she could manage, as she had to wipe herself now, even after biṣṭhā,
which was even more distasteful than simply pissing. Still… “Can you not help
me, Sefr? I… I will need someone to… to reach my back… And how will I oil
myself?”
“Regretfully, there is no oil, Imyryn. But if you wish it, I will assist you,
even though it is not seemly. Then again, these are not normal days, are they?”
He smiled. “Ah, Nidaba does mean to test us, does she not? I do not think
Inanna would mind if I saw my little sister fully undraped. After all, there is
nothing left of her that I have not seen, and not much I could do with her
anyway, hā?”
Was he teasing her? “Ah, Sefr…” she responded. “That is where you may be
surprised. One does not need a pintle to pleasure a woman…” She stopped
herself, wondering exactly where she went with this. Another thought occurred
to her, which she could not help uttering aloud: “Sefr, what is a eunuch,
anyway? I mean… I know that they… they are no longer men, but I mean… Well, how
do you piss?” She looked at him boldly, expecting him to equivocate. The girl
had always been curious.
Sefr’s grin did not alter – mayhap even broadened slightly. “Ah, little sister
has questions. Understandable. Although, Imyryn also understands that these
are… personal questions – I can see by her blaśa, her red face. This one’s –
Sefr’s – first response is to obey and answer, but Imyryn and Sefr, they are
almost like true brother and sister, yes? No longer fahsh and wardu?”
“Father and daughter?”
He chuckled. “Indeed – father and daughter. Sefr knows that fathers bathe their
daughters, although not usually when they are so… grown. Thus, for now, Sefr
will be Imyryn’s bandaka, hā? That way, Sefr washing Imyryn will be…
acceptable?”
She grinned back.
“But only for washing,” he cautioned. “Not for feeding, or the ouranē, or
anything else, agreed?”
Imyryn found that agreeable.
“Then, perhaps Imyryn will help wash Sefr, and… certain questions might be
answered, hā?”
The girl felt a blush eclipse the sunset – a peculiar thing for a courtesan.
Anon, tent already erected, Sefr carried in the cauldron of wash water. Though
neither could stand erect – indeed, the eunuch perforce had to kneel and stoop
– upon a brass stand he draped several towels and cloths. Imyryn, scarcely able
to control her quivering, followed him in, also on knees, sat, watched the
final preparations by the dim light of a single brazier; could not recall
feeling quite so excited about a bath!
“Ah… lit—that is, mēẏē Imyryn may now disrobe. This unworthy one will assist.”
As it happened, due to her unfamiliarity with the clothing, she needed the
help. Curiously, she could not recall ever feeling embarrassment or shyness,
yet did so now, as, hunched naked before him on trembling knees under the low
felt roof, she watched Sefr loosen leather belt, baldrics, scabbarded sword,
lay them aside. Unravelled his turban, revealing total baldness. Sat back,
pulled off shoes and pantaloons, unwound kaupinam from crotch; leaned back on
palms, legs spread, allowing her to look. Other than hairlessness, otherwise a
quite handsomely formed big man, including the pintle between his legs: About
the length of her middle finger, though twice around; the scrotum hanging,
apparently normal, to the other side. Then again, no… Something was wrong with
it…
“But…” she began.
He chuckled, seemingly not in the least uncomfortable. “Ah, Imyryn wonders what
is missing, then, yes? Well, if she were to inspect the aṇḍakōśa, she would
find it, alas, empty. Does she wish to do so?”
Looking away, the girl shook her head, rather vehemently. Taken aback by her
own reaction – she had literally been born and raised to almostthis very thing
– found her gaze irresistibly drawn back.
“Here then, Imyryn – you can see the scars.”
“Does it… hurt?”
He actually laughed. “No, little one – I do not remember when it was done, so
no, no pain.”
“Do you… does it…?”
“Heha! So many questions…”
He told her that, yes, he could piss normally; no, he could not get kiram,
thus, of course, no sex. No, he did not ‘miss’ it; how could one miss what one
never had? Did he wonder what it would be like? Of course. Did he wish it had
not happened…?
“Ah, little sister – this one may as well wish to be Shahanshah, King of Kings.
Or pray that Utu not rise in the morning, Tammuz not show his face in the sky
at night. Does one question why things are so? Perhaps, but best to accept the
way Tiamat and Marduk, the Mother and the Father – many are their blessings –
have created one, and accept the cast of the dice that Nidaba has made.”
“But, Tiamat and Marduk – many are their blessings – did not make you that way,
Sefr. The coryphaeus did.”
“Hmmm… Well, Nidaba still had a hand in it, yes? Now, if little daughter has no
more questions, she and her father need to get clean.”
Anon, Imyryn had one of the most erotic experiences of her young life. First,
Sefr bade her bend over the cauldron. Gently dunking her head, his blunt,
strong fingers massaged her scalp; took a handful of long, dark hair, one hank
at a time, worked a little soap in, rinsed, rubbed with a towel until it no
longer dripped. Certainly, many a time had a bandaka done much the same, but…
Bidding her sit on a rug, he used a cloth repeatedly dipped and wrung into the
pot of cooling water to wash every bit of her. Started with her feet, worked
his large fingers between each toe; proceeded up calves, shins, knees; lifting
each leg, washed behind each knee; a twinge in her gink and ḍīṇṭī brought forth
a small moan. Almost involuntarily, her legs splayed, opening up her moistening
cleft as he dealt with her thighs.
If the eunuch had any prurient interest, he did not evince it as he bypassed
her centre, requesting that she lie prone on the spread rugs. Curious – was he
too shy to go there? – she did so. He washed her buttocks, going so far as to
spread each cheek; proceeded up back, neck. Took each arm, washed the length of
it, including hands, fingers, underarm. She did not notice herself making
little moaning noises till he bade her roll onto her back.
“Ah, Imyryn. Kheili khosh geli. You know that you are beautiful, yes? Eyes the
colour of the ebon tree – when they are open. Such lovely light brown skin,
like polished bronze… Round, perfect little dumu, their dark dīintī standing
proud and tall – almost as large as their dumu, hā?”
Small murmuring noises continued from the girl as he proceeded to wash face,
breasts, belly; without volition, legs parted ere he went near her flaming
core. She practically squirmed with pleasure – and frustration; wanted to reach
for him, but…
“Indeed,” Sefr went on, seemingly innocent of her discomfort, “it is well that
you are not my little sister, or daughter, for this would be most… improper,
yes? That is, unless we were Qattarân or perhaps Dheneban – may Shulmanu
consume the race whole. I have read that those peoples see these things
differently than we do. Relations – even marriage – between cousins and
siblings are not tabu to them. Shocking to some, I know. What do you think,
Imyryn?”
The girl could not think; one of his hands pushed a leg farther apart as the
warm wet cloth rubbed and wiped around her gink. All quite… dispassionate,
maybe on his part, yet intensely sensual for her. In fact, as he contacted her
Key of Inanna, once, twice, again… she climaxed; stiffened, shuddered, a series
of moans escaping her as she writhed, waves of pleasure washing over her.
Opened her eyes once it ceased.
Kneeling naked beside her, unmoving, Sefr regarded her, grey orbs wide,
surprised. “Little… ah… Imyryn is… is all right?”
She giggled, squirmed languorously. “Of course, Sefr – I came.”
“‘Came’? Ah… yes, Sefr has heard of this: The pinnacle of sexual pleasure, hā?
The orgasm; the climax; the Blessing of Inanna. Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine
apologies, little sister. This one did not mean—”
“Apologies? Do not be silly, Sefr – it was… it was most exquisite. And most
welcome. Indeed, I must have you—that is, I may have to ask you, to wash me
more often…”
“Alas, Imyryn, we will need more water.”
“When we have enough water. Now, I think I should perhaps wash you.”
Over mild protests, she did so; peculiarly, another erotic experience for her,
despite his incapability to experience such pleasure. When she intimated so, he
disagreed.
“On the contrary, Imyryn, I can experience pleasure – just as a mother can
sooth a crying child by holding it. Or how one appreciates the feel of the sun
on one’s skin when it is not too hot; the beauty of the sūryāsta – or of a
little sister as she bathes me. It may not be sēksa pleasure, no, but it is not
as though I have no feeling at all.”
When she progressed to his feet, she noted they bore several suppurating
blisters. “Sefr! What have you done?”
“It is nothing, Imyryn. This one is not accustomed to walking very far, is
all.”
“Sefr, you must ride in the waggon – I will walk.” She took care bathing his
feet; bade him soak them in the pot of rather dirty water whilst she continued.
“I could not, Imyryn. You are less accustomed to walking than I, I am certain.”
“Regardless, I will take my turn leading the varzā. I will hear no more of it.”
“I obey, little sister.”
She paused, studied his broad back; wondered if, in his tone, she caught a note
of good-natured mockery. Shrugged, continued.
Although her female parts responded when she washed his empty ball-sack and
pintle, the latter did not. A new experience for her as well; she felt vaguely
offended at her ‘failure’, though mentally shrugged that off, too. Even so,
recalling the delicious experience he had just given her, she wondered if he
would be amenable to her teaching him how to give manual and oral pleasure to a
woman. Even if she could not reciprocate – that was not her fault, was it? –
why not seek her own gratification whence she could? Did the luzid not teach
them to accept the gods’ gifts wherever found?
Somewhat surprisingly, she found Sefr eager to learn; turned out he had a great
deal of curiosity – mayhap not surprisingly – about her intimate parts. Thus,
Imyryn decided she would instruct him anon.
***** Akzir-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Students in the maqtab learn more about the world; confrontation
     between Akzir & Mudarri.
“Fighting is prescribed for ye, and yet ye dislike it. But it is possible that
ye dislike a thing which is good for ye, and that ye love a thing which is bad
     for ye. But Al'lah knoweth, and ye knoweth not .” (The Qu'ran 2:216)
 
Days passed less and less in routine for Akzir, attending school, arguing with
Fadir, disciplining Zeniah – although, true to his word, the boy no longer
struck his sister. Even so, home life became a constant struggle; himself and
his father on one side, Zeniah and their mother opposite. His ābbi accepted the
teachings of the Prophet Imdal, which included specific issues around women and
their place in Akemar – some of which they had already encountered. Thus, they
clashed like a greatsword against the shield of many eras of Qurayshi
tradition, including ummū’s place in it. Some of those traditions endorsed
women of high rank enjoying equal status with men of the same class, and
outranking those of lesser social standing. Yet, it seemed to some, even
amongst the youth in maqtab, that the Imladans – as the Prophet’s followers
began to be known – wanted to overturn much of that history and tradition.
Despite Mudarri’s reluctance to debate politics, the children’s thoughts,
understandably so, were preoccupied with the situation. Thus, he relented
somewhat. “Very well,” their teacher promised one day. “Tomorrow, a most
interesting subject: The history of the peoples of Akemar – the short version.
And we will see about more religious and political instruction.”
Next day, he began by telling them that Akemar got its name from the phrase,
Ākhir an-nahr, ‘the end of the river’. When the ancient Mountain Peoples first
came down into the lowlands, he related, they eventually followed the River
Ranyah to its mouth, on what is now called the Sea of Saba, whence they founded
a city upon which the Kenaani city of Moghador now stands. Since then, although
Akemar was and is a land of a great number of peoples, tribes, and customs,
women – at least those of high social status – historically had many rights,
including the ability to inherit property and manage their own affairs, in
addition to great freedom of choice regarding marriage and divorce. Some few
ruled over their tribe as sheikha, naqiba,orqadiya, mayhap even several tribes
as mushira or malika. Mudarri further regaled them with tales of many Akmari
female warriors, leaders, and traders, such as Imdal the Prophet’s own wife,
who managed her merchant business and, it was said, either ‘captured’ Imdal or
at least proposed to him.
Akzir sat sullenly at first, but the fascinating tales did lead him to wonder…
Zeniah, as usual, beat him to the first question. “Are there any queens now,
Mudarri?”
“Ah, sughraa. In Medaea and Thuban – where we get many of our words, customs,
and other things, as we have discussed – there is a ‘king of kings’, which we
would name sulṭān. Such a woman ruler here would be sulṭāna – but we have not
had any in Akemar. However, we have had queens; the most famous you have
probably heard of: Malika Makeda of Saba, who reigned more than two epochs ago.
Indeed, she ruled so much of Akemar at the time that it was called ‘Saba’ – the
sea to the northeast is still called the Sea of Saba, although beyond it is the
vast Thalássa Afilóxenos Nótos. That is to say, the ‘Southern Inhospitable Sea’
in, I believe, the Achaean language, which was used by the Kenaani, who were
the first to sail around it.
“Of course, talab, you would be correct in assuming there is a Northern
Inhospitable Sea, as well, the Thalássa Afilóxenos Vóreios. And even a Central
Sea: Kentrikós. We prefer to call them simply the North and South Seas, or else
Upper and Lower and Central. Mind, however, that there is another so-called
‘Middle Sea’ far to the west, but it is much smaller than our seas, reportedly
the size of only one of them.”
“But, Mudarri,” Zeniah queried, “how can there be two Middle Seas?”
“Ah, well, Zeniah, I suppose it is because the people who named one did not
know of the other. And in any case, when people around our seas speak of a
‘Middle Sea’, they no doubt mean ours. Just as those around the other sea would
have little reason to refer to ours, so must mean theirs. I hope that is not
too confusing, sē?”
“But, Mudarri, what is inhospitable, the sea or the people around it?”
“Ah, as to that, this untravelled mudarri has not been to sea, but I understand
the name has much to do with the unpredictable storms and perpetual fog along
certain of the coasts, and of course alqrasana, those robbers of the high seas.
There are also seirí̱na and other sea monsters. That is another word we get
from Achaea, meaning ‘sirens’, which are female creatures like the a half-
woman-half-fishhouriyyat el baher. The seirína’s song lures sailors to their
deaths, either wrecking their ship upon treacherous rocks or else being unable
to resist flinging themselves into the sea, where they drown.”
Zeniah giggled. “Men can be silly,” she opined.
“It is not the men’s fault!” exclaimed her brother. “If such shlokēh did not
tempt them—”
“Azkir.” Mudarri’s tone became unusually stern. “That word is very offensive,
and I ask you not to use it in maqtab. Nor is this the place for discussing
subjects such as how men control their urges.”
“Are there such things as sirens and mermaids, Mudarri?”
“Well, as to that, Hadim, who is to say? They are probably as real as giants
and many other creatures most of us have never seen. Now, back to our
discussion.
“Where were we? Oh yes – kings and queens and… the subject of the Kenaani came
up. We have learned that they are sea traders far and wide and come from
Achaea, and their ports ring our seas – as well as the western Middle Sea,
where we find the lands of Achaea and Aquileia, also mentioned. As for the
Inhospitable Seas, the Kenaani are believed to be the only ones who know how to
navigate those black waters in relative safety. Their nearest port to here we
have also learned of – that is, Moghador.”
“How far away… is Moghador, Mudarri?”
All eyes turned to Tesil.
“Why, it is a mere twenty leagues or so, Tesil. Only two or three ninedays on
the Alttariq Alshsharqi, the East Road. Lixus, another Kenaani city, is more
than twice that to the north, although Jidah and Gerrah – Akmari cities – are
much closer than Lixus. I have not been to any of those places, but I hear the
road north is more dangerous as well as farther, since the Imla—that is, due to
robbers.
“Now, as for Malika Makeda, it is said that she travelled to the far west
through Nabataean lands, visiting the tribes of Judaea and Qattarâ, where she
established trade – which we enjoy to this day. More to your previous question,
Zeniah, we only have one malika in all of Akemar today, that this ignorant
mudarri is aware of: Malika Balkis of the Bali tribe of the 'Ulū Jabal.”
“‘People of the Mountain’, Mudarri? Who are they?” Zeniah, though leaning
forward eagerly, grasped her chador close at chin and throat in both hands.
“Various nomadic tribes live in the hills and high mountains west of here,
child. They have few cities, but many pastures for their aġnaam and mawaaġiz,
which animals they take high up in the summer, and herd down again for winter.
Although one could go north and west, around the mountains of Parihedri, or
southwest, circling the Jabal Dakhm, both those routes are much farther. And—”
“‘Mountains of the Giants’, Mudarri?” Hadim, always keen to hear tales of
monsters and legends, perked up.
“Yes, Hadim.” Mudarri ceased pacing, smiled. “I was just getting to that.
First, all of our trade routes to the west pass through the nomads’ lands. The
Mountain Peoples’ cities are called ‘caravanserai’, and are established at
convenient places for stopovers – although they are not really cities at all.
Most are small, little more than tent villages. But it is well that they are
now a peaceful people, who profit from such trade – so much so that they act as
protectors of the caravans that traverse their lands, as we Quraysh do here.
Indeed, all Akmari are obliged to do so, and we will speak of this obligation a
little later.
“In any case, as I have mentioned, the tribes of Akemar are descended from the
Mountain People. Indeed, Malika Makeda was a shepherd girl who, when the giants
came down from the Jabal Dakhm, fled with her surviving kin to Akemar, where
she conquered the barbarians living here to establish Saba. In—”
“That is not true!” Akzir protested hotly.
“How so, young sayyid? Do you mean that the tales of giants are not true, or
that Malika Makeda brought her people into Akemar? Or that Akemar was once
inhabited by barbarians?”
“I… I do not know about giants, Mudarri, but no woman could do such a thing,
even if her men would let her. And to… to ignore our forefathers in favour of
female relatives… Blasphemous! What is more, we Akmari were here first, and we
are not barbarians.”
“Perhaps, young man, it is time for a deeper history lesson, then…”
Mudarri, resuming his pacing, told them how most tribes of Akemar, not just the
'Ulū Jabal, still traced their decent matrilineally, a subject raised
previously in maqtab. “On this, talab, you all may be interested to know that
we Akmari took our tradition of 'arusa seba from the Mountain People. Yet, it
is not unheard of that, instead of ‘bride capture’, a woman kidnaps a husband
from another tribe. Although in old times this was done with violence, where
brides – occasionally husbands – were captured as prisoners of war, nowadays it
is usually arranged ‘in secret’ by the families.” Mudarri stroked his pointed
beard, brown eyes shining as he paused, looked at each student, finally at
Zeniah and Akzir; the girl sat betwixt her brother and Fadir.
“Did you know, you two, that your mother, Emira Zalidda, captured your father,
Hemub, from the Ta'if? It is true. Often a younger daughter, like your mother –
even a princess, or especially a princess – who has no other prospects arranged
for her, is more or less free to marry whom she pleases.
“As for your mother’s lineage, young sayyid, sayyidāt, if yours were not traced
through her, you would not have any chance to inherit the title of Malik of
Hejaz from your mother’s father. That is why you go by Zeniah bint Mosdan and
not Akzir ibn Abdani, your father’s family name. Of course, your ummū has an
older brother and three older sisters – which, by the way, is one of the
reasons she captured your father; she had little or no prospect of inheritance,
and no arrangement had been made for her. Although, as romantics would have it,
she did it more for love. Even so, the fact of the existence of all your aunts
and uncle, not to mention their children, makes it quite unlikely that the
title would come down to either of you, anyway.”
“You mean I could be Malika of Hejaz?” Zeniah asked in wonderment.
Her brother snorted. “Do not be a stupid girl! I would be malik before you, and
no girl—”
“I would not be so sure, young sayyid,” Mudarri advised. “The nature of
matrilineal decent muddies the waters somewhat, especially since various tribes
interpret it differently, according to their own custom. I am not a scholar of
Qurayshi, much less Akmari, tribal law. But I know that the question, if it
came down to either of you two inheriting, would not be so easily answered. I
believe Akzir would be first in line, simply because he is older, but who knows
for sure?”
Zeniah stamped a sandal on the cobbles. Meeting her brother’s triumphant sneer,
complained, “Unfair!”
“Maybe, maybe not – who is to say? In any case, talab, this is another of our
traditions that I understand the New Faith seeks to abolish.”
Akzir quickly countered, “The Prophet seeks only to set aright what is wrong in
the sight of Al'lah!”
“‘Wrong’?” interjected Fadir. “You have heard Mudarri tell us of epochs of
Qurayshi history and tradition. Why does your prophet seek to destroy that
which makes us who we are?”
“Because Al'lah forbids it!”
“How—”
Mudarri cut off the debate. “Salaam, talab. I regret mentioning it, though I
have cautioned you before about this kind of discussion.”
“Please, Mudarri, tell us of my mother’s capture of my father,” Zeniah pleaded.
“They have never spoken of it.”
“That is because—” Akzir cut himself off. Others gave him questioning looks,
but the boy neither returned them or said anything further, instead
concentrated on dipping a finger in the fountain, tracing wet patterns on the
stone wall upon which they sat.
“Alas, sughraa, this is not the place for such stories, either,” Mudarri
replied.
“Tell us of the giants, then, Mudarri,” Hadim solicited.
“Ah, the giants. A most interesting subject, talab. The Jabal Dakhm are well
named, for, in those high mountains giants dwell – or once did. They have not
been seen since Malika Makeda drove them out of the lowlands. The stories are a
little jumbled, as they tend to be from dim history, so some say it was not
Makeda whom the giants originally attacked – that happened some eras before.
But it was she who expelled them, and established trade with the west, as we
have learned.
“In any case, the giants are said to be – or were – as tall as one man standing
on another’s shoulders, some even bigger. They were great, hairy beasts with
uncouth beards, who carried entire trees as clubs, and wore the skins of great
bears as clothing. When they walked you could feel the ground shake a day away,
and when they roared you would be deafened for several more – like when the
thunder god Yaghūth speaks. They herded beasts the size of at least nine
baqaraat put together, with shaggy fur, long snouts, and horns sprouting from
their mouths called ‘tusks’. Of course, there could be no trade with such brute
creatures who could not even speak any civilised language. Thus it was well
that Malika Makeda defeated them.”
Pausing, Mudarri gauged his audience; all appeared rapt.
“Know as well, talab,” he continued, “that giants are not the worst creatures
living to the west. Through the lands of the Mountain People and Nabataea, long
before one gets to the civilised western lands, there is a vast swamp, said to
be far larger than even nine Akemars. Therein dwell fearsome creatures, man
eating plants and cannibal tribes, such that no one could hope to traverse it.
The 'Ulu Jabal are therefore the only ones who know the routes to Nabataea, and
the latter peoples keep secret the knowledge of travelling safely through their
mountains well to the north of the so-called al-Mustanqaeat. It is said that
their mountain passes and tunnels are so confusing that no ajnabi could hope to
find their own way in any case. But merchants and travellers must use a guide
even if they should foolishly wish not to.”
Just then a large group of dusty travellers passed them in the square, leading
a few haggard-looking pack mules around the fountains, most of which their
handlers had to forcibly prevent from helping themselves to the water therein.
The group headed toward a grand building at the end of the ryad, a large, domed
structure of limed marble.
Mudarri, changing the subject, observed, “Speaking of traders, there go the
musafir. Notice how they did not allow their animals to drink from these
fountains, for, although dedicated to Suwa', the goddess who gives us and
protects fresh water, fountains are forbidden to animals, since humankind uses
them. Thus, it is ḥarām. Know as well, talab, that merchants and other guests,
by long tradition in Akemar, are ḥaram – you will recall the debate that began
some time ago regarding this word. The Akmari have two words, very similar, but
meaning very different things. I want you to write the two words on your mum
thus:”
 
                                      حرم
                                     حرام
 
The students did so, down and from right to left.
“Now, listen for the difference: ḥaram… ḥarām. The second word we already
discussed the meaning of: sinful or forbidden. But it is important for you,
talab, to understand the meaning of the other word, which is ‘sacred’ or
‘inviolable’. The musafir – guests and travellers – are ḥaram. There, in the
ma'bad, where Hubal’s sacred Ka'ab is kept, they go for succour and rest. Hubal
and his qiyan will entertain them.”
“Hubal and his shl—sharmūta!” Akzir spat.
Mudarri stopped, held up a hand. “Salaam, Akzir. Once again, I have brought up
the subject of religion. However, I did speak with the khouri, and the priests
are agreed that mudarri need not hold back some religious instruction.” He
peered at Akzir, who returned his gaze pugnaciously. “Therefore, I shall allow
debate – no arguing. All students will allow one another to speak without
interruption. I will recognise each before he or she will be permitted to
speak. Is this agreed? Very well. Akzir, I can see you are burning to say
something further, so I ask you to elaborate on your comment – remember,
respectful.”
The youth cleared his throat, declared, “Al'lah and the amin know that Hubal
does not exist. Since Hubal does not exist, then the Ka'ab is false – an idol,
which the amin do not recognise either. Since the god and his idol are false,
then so is his temple and all in it, including the qiyan – nothing more than
whores who—”
“Akzir,” Mudarri interrupted sternly. “Respectful. Why do you say that the
qiyan, our revered temple performers, are no more than courtesans? We spend
years training them to entertain our guests – an honoured tradition as well as
sacred duty.”
“The Prophet says one can use their own slaves as… as qiyan,” Akzir claimed.
“But those who cannot yet marry must abstain until Al'lah enriches them. Yet we
should not force slaves to whore themselves, and we should allow them to earn
their freedom if they wish.”
Mudarri remonstrated, “First, young sayyid, you are using the word ‘qiyan’
incorrectly; they are not simply prostitutes. However, Fadir, do you wish to
say something?”
“Yes, Mudarri. I would first ask Akzir if he has ‘abstained’.” Stare proof
enough he already had the answer, as if the younger boy’s guilty look and
glance away did not confirm. “Then, how his prophet expects a mere slave to
earn her freedom. A qayna is given at least six years of training before her
dedication to the Children of Al'lah. Does she not owe something back, if not
to the gods, then to the tribe, for the investment? As for ‘sharmūta’, the
qiyan are more than whores or even courtesans. As Mudarri says, they entertain
guests of the Quraysh – would Akzir have us turn them away, without succour?
The shame would be on us all – the gods would surely turn away from us, too,
for such disrespect.”
“Well said, Fadir,” Mudarri acknowledged. “Akzir, do you wish to respond?”
“I… I r-refuse to answer the first question. As to the other, I… I do not know.
If they… The Prophet says if they trust in Al'lah, they will be enriched.”
Akzir fidgeted. “And if the gods turn away from us, it does not matter, since
there is only One True God, and His name is Al'lah. And He has no daughters –
or sons.”
Fadir made a face, said nothing further.
“Mudarri, what is ‘abs… abstrain’…?”
“‘Abstain’, Zeniah. Ah… Perhaps some of you talab are too young for this
discussion…”
“Yes,” Akzir interjected. “Girls and young boys should not be allowed.”
“Then maybe you should leave too, Akzir,” Fadir opined. “I myself am a man this
month, whereas you are not yet for, what, at least two more summers? Three?”
Akzir glared at the older boy.
Young Hadim wanted to know, “What is a sharmūta, Mudarri?”
“And a qiyan, exactly?” Zeniah added.
Mudarri took control of the conversation once again. “Ahem… Well, my maqtab
would be very small if girls and young boys were not allowed. Therefore, I will
try to answer your questions, talab. First, I remind you all that the rules
still apply, as this will continue to be a religious discourse. Now, as for
‘abstention’ and the qiyan, most interesting subjects…”
Teacher informed them that Al-'Uzzá, Wadd, and Attar-shamayin, the deities of
love and Children of Al'lah, mandated the diversion of musafir with music,
song, dance, and even pleasures of the flesh, all of which was perfectly
acceptable to Hubal, as well – since the musafir were housed in his ma'bad,
after all. The musafir were not expected to pay anything beyond what they might
normally let a room for at a respectable caravanserai, perhaps. However, they
paid tolls and taxes as well, which – ostensibly at least – in part went toward
the upkeep of the qiyan and temples.
The qiyan were of course trained slaves, who actually could earn their freedom
by having a child. According to the law, any such child would be born free –
yet, that was the second reason that such occurrences were very rare, namely
the state having to pay for the upkeep of the child. Unless a man wished to
adopt it and marry the mother, the burden would fall on the temple and the
Quraysh. Further, the tribe would lose the investment in a qayna if it had to
manumit her. Therefore, the Khouria Raisa, or Chief Priestess, had
responsibility to ensure such did not happen.
“Now, talab, a most interesting subject. Abstention – that is, refraining from
sexual relations – according to the laws of all Akmari peoples, the khouri
agree, is neither required or expected. The law allows slaves to be used for
the sexual gratification of their masters or mistresses, if one cannot afford
the qiyan. And most tribes allow the practise of 'istimna, the art of self-
gratification. After all, not everyone has the means to marry, or can afford a
slave. Yet, even among those peoples who do not allow 'istimna – the Quraysh,
you may be relieved to learn, are not one of them – say that masturbation is
preferable to fornication, which is to say, having sexual relations outside of
marriage. But the khouri tell me that the Creator Mother and Father would have
made us with arms too short for 'istimna, were it forbidden.”
Akzir looked quite relieved; Zeniah’s expression neutral; Hadim appeared
confused; Fadir continued to attempt to catch Akzir’s glance. As usual, no one
could see Tesil to gauge a reaction, other than apparent tension.
“But Mudarri, if for… forn…”
“‘Fornication’, Zeniah?”
“Yes. If fornication is not allowed, why are there qiyan?”
“Ah – you are most astute, sughraa. Patronising the qiyan is not considered
‘fornication’ –it is a sacred act that honours the gods— Akzir, I know you
disagree, but it is el qaanoon – the law is the law.”
The boy appeared as though he wanted to challenge el qawaaneen, but desisted.
Fadir asked, “Mudarri, what about relations between only females. Or between
only males?”
Akzir’s stricken look returned as the older boy’s gaze pierced him through.
“Ah, well, talab,” Mudarri answered. “You may all be reassured to know that the
khouri have told me that all forms of physical love are permissible in the eyes
of the gods, as long as all parties agree. If it is not, then that is
considered zina bil jabr.”
“‘Forced sex’?”
“Yes, Zeniah.”
“But, Mudarri, what about slaves?”
“What about them, Zeniah? One cannot rape slaves, if that is what you are
asking. Slaves are the property of their masters, to be used as permissible by
law.”
The girl looked unsatisfied with that answer, although her brother appeared
somewhat reassured once again. Withal, Fadir went on endeavouring to skewer him
with his stare. Akzir would not meet it, however.
“Mudarri,” Tesil began; so seldom speaking, everyone turned once again, though
still no one could see aught; even hands hidden within folds of black niqab and
burqa.
“Yes, Tesil. You have a question.”
“If… If someone cannot marry – they have no means, and no slaves… Then…
'istimna… is permissible?”
If anyone thought it odd that the sole offspring of arguably the richest
Qurayshi family would suggest they lacked the wherewithal to visit the qiyan,
offer a dowry, or had no slaves – which they all knew was untrue, since Tesil
had an escort of at least one to and from school every day – then they politely
did not say so. Perhaps Tesil was not beautiful? Disfigured? Regardless,
Mudarri answered.
“Ah, yes, Tesil… From what I understand, 'istimna is permitted, no matter one’s
age or means – at least, for the Quraysh. I do not speak for other tribes.”
Still, no one could tell what Tesil thought; the dark figure remained unmoving,
said nothing more.
“But, Mudarri.” Zeniah again. “Why are there no boy qiyan?”
Akzir snorted; seemed about to retort, but restrained himself.
“Ah, Zeniah… Always the insightful one, sē? Actually, although we speak of a
qayna as ‘she’, we should say ‘het’, since there are male qiyan, as well as, I
understand, what we call mukhannathun. That is another word we borrow from
Medaea, meaning ‘not one or the other but both’. The Qattarân word is sɧt,
while the Askellans – or perhaps it is the Dhenebans – name them kurgarú. All
those nations, by the way, are much more ancient than ours, and so presumably
much wiser.”
No one said anything for some moments; glanced quizzically at one another.
Then, Akzir, “‘Both’, Mudarri? Both what?”
“Both genders, young sayyid – male and female. And neither. Although rare in
Akemar, elsewhere I understand a third gender is relatively common – so much so
that they have a word for het. Indeed, some say there are actually five
genders, but alas, I do not know the words for them, or even how this is
possible. A much more learned mudarri would have to instruct you on this
subject.”
“Are there any, Mudarri – other mudarri, who know… of this? Or khouri?” The
question belonged to Tesil. Low tone betrayed some anxiety.
“I will endeavour to find out, Tesil.”
“How… How is this possible, Mudarri?”
“How is what possible, Zeniah? How is another gender other than male or female
possible?”
The girl confirmed her teacher’s surmise.
“A most interesting question, young sayyidāt. First of all, talab, if you did
not know already, then be aware that the deity Attar-shamayin, who is Aard’s
third moon, and is also a divine of love and sexuality, happens to be
mukhannathun. As we have learned, Attar-shamayin only visits us every age
compared to once a month or so for Ruda and Manaf – thus the reason for the
third gender’s uncommonness among us. As for why the Creators made a third – or
more – gender, who is to say? Yet, since the Mother and Father saw fit to do
so, then we are morally bound to respect het, as with all creations.”
Students appeared totally engaged; even Akzir, the subject matter pushing aside
customary outrage at the mention of deities besides his. No one moved, the only
sound the splash of the ryad’s fountains, footsteps of the occasional passerby,
the call of a market day hawker drifting from the next square.
“Even so, I suspect that your question, Zeniah – indeed, many of you are no
doubt wondering – exactly how a mukhannathun appears… in their respective
parts, or even in what we normally see. Alas, I cannot say, as I have never
seen or met one. One would presume them to appear as normal people, outwardly,
but, under their clothing, having both male and female parts. That is, of
course, the male zeb as well as the female’s almuhabbaldown below, bizaaz
above.” Mudarri, appearing thoughtful, continued pacing, stroking his beard.
Paused, seeming to come to a decision. “As you may know, talab, we Quraysh are
free to patronise our own qiyan, though I myself have never done so – it is
somewhat too… luxurious a distraction for one of my means, shall we say. Yet, I
will… ah, see what I can discover for next maqtab. A most interesting subject,
indeed…”
 
Maqtab had to wait two days, however, the following being a holy day, on which
usual business was suspended, in order to give everyone the opportunity to
venerate the gods. Of course, this did not apply to slaves, who were still
expected to work in the fields, produce meals, care for children, and so on; to
the Akmari, an exception so ‘logical’ that it was not even considered an
exception. Else, any free Akmari could pay respects to any gods or goddesses
they chose, including the qiyan dedicated to Wadd, Al-'Uzzá, and Attar-
shamayin.
Though the ma'bad was obviously central to Bakkah, most people of the city –
indeed, most Akmari – had shrines in their homes for their favoured deities.
Thus, they could pay ‘lip service’ to the requirements of the Sabbath, and
actually venerate none, in truth. Regardless, the practice created another
point of dispute in the Mosdan-Abdani household.
According to the Prophet Imdal, the menfolk claimed, other than Al'lah being
the sole deity that ought to be venerated at all, such should be done only in
his temple, whence women were not, currently, excluded. Yet, no ma'bad with a
shrine dedicated to Al'lah existed in Bakkah; closest in Yathrib, about 15 days
travel by pack-train. Thus, Akzir and Hemub worshipped at their own shrine to
Al'lah, set up in a wing of their large home from which they barred the rest of
the family, including slaves.
The reason for this separation originated with the Akmari tradition of
worshipping tawaf – that is, walking around the baetyl, a ritual stone or idol,
naked – for one did not visit the gods in the clothing in which one had sinned.
Of course, such behaviour, whence the sexes freely mixed, unclothed, had been
deemed anathema by the the Prophet Imdal and his New Faith. Undoubtedly because
of what often occurred afterwards, dependent upon the exact participants and
the venerated deity.
Withal, as it happened, Mudarri could not get khouri consensus on what was fit
to teach young people around their most recent subject; hence, had little for
them when maqtab reconvened on Yawm al-Ithnayn. Fadir generously offered to
elucidate them after his first official visit to the qiyan on his birthday but
a week-or-so hence; however, he knew as well as they that he would not return
to maqtab after he had become a man. Yet, the subject naturally engendered a
question in Zeniah.
“But, Mudarri, why are girls not allowed to visit the qiyan when they become
women?”
Teacher lobbed a severe look at her brother. “Whoever told you that, sughraa,
is wrong. Any free—”
“The Prophet says it is wrong!” Akzir objected.
Once more, argument ensued regarding who spoke for, and ruled, the Quraysh;
Akzir losing again. The discussion resumed at home, though, whence the men
continued to dispute a female’s rights, and were again overruled by Zalidda.
 
Anon, Fadir left maqtab, joining his father, the Qadi of Najd, and a Qurayshi
army to try to stop the raids by the prophet and his band. Led by the Malik of
Hejaz, Akzir’s and Zeniah’s grandfather, they pursued the renegades over much
of Qurayshi lands betwixt Bakkah and Yathrib. However, aside from minor
skirmishes, they were unable to catch him in decisive battle until late that
winter. Word reached maqtab that, despite outnumbering the enemy at least
three-to-one, the rebels defeated the Quraysh. Rumour flew that the enemy had
called down daemons or djinn to intervene on their behalf – proof, so it was
said, of the truth of their message.
On what would turn out to be his last day of school, Akzir asserted, “This is
just punishment from Al'lah, the One True God! Our people returned to idolatry
from the time of Ibrahim, when they learned the truth of there being but one
God, His name being Al'lah. Now, we can all see the truth of the Prophet’s
message. And if Al'lah is most just, Fadir lies dead with all the other
unbelievers!” Hope shone so fiercely in the boy’s dark eyes they could have
provided torchlight – all the more so when he saw his sister about to cry.
Standing, he stated, though not yet late in the day, “Now we go home, Mudarri.
Come, sister.” Put his hand out expectantly; trembling, clutching her chador
close, she took it. “I do not expect to see any girls here tomorrow.” Beardless
chin out-thrust, he looked pointedly at Tesil. Hadim, next to the black-clad
student, merely stared, a frightened look on his dusky young face. “Else I will
not be attending any longer.”
“That is regretful, young sayyid,” their teacher replied. “What will you do
instead?”
“I…” The youth appeared as though he had not expected to follow through on his
threat, but recovered. “I will go and join the Prophet, along with my father –
as all amin should do.” He walked away, pulling Zeniah roughly in his wake.
***** Lianys-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     We meet Lianys, Henryc's wife and Queen Regent of Franconia.
     “Peace is opposed to conflict within oneself, as well as to conflict
                       withothers…”(St. Thomas Aquinas)
 
Lianys was furious – primarily because she did not know why she was so angry.
She spurred her mount down the benighted road as fast as she dared, until the
flames of ire cooled and runaway emotions came once more under control. Soon
her steed walked unhurriedly in a direction she did not bother to note.
The former adventuress knew she had no right to take out her discomfiture on
Henryc; the gods knew he had never been other than solicitous and full of
respect for her. Moreover, Lianys was acutely aware that her husband loved her
deeply – mayhap, she felt, more than was good for either of them. Thus, she did
not know why he aggravated her so; why did such a kind, loving, sensitive man
have so grievous an effect on her? Not as though they were incompatible,
either; the gods also knew how they had gotten along so well these many years,
in spite of near-opposite natures.
Lianys considered the possibility that she resented the pressures Henryc put on
her: The way he stooped almost to condescension sometimes to please her; how he
seemed to need her so intensely, ofttimes frighteningly so. What if something
happened…?
Far away, a wolf cursed the lambent Sisters, bemoaning Lÿlla’s and Lítha’s
illumination of its loneliness. Lianys sniffed, cleared her throat, spat to one
side of her plump black pony. Brusquely wristed away a threatened tear with a
gloved hand. Heeled her mount, causing it to break into a canter for a few
grains; allowed it to slow to a walk again, petting it apologetically.
“Sorry, Onyx.” It was not the beast’s fault, either.
So many people had told her, in so many ways, that she should be happy,
flattered, grateful for such a man and his love, and she knew, deep down, that
she should. Yet, she could not help feeling all but smothered by Henryc’s well-
meaning attention. It overawed her; she felt so guilty, because she was not
capable of reciprocating.
She did not consider for a moment that all Henryc might ‘expect’ was whatever
love she had inside, expressed in her own way.
Lianys came to a crossroads. There were no signs, so she chose a route with
random intuition; dimly aware that she embarked upon the route to Souçis, the
tiny border hamlet Henryc had visited earlier that day. The one-time
adventuress let her stocky little mare keep its own pace whilst she continued
her ruminations.
Perhaps it was simply that the worst thing that could have happened to Lianys
had just occurred: her bleeding was almost three ninedays – a full moon-cycle –
late, and of course there could be only one explanation – beyond the first one,
having to do with her age, which she had already considered and rejected. She
had always known that Henryc ardently desired children. The way he doted on
Cendryth and unhesitatingly took in all strays and foundlings that came his way
(even though Lianys knew some of them were purposely abandoned to him by
irresponsible parents), was, whilst noble and touching, in some indefinable way
also… pitiable.
She had taken greatest care throughout their long intimacy. Although Henryc had
made his hopes plain early in their relationship, she told him that to have and
raise children whilst they were still adventuring would be nearly impossible,
if not disastrous to the Band’s integrity. For, what would they do with a child
along? Unless they immediately fostered it out it would cause no end of
disruption. Moreover, to send it away from them would invalidate the very
reason for having one in the first place. To this sound logic her husband had
eventually acquiesced, although not without continued, quiet resistance. Yet
Lianys, with the support of his close friend Father Lucius, annulled his
arguments.
Even so, after their retirement into a more secular and mundane life, as King
and Queen Regent of Franconia, there had remained no excuses. Except for
Lianys’ age – which had finally tricked her. Despite herself, the woman smiled
sheepishly into the night; after all those years of caution, now, when she was
nearly into her sixth age of life and thought she had surely lost the ability
to conceive, she was suddenly pregnant.
Originally, her bleeding had stopped well over two seasons ago, and Lianys
thought it signalled the end of her childbearing ability. It started again,
however, and came and went desultorily, until this last time. But Lianys knew,
the way most women knew about these things, the reason for this latest
interruption of her moon-cycle. Even so, she could not make up her mind if she
was happy about it, humiliated, or distressed.
Or terrified.
A part of her wanted to leap and shout for joy, whilst another part of her
wanted to be sick (which she had already been – almost daily, in fact). She
knew that Henryc, obviously, would be ecstatic, but of course she had not told
him yet. Lianys considered not informing her husband at all, and… doing
something about it, but the images that idea conjured made the glad portion of
her mind and body match the queasy part. Furthermore, she was not just a little
apprehensive of what Henryc might do should he ever find out that she had
embarked upon such a distasteful solution – especially without so much as
informing him. Although Lianys’ spouse had never come close to striking her –
indeed, much to her consternation, Henryc rarely even raised his voice to her,
although she had witnessed him do so countless times under a plethora of
circumstances – the paladin did have an explosive, if not essentially violent,
temper, when his passions were inflamed. Small children being one of Henryc’s
passions…
Ere she became aware of her progress, Lianys came to a small village. She
realised only then that it had to be Souçis. She could tell by the magenta
tinge on the horizon over the low purple hills to her right that dawn
approached, thus she assumed she must have dozed in the saddle, for it seemed
but moments since she had left Courroi. And she was rather saddle-sore – as a
result of being out of practice, she surmised wryly.
Reining her mount, she sat in the benighted quietude of the dusty road
bisecting the small cluster of darkly outlined, tiny wattle-and-daub buildings.
She had not long to wait until the thorp’s few businesses opened, the villeins
emerged to begin another endless day in the surrounding fields. So, she
remained motionless, listening to the village’s heartbeat vie with hers and her
mount’s for precedence in the pre-dawn silence.
In the darkness beyond, demarcating the Frankish Domardé of Suiamh’s western
border with theDomardé of Normandie– and Franconia’s border with the Kingdom of
Neustria – the susurrant rustle of the broad, winding River Suaimh gradually
yielded to sounds of townsfolk’s preparations to receive a new day. Anon, as
the sun broke over the western horizon, began to push Lítha, the Elder Sister,
aside, a figure emerged from a yellow-limned doorway nearby. A girl of about an
age-and-two or -three hung a glowing tallow candle, encased in a hooded
lanthorn, on a hook beneath the building’s sign. The lamp’s relatively clean
glass chimney emitted fair light, allowing Lianys to discern the pictograph on
the shingle – a rarity in that it contained not only a picture of a grapevine
to announce to the illiterate the nature of its business, but also Neustrian
and even Brythonic script, which proclaimed the modest building to be a tavern:
La Cruche Pleine; The Full Flagon.
The girl hesitated, caught her breath as she sighted the dark horse, darker
rider standing motionless in the shadowed street. Relaxing suddenly, she gave a
warm smile, then, leaning a crude broom against the wall, turned back inside,
almost immediately reemerging to and cast the contents of one, then a second,
chamber pot into the street. Though she took care to aim away from the immobile
pair, Lianys caught a harsh whiff of their contents regardless.
In Neustrian vernacular, the girl queried, “Would you be seeking succour,
bede?”
Pained by a sudden remembrance, Lianys recalled how, many years ago, Henryc had
asked her almost the same thing…
The girl waited, partially hidden in the shadows cast by the tavern sign
beneath its recessed entrance. She had addressed her visitor as ‘bede’ because
Lianys was a stranger of indeterminate sex and station. When the rider did not
answer, the youngster took down the lamp and held it out; it managed to adjure
the other human and her mount into its brief radius. The child’s bright,
questioning eyes looked blue, but it was hard to judge in the inadequate light,
which also gave the youth’s pale skin a yellowish cast. Hair hidden under a
close fitting white linen wimple, she wore a plain linen, ankle-length cotte,
under a sleeveless girl’s tunic hereabout called a bliaut. Although shoeless,
she wore a woollen cloak against the dawn’s chill. Lianys thought the child
would be quite attractive in another year or two, which was about when she
would reach normal marriageable age.
The ex-thief felt another tug at her heart; the tavern-girl was so young…
“I’m sorry, child,” Lianys replied at last, her command of Neustrian fair
enough. “Wha…? Succour, yes; I would like something to eat and a drink. Are you
ready for guests at this sun-forsaken hour?”
Still holding the lanthorn aloft in one hand, the girl shaded her eyes with the
other as she smiled, squinting up at Lianys. “If you wish it we are open… lady.
Please come in.” The youngster stood aside and elbowed the door open. “Please
leave your horse and I shall see to it for you. Go inside and find a seat by
the fire, and my mother will be out soon. I shan’t be long with your palfrey.”
Lianys hesitated. A personal rule, tempered by a lifetime of being obliged to
treat every situation with caution and every person with initial mistrust,
could not be easily bent. Yet, she had difficulty retaining suspicion of the
child’s innocent manner, especially given the place and time. With a mental
shrug, she dismounted, led her mare to the tavern’s entrance.
“Shall I trade your pots for these?” Lianys offered, smiling back and holding
out her mount’s reins. She herself did not employ the local dialect, though the
girl continued to do so; it was not that much different.
The child already matched her guest’s height – mayhap even a finger or two
taller – but the latter hardly noticed; there were not many women, or almost-
grown girls, in all the Lands who were not at least a little longer-limbed than
Lianys Tursa. Entering into the light, she gave a start; the girl looked
familiar… But that was not possible, of course; she had never been here before.
In the lamplight, the girl stared at the traveller for several grains, eyes
growing rounder each passing moment. Swallowing, at last replied shyly, “A… a
poor trade, M-Milady.”
Lianys all at once had trouble understanding her words; she realised the girl
had abruptly switched to a dialect of Neustrian used almost exclusively by the
noblesse. This she found odd, but did not have time to think about it ere the
child went on.
Curtseying, the latter lowered her eyes in seeming deference. “If he were still
alive, m-my father would not like it were I to take advantage of a great lady
like you.”
Great lady? What could she mean by that? Surely, the girl could not know who
she was, although she acted as though she recognised the former adventuress.
“Nevertheless,” the woman replied, keeping questions to herself for the nonce,
“I will trust you to give Onyx fair treatment, as I’ll care for your pots.
What’s your name, girl?”
“Léanore, if it p-please Milady.” Effortlessly, the child-woman curtsied once
more.
“Do you trust me with your household pottery, Léanore?”
The pretty adolescent smiled shyly, retrieved her yet odouriferous pots from
the ground near her feet, made the exchange. Still refused further eye contact,
however. “I shall return v-very soon to see to your needs, Milady.” Again she
dipped low, backed away a few steps, straightened, turned, briskly led Lianys’
horse down the street, bare feet making little smacking sounds in the damp
dirt.
Lianys, wondering about the child’s manners, watched the bobbing yellow patch
of light till it disappeared round a building. Entering the tavern, she placed
the chamber pots just inside the door, speculating to herself that either
Léanore was a simply a very courteous young woman, in which case the patrons of
this establishment were very lucky, or the girl somehow suspected her identity.
The question was, did she recognise the queen regent or the former member of
the Nonagon? The ex-night-thief was not immodest, but there existed a good
possibility she might be recognised from her days with the Band of Nine – as
often happened. Yet, this girl seemed more than just a little young to know her
on sight; by reputation, mayhap, but…?
The fire in the large hearth at the far end of the common room had not yet
begun to dispel the night’s lingering chill; neither were several open windows
especially conducive to this effect. Nonetheless, the fresh air Lianys
welcomed, to blunt the leftover odours of stale, sweaty bodies, spilled drink,
old cooking – withal, it smelled a lot better than most. The wonderful
fragrances of fresh baking – bread, especially – emanating no doubt through a
waist-high door leading to the rear of the place, also helped. No other lamps
yet lighted the area, but the visitor could see well enow by firelight and the
few warm rays of rosy sunrise admitted by the unshuttered windows. And her
special lifewarmth sight revealed nothing living beyond where the flames’
radiant heat rendered her exceptional vision useless.
By habit, Lianys automatically noted all the tactical attributes of the place:
locations of exits, blind spots, objects useful in defence or for offence, and
the like. This having been accomplished by rote in but a few heartbeats, she
picked her way through benches and tables to one nearest the fire. Stood and
warmed herself, until she sensed movement behind her…
Instinct took over: Lianys dove into a side-wise roll, handsprung atop a nearby
table, landed easily on her feet. A main gauche had appeared as if by magic in
one hand, a needle-thin, four-hand-long poignard in the other.
Speechless with surprise, a relatively young though somewhat tired-looking
woman stood gaping up at her. Quite dark-complexioned, high cheekbones and
large black eyes that suggested Denoçean heritage, a country of broad savanna,
sunny vineyards, and olive groves close to a half-year travel away. A regal
bearing supported her tall, graceful frame; though no expert, Lianys suspected
she might be of mixed Denoçean and Neustrian origin, but a commoner she did not
resemble. Nor did she look like any sort of threat.
Lianys relaxed a little. “I’m sorry,” she apologised, without feeling
especially regretful. Their own thrice-damned fault for sneaking up on people…
“N-No, bede, it is I who ought to be s-sorry for startling you.” The woman
rapidly regained her composure. Motioned toward a nearby bench – a gesture
Lianys felt was also out of character for a supposedly low-born alewife.
“Please be seated, bede, and tell me ’ow I may be of service.” Even her accent
and mode of speech were at odds with the woman’s ostensible station.
Lianys stowed her weapons, although even after watching her put them away, most
observers would have strained to discern precisely where – the effect of both
inborn and learned deception. “Thank you, goodwife, but I prefer to remain near
the fire for now.” To observers, she may have appeared to float down from the
table to resume her prior position, albeit this time at a slight angle so as to
face the tavern’s proprietress. “I’ll take whatever fare you have to offer at
this early hour – and a gill of mull. The best you have.” Ordinarily, Lianys
did not drink much, and especially not at this time of day, but she felt the
need for something to settle her mind and complaining stomach – and goat’s milk
was not to her taste.
“Very well, bede. My name ees Merette, if it please you, and by the grace of
the king I own thees place still. My daughter Léanore you may have met upon
entering our establishment…?”
Lianys nodded, liking the woman’s unobsequious manner; no ‘humble’ or
‘unworthy’ would escape this lady’s full lips.
Merette went on: “You are welcome to whatever we ’ave to offer… May I know your
name, bede?”
Lianys hesitated. “Lia,” she answered, opting for that portion of her name by
which she was once known to her highborn acquaintances, over ‘Nyx’, the
nickname she once held in her night-thief’s guise. “I thank you for you
hospitality, Merette.” Added, “And might I compliment you on the good manners
of yourself and your daughter. Léanore does your house proud.”
The woman responded with a courteous nod and half-curtsey. “Thank you, Lady
Lia. But I cannot, in good conscience, take much of the credit. My husband—”
At that moment, Léanore returned. The girl set her lamp on a nearby table,
glancing questioningly from her mother, to Lianys – to whom she proffered a
full curtsey – and back again.
“Léanore, our guest would ’ave an early meal, and a measure of our special wine
– you will recall, the imported veentage. Make ready the Lady Lia’s wine and
set her table, and I shall prepare the meal. And remember, the Norman matins-
patrol will soon be relieved – you need not think long on how hungry and
thirsty are the Normans after duty.”
Léanore, curtseying again, ran off. The elder hostess turned back to Lianys,
advised that her repast would not be long, whereupon she followed her daughter
through the same door leading to the rear of the building. A murmur of voices
emerged thence to keep their guest company.
The fire had taken over the small, cozy room, and so Lianys removed her riding
mantle and gloves, daring even to pull the hood of her cape down and finger-
combing loose her short dark hair. Squirming into her seat, she set her back to
the wall, at right angles to the hearth, whence she was also able to keep an
eye on the door; old habits, once more…
In almost no time at all Léanore reappeared with a brimful silver chalice – far
more than the gill Lianys had ordered – of pungently steaming spiced red wine.
Then, after draping the table with a scarlet cloth of rich velvet – decidedly
not common practice in out-of-the-way village taverns – the girl also set
before her a salt cellar, as well as a silver trencher and spoon, plus a long,
needle-like object that Lianys did not recognise, and a platter upon which were
arranged small porcelain vessels containing a good variety of rare, costly
herbs and spices. Merette appeared to be sparing no expense for her early
guest, a fact which further bemused the retired adventuress.
But Lianys had no time to question the youngster ere the meal arrived, borne by
the elder hostess herself: A fresh loaf of heavy barley bread; soft white goat
cheese and honey; a bowl of hot barley mush with treacle; a bed of greens on
which Lianys discovered a fragrant and mouth-watering assortment of steamed
shellfish. More surprised than ever, the Full Flagon’s only patron looked upon
the fare; for such an out-of-the-way place, an exceedingly rich board this
seemed indeed.
Nonetheless, Lianys suddenly realised how hungry she was, thus spent the
remains of the hour experimenting with different condiments on the seafood. She
even tried them with honey and treacle, quickly deciding that the twain did not
mix. (Léanore graciously demonstrated the needle to be a miniature spear for
stabbing the mussels, clams, oysters, and lifting them to one’s mouth.)
So engrossed in her breakfast Lianys barely noticed, in addition to one or two
locals, four men arrive who had a meal of their own and then sat loudly talking
and drinking while she finished her wine – an excellent mulled Bourgevin;
Lianys’ favourite, fondly remembered both from pre-adventuring days and from
better times during same.
“Perhaps the wench doesn’t hear us?”
“Or perhaps she thinking she be too good to hear the likes of us.”
“Why, Malyns, you saying yonder trull would find such gentlemen as us
undesirable company?”
The men guffawed, roughed each other up. Although Lianys’ grasp of Norman
vulgarisms was much worse than her familiarity with Neustrian patois, she
understood enough of what they said, and therefore tried to ignore them. She
had encountered their ilk innumerable times: half-liquored toughs looking for
someone easy to push around and prove their manliness.
Well, she growled to herself, the mellow glow from the meal and warmed alcohol
beginning to ebb, they’d better not push this helpless-looking female too far…
“Why d’you think she be wearing such an outfit, hein?”
“Maybe she be trying to hide something.”
“That so, my luvlie? What you be trying to hide, hein?”
“Maybe she ain’t even a she!”
“Guess we’d best be finding out for sure, then, hein?” Roars of approval met
this suggestion.
While not appearing to even allow the men the satisfaction of a glance their
way, Lianys had already taken their measure: By garb and armament, obviously
off-duty light horse soldiers. What had Merette said about a Norman midnight-
patrol? They must be the border patrol from Normandie, enjoying a wind-down at
their favourite haunt before heading home. Well, they would get no enjoyment
from rousting the only other foreign patron of The Full Flagon.
But, unfortunately for them, they seemed determined to start something.
“Wha’d’you say, sweetsie?” one particularly inebriated and vile-looking
guardsman leered. “Why don’t you come over an’ keep us company?”
“Yeah,” a no doubt yet-unblooded kid agreed. “There ain’t no room on the bench,
but you can find a nice warm place on my lap!”
“Careful she don’t sit on your dagger, Garvin!”
“Yeah, she might hurt herself real bad!”
“Not as bad as Garvin might, hein?”
“Aw, he is got no use fer his dagger anyway.”
“Sure thing – he don’t even use it enough to keep from gettin’ rusty!”
The men congratulated one another on their wittiness. Except for the youth
named Garvin, whom had so swiftly become the butt of their jokes.
The stupid, post-pubescently fuzzed face poking through the young man’s lowered
ringmail coif suggested a pimple-faced turtle emerging from its shell, blinking
at the bright of day. At first Lianys felt relieved that the group’s attention
had apparently been deflected from her. But her respite was short-lived; the
boy’s rebuttal, escalatory. Garvin abruptly stood, almost keeling over in
drunken haste. He glared at each of his friends in turn – all of whom ceased
their chortling to observe with curiosity his next move – hissed fuzzily,
“Yeah? Well, we’ll just be seein’!”
“Look, men!” the ugly sergeant mocked as the youth wove his lanky frame through
the near-empty common room. “Garvin’s gonna try and get his dagger oiled!”
Lianys sighed in resignation; this the primary reason she usually left her hood
up.
Out of sight beneath the table her poignard appeared in her left hand; her
right remained leisurely curled around the silver goblet’s stem.
Garvin halted, somewhat unsteadily, across the narrow table from his objective.
Pale eyes glazed with excess strong drink, mouth trailing a thread of spittle
as he addressed Lianys. “C’mon, my luvlie,” he leered, winking salaciously.
“What say you’n’me get out of here and be having a drink somewheres else.”
“Hey, Garvin!” one of the others shouted. “You gonna take her to the barracks
and let us all have a turn?”
Louder roars met this idea.
Just then Merette appeared. “Barbareeans!” she cried, accent stronger under
duress, repeating in the vernacular, “Barbares!” The proprietress alternated
High Neustrian with the Norman dialect – doubtless to ensure comprehension. Her
strong, calm voice penetrated the noisy atmosphere, stilled the small crowd
abruptly. “No better than the heathen Norsemen from whom you were spawned, you
are! You shall conduct yourselves properly in my house, and you shall treat my
other guests with respect. Or you will leave and not be welcome again! I care
not for any amount of business your type may bring if this is how you treat
your betters. Why, do you even realise who this lady chances to be? Imbeciles!
I would not have known myself, should my daughter—”
“It’s all right, Merette,” Lianys interrupted evenly. “If these… gentlemen
would care to take their filthy words outside along with their equally
disgusting persons, I’d be glad to handle the rest of this. And you’ll have no
more trouble.” She glared at each in turn. “I’ll spill their blood in the
street, and not mess up your place.” Unsure that she would be understood,
Lianys experienced a thrill down her spine as she realised they had.
“All four of us?” the sergeant snarled. “You’d be taking all four of us? You
damnable she-cur, I’d—!”
Merette turned on him. “Sergeant Connaire, I shall ask you to close your vile
mouth if you shall be spewing naught but insults from it! Aside from who the
object of your curses chances to be, I shan’t have that kind of—”
“Shut up, wench!” The youth, Garvin, stunned everyone by taking a sudden step
toward the Flagon’s owner and backhanding her across the mouth. But the blow
lacked power and Merette was a proud and sturdy woman, so it failed to do much
damage save draw a small trickle of blood. Yet it had its effect, all the same.
Lianys sprang to her feet, vaulted over the intervening table. Her slim, deadly
dagger penetrated the back of the youth’s neck, just above the rolled-down
coif, emerged with his right eye; withdrew before anyone could so much as
blink. The unwise young soldier had even less time to react; dead ere he
realised he was under attack, and long before he crumpled with a strangled sigh
to the reed-carpeted floor, eyeball popping off the end of the weapon and
landing with a wet thud to the wooden floor, whence it stared at the smoky
ceiling.
The tavern fell as silent as a crypt at vigils.
Standing over her victim, Lianys’ exhilaration intensified. Glaring a challenge
about the deathly still common room, she all at once recognised what she had
been missing all these years!
No movement.
She abruptly came to a decision: Spinning on her heel, turned toward the door.
Ere she could take a step, it burst wide. The ex-adventuress braced herself for
an assault of irate locals… constabulary… Instead, a single peasant stumbled
in, yelling almost unintelligible news concerning dead kings and missing queens
and armed mobilisation.
Lianys blinked uncomprehendingly for several grains as the tavern erupted in
confused shouts. Then at last it registered. Everything became clear as the
pool at Glimmervael: Henryc, the King of Franconia, Lianys’ own husband, was
reportedly dead, and she herself was the queen whom they sought. As excited
talk swirled around her, she learned that, moreover, the Domard of Normandie
had purportedly doubled his patrols against possible aggression from the
Frankish nobility as they scrambled in a mad quest for the suddenly vacant
throne. The Domard of Suiamh had already mobilised in anticipation, and,
supposedly, the King of Neustria readied his realm to intervene into Frankish
affairs.
Only one thing was not clear to Lianys: What, in the names of all the gods,
wasshesupposed to do now? The ex-adventuress stood, numbly putting her weight
first on her right foot and then her left, as if actually being pushed one way
and then the other. Though her path ought to be clear, she felt confused. Her
duty lay… Where was her duty? To whom did she owe her allegiance? To her
deceased husband? Her unborn child? To this foreign land of Franconia?
To no one but Lianys Tursa, that’s who!
But what did her sense of responsibility tell her about the new circumstances?
Just what had happened, anyway?
Where in the Nine Hells was she?
A tavern, yes, that was it; she had to pay for her meal and be off. It was time
to fetch the others from the inn and set out for… for… Scowling, Lianys tried
to think. Perspiration suddenly oozed beneath her woollens. Wiping her brow,
used dagger hilt to scratch uncovered head. Where was the Band headed this
time? Was it Dumnonia? No, they’d finished that quest… some time ago. Hibernia,
was it, now? So hard to remember, exactly.
Lianys gritted her teeth, squeezed shut her eyes, bent fogged head chin-to-
breastbone. Clenching fists, raised them against her ears, as though to block
the continued drone from the rabble about her; weapons, forgotten in either
hand, threatened to add another notch to an earlobe.
A soft, High Neustrian-speaking voice at her elbow jarred Lianys partway back:
“Does Milady desire aught else?”
Opening her eyes, she looked into the sad, breathtakingly blue eyes of a tall
young girl that was just like… They were just like… This girl was familiar…
Léanore. Yes, the child’s name was Léanore. Lianys replied slowly, “No…” She
felt fuzzy, as though waking up from a long, magic-enhanced healing sleep,
following days of combatting the creatures of Anvers’ ancient, ruined keep. But
she was not hurt, or sleepy. Moreover, the catacombs of the Keep of Old Anvers
had long ago yielded up all their treasures and secrets to the Nonagon; it had
been their very first adventure together. “I mean… yes.”
Animated conversation buzzed all about the hot building, which filled as people
gathered to discuss the news.
“What shall it be then, Milady?”
“I… My horse… Yes. My horse.”
“Very well, Milady.” Léanore’s tone was sympathetic.
Why?
“You will be going home, Milady?”
“Wha…? Home?”
“Yes, Milady. To—”
“What’s your name, girl?”
The pretty child blinked in surprise. “Léanore, Milady. Do you not remember?
Will you be all right, Milady? I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, of course: Léanore.” Lianys noticed the blades, one bloodied, she yet
held. Dumbly stared at it, certain she had just used it for… something…
The one-time night-thief physically jerked from her state of semi-stupor.
Stowing her weapons, she commanded, “Fetch my horse, Léanore. I’m going… home.”
Lianys uttered the word as if considering it s meaning for the first time.
“Yes, Milady.” The girl smiled rather sadly, curtsied, wended through the crowd
and out the door.
So, Lianys mused whilst donning her cloak, putting up its hood, the girl
recognised the queen and not the ex-adventuress, after all…
Merette had apparently quite recovered from the blow dealt her by the now-
deceased Norman soldier, and she, or someone, had disposed of the latter’s body
during Lianys’ preoccupation. The Full Flagon’s proprietress accepted over-
generous payment of a gold noble with not a word. For a moment, studied the
Frankish queen closely; lowered her eyes and curtsied as Lianys took her leave.
Again, the obeisance comported strange…
Outside, mounted, and little knowing what it would look like when viewed again,
Lianys turned back to survey the scene. During the time she had spent in the
Full Flagon it had clouded over and rained briefly, and the now-muddied street
had suddenly acquired a murmuring, awed populace; it appeared the thief-cum-
queen regent had been universally recognised.
She saw Sergeant Connaire in the crowd; glared a challenge, but he looked away,
fear discernible along with venom.
Azure eyes wide, Léanore smiled up at her, declaring, with a rather familiar
hand on Lianys’ knee, “If it please you, Milady, he was a good king.” Looked
away shyly.
Lianys acknowledged the woman-child’s bold tribute by briefly covering the
youngster’s hand with her own; reached to tilt the girl’s chin once more. An
uncertain yearning, plus sadness, hope, and indignance all tugged at her. And
what about those eyes?
Léanore withdrew, as the woman turned her steed and, slowly at first, as if
uncertain of her direction, urged Onyx into a trot and then an urgent canter.
Toward Courroi.
Home.
***** Ome-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A young orphaned child, present at a ritual sacrifice to a rain god,
     cannot avoid getting caught up in the ceremonies.
   “I was very small when my mother died,
  when my father died. 
  Ay ay, my lord! 
  Raised by the hands of friends,
  I have no family here on Nican.
  Ay ay, my lord! 
  Two days ago my friends died,
  and left me insecure;
  vulnerable, alone.  Ay ay!
 
  That day I was alone,
  and put myself
  in a stranger’s hand. 
  Ay ay, my lord! 
  Evil, much evil passes here
  on Nican.  Perhaps
  I will never stop crying.
  Without family,
  alone, very lonely I walk,
  crying day and night;
  only cries consume my eyes and soul,
  under evil so hard.
  Ay ay, my lord!
  Take pity on me; put an end
  to this suffering.
  Give me death, my beautiful lord,
  or give my soul transcendence!
 
  Poor, poor;
  alone on Nican;
  pleading insecure lonely,
  imploring door to door,
  asking every person I see to give me love.
  I, who have no home, no clothes,
  no fire.
  Ay, my lord!  Have pity on me!
  Give my soul transcendence
  to endure."
[Songs of Dzitbalché. ‘The Mourning Song of the Poor Motherless Orphan Dance to
Drumbeats’. Mayan poetry translated by John Curl.]

Achto Tetotopixqui raised the little human heart, still pulsing blood, high
above his head; squeezed it, dripping, into mouth aperture of the turquoise
mask he wore, spattering its grotesquely contorted jaguar features, bright
headdress plumage, golden ear spools.  Shouted praise to the Menkali deity of
rain:
“Give us quiahuitl, Great God, the life-giving rain!  We offer this gift of
blood so that you return again, to this place of abundant blood-sacrifice. 
Praise Tlaloc!”  In the man’s other hand, blood still dripped from the tecpatl,
flint dagger used to open the small victim’s abdomen, through which his hand
had thrust, ripping out beating heart.
Naked but for a maxtlatl breechclout, cape of black and gold ōcēlōtl fur,
sandals, and the headgear – iridescent quetzal feathers of indigo and
aquamarine, scarlet and orange – the high priest continued the prayer, shouting
from the opening at the temple pyramid’s apex to the eager throng below: “Now,
as this day grows old – there, when the day grows old – I am beheld as a god! 
Truly, you have made yourself from our flesh; you have made yourself, and who
dares affront you, Great God?”
 Using a macuahuitl club, a similarly half-clad, sweating tetotopixqui – all
Menkali priests were referred to as unisex, although this one had modest
breasts – hacked off the corpse’s head, tossed it onto the small pile in the
temple entrance; skull to be later boiled clean of flesh and added to the
tzompantli, display racks adorning the pyramid, a place of honour recognising
their donor’s beneficence.  Two other clerics of lower rank lifted the
sacrifice from the stone altar – a post resembling a stout tree trunk – tossed
the small body down the steps, whence the mob literally tore it apart, hungry
to claim the best portions for themselves and their family.
Almost a year removed, the varied tribes of Menkalinan – most especially the
Mixtec, here in Tenochtitlan – yet starved after heavy rains washed away their
last maize harvest; thus, more recruits availed for an especially important
ceremony this season.  The crowd, avid for more blood, howled its approval.
Inevitably, the lone child got nothing.  Also naked but for filthy scrap of
cloth around its groin, weakened and much too small to elbow through the mob,
it nonetheless writhed over the stone flags betwixt coppery-hued legs and
mostly bare feet.  Actually making it to the front of the throng, Conetl could
only wipe at blood spattering the steps, frantically suck it from grubby
fingers, palms, going so far as to lick the blackened stone.  Someone grabbed
the child; though weak, Conetl still managed to twist free – aided by sweat
from high humidity – and dodge through the human forest; must keep moving.  As
an orphan, no family for protection, Conetl could end up a victim as well,
though not of the ritual sacrifices – volunteers – but as another family’s
meal, should blood frenzy and hunger overcome the mob.  Which ofttimes
happened.
High priest continued chanting to drumbeats, whistles, flutes, played by
musicians striding amongst the multitude as helpers brought the next wailing
victim to the altar; one collected the little one’s tears, as required by
Tlaloc, in a small earthenware jar, whilst two held her down, one holding arms,
the other her short legs.
Truly, he who affronts me does not find himself well with me; my fathers took
by the head jaguars and serpents!  In Tlalocan, in the verdant house, they play
at ball, they cast the reeds.  Go forth, go forth, to where clouds are spread
abundantly, where thick mist makes the cloudy house of Tlaloc.  There, with
strong voice, I rise up and cry aloud!”
Solemn ritual repeated.
Crowd roared once more as another victim flopped down the stairs, blood
spattering to hollow sounds of cracking bone, slapping flesh.  Conetl got
nothing again, although both hands briefly grasped one of the victim’s small
feet, ere someone snatched the body away, knocked Conetl down; again had to be
quick to avoid being trampled or captured.
“Go forth to seek me; seek for the words which I have said, as I rise, a
terrible one, and cry aloud!  After four years they shall go forth – not to be
known, not to be numbered.  They shall descend to the Beautiful House, to unite
together and know the teaching.  Go forth, go forth, to where clouds are spread
abundantly, where thick mist makes the cloudy house of Tlaloc!”*
Hunger and frustration overtook the tot’s senses.  Conetl could not wait four
xihuitli, the time a soul had to spend in Mictlan, the underworld, ere it could
join the gods in one of their many houses – thirteen above and nine below. 
Hence, hardly able to recall what food looked like let alone last meal, child
braved the gods’ wrath – and that of the tetotopixqui – by mounting the sacred
stairs, scampering on all fours up bloody steps, heading for the top, thinking
only of being first ‘in line’ for the next victim.  Conetl no longer thought of
blasphemy; chance of injury from a tumbling corpse; negligible likelihood of
acquiring any portion of the sacrifice regardless; never mind the inevitability
of seizure by the tetotopixqui, a final victim added to the five already
‘volunteered’ that day.
They did, of course; no one mounted the grand staircase of the Huey
Canahuacantli unless they were offering themselves to one of the gods who
shared it – Huitzilopochtli, god of war, the other beside Tlaloc.  A
tetotopixqui holding each skinny limb – extraordinarily, it took all four
under-priests, despite the child’s diminutiveness and poor condition – they
carried Conetl, shrieking and thrashing, this time tied the little body spread-
eagled and supine to blood-soaked post.  One held a wooden cup of octli – an
intoxicating drink made from fermented sap of the metl plant – to sore-infested
mouth, poured its contents down Conetl’s throat as another held the tot’s jaw
open.  Conetl would normally be too young for such a drink, usually reserved
for the priestly and noble classes, of which only those of a certain age could
imbibe any time with impunity.  Exceptions were made for special occasions,
such as the Pillahuana, the ‘Festival of Drunken Children’, and sacrifices
ofttimes received the milky, viscous substance – force-fed if they resisted –
in effect drugging them to ensure complaisance for the ritual; it dulled pain,
as well.
At first spluttering and choking, Conetl succumbed to hunger and thirst; gulped
all they would administer.  Anon, near-oblivion took over, thus what followed
occurred unseen other than through a haze, as if the Lady of the Mists,
Ayauhteotl herself, descended from cloudless sky.  Exhortations and crowd noise
receded to background murmur as the world spun bright colours about the young
child.
Wondrously, a horde of small rainforest birds and colourful butterflies
appeared over the pyramid, swarmed about the altar and Conetl, danced and
flitted amidst the crowd.  A few even landed briefly atop a spectator’s head or
shoulder, yet no one dared disturb them; as retinue of Xochiquetzal, goddess of
beauty, sexuality, she obviously sent her benediction.  Following the
unexpected appearance of this sixth offering, it could only mean that all the
gods blessed Menkalinan!
Fervour escalated immediately at the propitious omen, even whilst most
creatures darted away as suddenly as they had appeared.
Achto, having removed maxtlatl, still brandishing sacrificial weapon and
previous victim’s heart, prepared to conclude the ceremony, invoking
Xochiquetzal in the final ritual.  Dancing around Conetl, assistants aided him
into sexual frenzy, each in turn dropping to knees in the gore to fellate their
First.  Through their own ritual turquoise mask, deliberately made with gaping
mouths for such a purpose, all four lesser priests sucked Achto’s half-hard
tepolli until it bounced as if made from the ōlli tree’s cured sap.  The last
greased his large member with copious blood and spittle.  Forming a human
canopy over senseless Conetl, each then bent forward over a corner of the
altar, holding aside the strip of maguey fibre cloth betwixt cleft tzintli
cheeks to ensure accessibility.  Achto, dagger and heart yet displayed, fucked
one helper after the other – next in line reapplying lubrication – until
suddenly he stopped, shouted, “Ay ay, ne quimina!”  Whereupon two closest
assistants spun, helped aim his cock, spurting ixinach, same colour as octli,
over the warm, bloody heart.
Crowd chanted, “Ay ay, Tlaloc Chicactic, Tlaloc the Powerful!”  And, “Ay ay,
Xochiquetzal Cualtzin, Xochiquetzal the Beautiful!”  Achto tossed the offering
into a smoking stone cuauxicalli vessel.  Humid air filled with the stench of
burnt meat overlaying metallic sting of blood, sweet-acrid odours of human
sweat, excretions, passion.
Turning to Conetl, Achto steadied himself, began final benediction to Tlaloc
for the coming season: “Ay ay, Great God!”  Paused for breath often.  “Hear us,
your tlatlacah… who return to you this flesh.  Grateful for all your blessings…
we beseech you to send us quiahuitl.  But not tlaelquiyahuitl.  Send the soft
rain, Great God, that makes us bounteous.  Spare us the hard rain, that drowns
and washes all away!”
Under-priests kept up a steady chant under sustained musical accompaniment,
rhythm intoned by the masses.  All eyes swept up to the great temple’s apex,
whence high priest faced them from behind the altar and before flat entrance
peak.  Bowed slightly backward, masked face to cloudless sky, arms spread, he
voiced praise.  Fists came together on knife hilt as he straightened, dagger
plunging at helpless Conetl.
“Ay—!”
Just as sunlight caught grey flint on fatal downward stroke, a massive ebon
cōatl, twice longer than a man’s height, fell from the narrow rooftop as if
leaping onto the high priest.  Even though the angle partially blocked their
view, the crowd collectively gasped in horror – then excitement.  Huge
serpentine body fell atop Achto, knocking him and weapon to the stone, coiling
around him even as enormous jaws clamped over masked head, feather headdress
and all.  The priest thrashed feebly, tried to pry the giant snake off; would
have done equally well endeavouring to topple the pyramid.  At the same time,
astonishingly, a large red-and-blue quetzal bird landed atop Conetl – who
moaned, glazed eyes droopy, head turning slowly side-to-side.  Hopping about,
the tōtōtl voiced its peculiar warble, flapped shiny blue-green wings. 
Assistants, too stunned to move, nonetheless shrieked, invoking their other
chief god:
“Quetzalcōatl!” they cried almost as one.
Populace, all at once animated, echoed the shout, repeated it as the cōatl
swallowed First Priest.  Remaining tetotopixqui fell prone, pushing masks into
the bloody stonework; some trembled, all resigned to certain fate as
sacrificial victims to the Feathered Serpent himself.  As giant snake
inexorably consumed feebly jerking Achto, the mob’s chant became frenzied;
surely, never had there been a more auspicious Atlcaualo!  However, once
Achto’s feet, snakeskin sandals and all, disappeared down the serpent’s
tremendous maw, nothing happened.  Other than the quetzal continued to dance,
flitting from one cowering priest to another, pecking at naked backs, arms,
tzintli; pulling feathers of its kin from headdresses, tossing them aside, as
though spitting them into the foetid breeze.  Yet, the great serpent did not
move from whence it had curled around the altar, large hump in its gut perhaps
making it sluggish.
Anon, the crowd’s enthusiasm waned, quieted.  No sound save bird’s indignant
cries, buzzing flies devouring spilled blood.  The quetzal flew away.  Still,
no one dared move, expectantly waiting ere it returned, something in its beak;
dropped part of a plant with white flowers on one of the priests.  None of the
four yet stirred.  Crowd, uncommonly silent, strained to see.  Quetzal left and
returned again, dropping a blue flower onto the bare, sweating back of the same
priest – the one wielding the macuahuitl, now lying forgotten next to snake and
altar stone.  The priest twitched, otherwise lay immobile.  This time, the
bird’s treble kyow became insistent.  Doubtless, it wanted something – or, more
specifically, one or more gods demanded something.  Another sacrifice?  Hopping
to the altar, it perched on trussed child, slightly curved yellow beak worrying
at agave binding ropes.
Although Second Priest had apparently just been promoted, Omeca Tetotopixqui’s
plumed head tentatively lifted to look at the proffered flora.  Recognising
each immediately – white sacred to Xochiquetzal, blue to Omeca’s personal
patron – rose to knees, glanced momentarily at quetzal.  Half-slid on knees
through congealing gore toward the altar whence Conetl continued to moan; child
had vomited up the octli – fortunately to one side, avoiding asphyxiation. 
Omeca paused when the snake lifted its gigantic head, observing with
proportionally tiny red eyes as masked cleric sanguinely reached for flint
knife, picked it up, approached the tot; leaning over the massive serpentine
body, cut binding ropes with sure strokes.  Quetzal immediately stopped its
cries, yet remained atop the intended sacrifice.  Cocked its head, observed the
intersex priest.
Omeca felt confident of het’s interpretation of the signs: Xochiquetzal,
protector of children and childbirth – moreover, a former wife of Tlaloc –
intervened to claim this child, with the support of her alleged son,
Quetzalcōatl.  The goddess’ name literally meant ‘flower precious quetzal
feather’; communication could not be clearer.  Further, even if the goddess’
messenger (the bird could easily be the deity herself) had not dropped the
second, blue flower – the sacred tlitliltzin – on Omeca, het would have felt
chosen for this task withal, since Xochiquetzal, like many Menkali deities, had
several aspects, including malleable gender.  It depended on what guise they
chose, for what purpose – many of which could not be guessed by tlatlacah. 
Further, Omeca happened to be the only ometeotl, or ‘two divine-spirited’,
priest in Menkalinan.  Perhaps most pertinently, Omeca knew nearly forgotten
Menkali lore of an original creator deity by that very name: Ometeotl, the so-
called Lord of Duality.  Simultaneously male (Ometecuhtli) and female
(Omecihuatl), het also embodied light and darkness, order and chaos, nearness
and closeness.  Residing in the Menkali thirteenth heaven, Omeyocan, which
meant ‘Two Place’, the same legend whispered that Quetzalcōatl was not
Xochiquetzal’s offspring at all, but had actually been one of four sons born to
Ometeotl, his brothers being sky god Tezcatlipoca, Xipe Totec, and
Huitzilopochtli, all of whom had opposing yet complimentary aspects, such as
north-south-east-west, dawn-noon-sunset-midnight.
Thus, now trusting het’s understanding completely, Omeca rose to bloody bare
feet, picked up the macuahuitl.  Blade in each hand, padded in the blackening,
fly-swarmed puddles to one of the prone tetotopixqui; thrust the deadly tecpatl
through his spine, withdrew it.  Third under-priest merely stiffened, relaxed
suddenly, voided bowels and bladder adding to the miasma, spasming as Second’s
macuahuitl descended once, twice, severing neck.  Blood fountained, actually
seeming to annoy the flies.  Crowd muttered first in puzzlement, then approval
as the next priest emitted a strangled gurgle when identically stabbed and
hacked; sounds doubtless causing the last to glance up, dark eyes wide,
expression otherwise invisible behind blue-green mask.
“O-O-m-meca.  Wh-What do you… d-do?”
Second answered, “What the gods demand, Macuila,” ere likewise stabbing Fifth,
bringing club-sword down across her neck until head rolled free.  Now amidst
raucous cheering, Omeca, collecting their sacred masks, added four heads to the
grisly pile; dragged the bodies to the stairs’ edge, pushed them down the steep
decline.  Clamouring, the congregation welcomed the unexpected bounty – not to
mention the unprecedented show.  A few even braved lower steps when one of the
corpses floundered a step or two from the bottom.
Omeca, laying weapons reverently on the altar between Conetl’s legs, bent to
pick up the now apparently unconscious child, paused as quetzal and cōatl
continued to observe, unmoving.  Glancing at carried child, whose ragged
breechcloth had slipped away, het felt unsurprised to see that, like Omeca, the
tot had both male and female genitalia.  Tepolli tiny, almost vestigial, but
certainly not a Xochiquetzal Flower, which females had at the top of their
ihuayo; the little one having the female cleft as well.  Second Tetotopixqui –
now Achto, in addition to Yeye, Nahuica, and Macuila – looked up once again at
the massive black snake essentially blocking the portal to temple interior. 
Head rose higher, swayed slowly, as if to hypnotise with those scarlet eyes. 
Omeca’s flash of apprehensiveness vanished as the monster – surely,
Quetzalcōatl himself, notion reinforced by the bird flitting to land on
pronounced hump – began to slide ponderously down the broad steps.  Quetzal
rode it all the way down as people abruptly fled, shrieking in terror, crushing
one another in panic, some falling into adjacent canals, several to drown. 
Evidently, no one wanted the honour of being Feathered Serpent’s next meal.
Anon, the Great Plaza emptied but for detritus, a few trampled, moaning bodies,
pervasive flies.  Quetzalcōatl ignored them all, wound toward a canal, whence
he splashed in somewhat clumsily, swam away north, around the temple toward the
encircling rainforest; disappeared.
Omeca, cradling unconscious child, watched him; descended within the pyramid. 
                     *                 *                 *
 Ages could pass ere an ometeotl appeared, let alone rose to the pinnacle of
Menkali prelacy.  Yet, in just eight xihuitl since Omeca – now recognised as
Ometeotl Ixiptla, the deity’s mortal avatar – plucked the little one from the
altar of Tlaloc, Menkalinan now had, arguably, two.  Although Ome, as she was
generally known, could manifest virtually any aspect of the deity, she
comported mostly as a woman, infrequently as a man.  Thus, with certain
exceptions, the majority of the populace treated her – or at least addressed
her – as female.  (This convention held even though the Menkali language did
not use masculine and feminine pronouns, except as modified by the object,
should it be specifically one or the other.)  Conversely, having like as not
reached Menkali male adulthood of an age-and-four, Conetl – ‘Child’ – happened
to prefer largely masculine pursuits, hence people generally referred to ‘him’
as a man, despite the fact that he had developed small breasts.
In Ome’s capacity as tetotopixqui, it made no difference.  For that matter,
neither did the fact that Conetl, on the morrow, would become an elite Cuāutli,
‘Eagle Warrior’.  Other than by birth into a particular social strata, Menkali
citizens were barred from no profession, except that no man or woman could be
Ometeotl Ixiptla.
Child had outgrown a succession of names, from Conetl to Pialilotōtōtl, ‘Saved-
by-a-Bird’, to Motlacualzoma, ‘He-Who-Gets-Angry-About-Food’ – or simply
Mozoma.  Anon, Ome would give him a new, adult name: Yaōtl Cuāutl, ‘War
Eagle’.  He had earned it.
When young Conetl displayed singular ferocity – not to mention prodigious
strength – in his early days in the calpulli school as Ome’s ward and
ostensible acolyte, the new First at last gave him over to the cuāuhocēlōtl
warrior corps, whence he excelled in his few years of training.  He did not
qualify for the Ōcēlōtli, as only nobility could become Jaguar Warriors;
Conetl’s parentage being unknown.  Regardless, he would be elevated to nobility
in any case, once he became Yaōtl Cuāutl.
Thus, on the tonalpohualli (day count) of 1 Cipactli (Crocodile), on the
auspicious turn of the xiuhpohualli (year count) of the Menkali cycle calendar,
Mozoma became a man, Ome his woman – as it were.  The youth had captured his
fourth prisoner, all sacrificed along with many more when the Mixtec finally
conquered the Nezca, bringing their rival tribe’s great city Teotihuacan –
almost as estimable as Tenochtitlan – under Mixtec rule.  Eight hundred and
forty-two prisoners, shared amongst the cities of Texcoco, Tlacopan,
Tlatelolco, and Teotihuacan, in addition to Tenochtitlan, died on the altars of
Huitzilopochtli.  Unlike the Atlcaualo to Tlaloc, however, especially since the
famine had long since been alleviated – the gods having accepted Ome’s
extemporaneous concluding rites at that pivotal observance – prisoners were
distributed only to leading citizens.  Which is to say, their parts were
distributed, according to rank; the general population would not partake, for
only nobility, priests, and warriors were allowed to consume human flesh in
public – a prohibition relaxed during hard times, albeit still only following
prescribed rites.
At the conclusion of these sacraments, Ome and Mozoma travelled to the town of
Malīnalxōchitl, whence abided both warrior societies’ headquarters; there,
Mozoma would graduate and Ome would dedicate a new temple to Ometeotl the
deity.
The town had been named after its founding goddess, who generally went by the
short form of her name: Malīnal, or simply Malī.  A supposed sister of
Huitzilopochtli, the war god had abandoned her in the forest after he caught
her practising ‘forbidden’ magic.  Thus, the city already had a temple to the
deity of sorcery; Malīnal’s snakes, spiders, and scorpions would now share it
with Ometeotl.
In her capacity as Tenochtitlan’s Achto Tetotopixqui over the last eight years,
Ome had subtly shifted Menkalinan’s favoured pantheon from the Tlaloc-
Huitzilopochtli-Quetzalcoatl triumvirate to the Lord/Lady of Duality.  Whilst
not totally supplanting the former triad, Ometeotl’s recognition had not been
hard to promote after the memorable Atlcaualo.  Withal, some resented the
shift, especially Firsts representing the other major altepetli, who saw it –
doubtless with reason – as a dilution of their power and prestige in those
city-states.  A growing number began to incite against this ‘new’ religion,
including Ome’s own under-priests, who felt she should remove herself to the
abode of her favoured deity, abdicating her position in the capital.  Ome could
not, they argued, be Achto of Tenochtitlan in addition to Ometeotl Ixiptla. 
She countered that, like her namesake and most Menkali deities, she could have
dual – or even several – roles; saw no confutation in the offices.  Regardless,
Ome would re-dedicate the temple on the morrow.
 
In order to consecrate the canahuacantli to Ometeotl, Ome decided that she
needs must spend a full day in its sanctum with someone – or more than one – of
her choosing, starting at the rising of Tonatiu, until tonatehua next morning. 
Participants would fast, pray, and perform various rites, which included
drinking only atextli, an intoxicating beverage similar to octli but made with
the bean of the cacao plant as well.  Also a sacred drink, it enhanced senses
in preparation for the spiritual climax of the ceremonies, whence all
participants – whether that be but two or dozens – would engage in Moqua, the
orgiastic concluding ritual.
Whilst the ceremony ought to proceed as myriad had gone before – albeit usually
in the shared abode of the moons triad, whence dwelt Xochiquetzal, whom some
said manifested as yet another aspect of Ometeotl – heretofore none had had the
complication of sharing precincts with assorted venomous fauna.  Ome therefore
took care whom she invited; only the ‘worthiest’ would be requested to attend,
carefully chosen not only from the local elite but from all major Menkali
altepetli as well.  She also selected a date both auspicious and not in
conflict with any other major celebration, so as to reduce the likelihood of
abnegations.  Although one did not lightly decline attendance at such a
ceremony, how many guests might actually accept could be anyone’s guess, if
they considered the venue and its denizens.
Hence, teocalli slaves prepared the sanctuary, setting up many petlatl beds:
big, colourful reed mats padded with rabbit fur and feather-stuffed pillows. 
Along with acomitl, pottery vessels containing sacred atextli, they placed
cobetah and other receptacles for guest’s relief and for those who over-
indulged in atextli or became ill when bitten or stung by venomous occupants. 
With any luck at all, several teocalli would die during preparation; the more
who did, the more portentous.
Sure enow, that night, one of the slaves approached the high priestess in her
cramped quarters, recently appropriated from the former First of Malīnal, whom
had succumbed to a… disagreement with one of her patron’s creatures (as it
happened, more than one, as Ome well knew).  “Om-me-te-teotl… Ix-Ixipt-tla…”
she began.
“Slave will speak.”
Two other youths assisted their mistress with coiffure, ablutions.  All three
dressed as usual for age: Attendant boy wore aught but short cape called
tilmatli; girls clad only in long cueitl skirt.  Ome herself lacked both skirt
and an adult’s huepilli shirt, as she sat at toilette.
“Om-mete-te—”
Abruptly exasperated, Ome interrupted, “Slave will approach!”  Turned as the
other girl completed her hairdo; high on her forehead the slave had formed two
protruding tufts, resembling short horns – the popular neaxtlāhualli style. 
Gathering the rest in back, she fastened Ome’s waist-length, dark tresses at
nape of mistress’ neck with an ornament of turquoise and gold.  Although only
nobility, pīpiltin, were allowed such extravagant accessories, including the
reed sandals her male slave fitted to her rather large feet, Ome disliked
boundaries; stone floors, cold withal.
“Q-Quem-mah, Ome-me—”
“And it will stop stuttering, or its tongue we shall have out.  Now it will
speak!”
The girl, medium-length dark hair shaved in the middle of her skull slave-style
but otherwise worn loose and straight over bare shoulders, bowed, remained on
one knee, eyes cast to floor, trembling slightly.  “Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto
Tetotopixqui Malīnalxōchitl, re… report from the preparations.”  Almost
magically, the girl’s speech impediment – engendered by fear, not genetics –
all but vanished; Ome did not often idly threaten.  “Two dead from… from
blessings by Malīnal’s sacred creatures, Omete—”
“Two only.”  Ome clucked her tongue, narrowed brown eyes under which rouge of
powered yellow ochre daubed cheeks, as well; black bitumen streaked chin,
bridge of nose.  “Ahmo, not at all auspicious.  Ay ay, once Moqua commences,
more there will be.”
“Another lies dying, Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Tetotopixqui Malīnalxōchitl,” the
girl offered neutrally.  “The tepatiqui say he will not last the night.”
"Hmmph… Still most inadequate.”  Suddenly demanded, “Slave will tell us its
name.”
“Om-Ometeotl…?”  Menkali upper classes almost never bothered with slaves’
names; rarely even addressed them directly, except to make a demand, which
ought to be anticipated.  “That is, Mahuizticcihuatl, this slave is n-named
Necāhual.”  The girl exhibited not a twitch as a large black and yellow spider
scuttled over bare foot to opposite wall of the small room, whence lay Ome’s
bed, dimly seen in the fitful light of a few reed tapers.
“Hmmm,” intoned Ome.  Leaning on a backless stool, propped herself against the
slave who still applied wooden comb to her hair; stretched as young male slave
finished tying sandals and remained, motionless, head also down.  “Slave’s name
be ‘The One Remaining’,” she observed.  “Survivor… of what, we wonder.”
“Mahuizticcihuatl, this one knows not.  This slave was… brought here from far
away… when this one was too young to remember.”
“Why names it us ‘Marvellous Woman’, we wonder.  Knows it not who we are,
perhaps.”  Tone acquired an edge, even though the slave had just addressed the
high priestess properly several times, including using her title first.
“Ahm-mo – that is…  Quemah… yes – you are Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Tetotopixqui
Malīnalxōchitl ihuan Tenochtitlan ihuan Teotihuacan.”  To be safe, the
girl even added to her lady’s designations all cities in which she claimed the
title of First.  “In my homeland, ‘Mahuizticcihuatl’ – a word like it – m-means
‘Great Lady.’”
“Slave just told us it remembered not its former home.”
“Q-Quemah, Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Tetotopixqui Malīnalxōchitl ihuan
Tenochtitlan ihuan Teotihuacan.  Another… older teocalli… tells me this.”
Ome made a derisive sound.  “Too idle are these slaves, have they time to
discuss such nonsense.  Teocalli will call us by our full title, else have its
tongue we will.  And then perhaps sacrifice it and a few others to My Lord
Ometecutli – have they so much time, My Lord of Time will take it from them.”
“Q-Quemah, Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Tetotopixqui Malīnalxōchitl ihuan—”
“Slave will look at us!”
The girl, curiously, appeared to all at once find her courage; quavered no
longer, frankly appraised fearsome mistress from guileless, deep-set black
eyes.
Ordinarily infuriated by such insolence, Ome found herself rather intrigued;
returned the girl’s assessment.  Aside from eye colour and shape – darker and
narrower than most Menkalis’ – the slave’s skin appeared conversely lighter,
almost golden instead of moderately varying shades of cacao, further attesting
to her foreignness.  Face round, expressing very high, pronounced cheekbones;
nose broad and somewhat flat, instead of prominently hooked; full, thin-lipped
mouth.  Tall for a Menkali, solid and wide-hipped; up top, very generous
chichiualli, especially on such a young girl.
“Neca – call it this we will – approaches its Marvellous Lady.”
“As it pleases Mah—Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Te—.”
“Slave!  Now!”
Neca stood erect, barely a hitch in her stride as she stepped over a small
green snake.
Languorously wending its way from the entrance behind Neca toward Ome’s stool,
golden eyes unfocused as head bobbed slowly to and fro, the serpent’s bifurcate
tongue dabbled the air, tasted Ome’s ankle; coiled up brown leg into warm lap,
whence it promptly curled to sleep – though not ere it sampled naked thighs,
wispy-fuzzed ihuayo, half-erect tepolli.  Delight  shivered through Ome.
Teocalli stood before her mistress, who idly petted the reptile lying wrapped
about perpetually eager cock.  “Slave” —Ome kicked the boy at her feet— “will
stand here next to Neca.”  Leaning forward, similarly bade second female
teocalli move opposite male, until all three stood in a semi-circle before
her.  Ome further examined them.
Neca, in the middle, a full head taller than the others – indubitably would
still be tallest in the room even if Ome stood as well – did not appear much
older, save breasts: high and full, pronounced cleavage; huge, dark areolae,
prominent chichetli longer than any one digit of Ome’s fingers.  Since girls
did not adopt the huepilli before attaining an-age-and-four, when boys started
wearing the maxtlatl, Ome found it odd that Neca had not yet done so; even
slaves had to dress properly.  In comparison, the other girl’s breasts had only
recently begun to develop: mostly puffy nipple, sized much like the top half of
an ahuacatl – referring to the thick-skinned, soft green fruit, not a man’s
balls, which it supposedly resembled and thus its name.  Ome thought the
fruit’s huge black pit approximated a testicle closer than its scaly exterior,
but…
High priestess reached out, yanked the girl’s hair; finger-combed it; stroked;
rubbed it betwixt fingers; tugged some more.  Other hand remained in lap,
fondling the serpent coiled about perceptibly swelling tepolli.
The slave made no sound, did not move, other than slight jerks of her head as
mistress pulled.
“Hmmm…  Soft and shiny.  Also mahuizticci, like its tits.”  Using both hands,
Ome squeezed and prodded the girl’s breasts, hefted them, one spilling from
each small palm.  Abruptly bent toward them, tongue and teeth pulling at one
stiffening chiche as fingers aggressively pinched the other nipple.
Neca emitted a half-grunt, half-moan as her mistress interchanged tongue and
lips, fingers.
Ome murmured around a hard nipple, “Hmmm…  Sensitive, too.  Like that we do. 
Neca will tell us that our own chichi are pleasing.”  Thrusting her modest
chest out, Ome gazed appreciatively at the spiral-square patterns in coloured
powders – reds, browns, black, yellow – her slaves had applied, exaggerating
her own areolae and hard little chichetli.  She yearned to fondle them, but did
not wish to smear the paint – yet – so instead reached for her tepolli and the
cōatl once more, recalling how she had been forced to banish only two teocalli
to the pyre ere one finally got the designs right.  Neca, here, as it happened;
the irony of asking the slave to evaluate her own artwork escaped Ome.
“C-Cualtzin, Ometeotl Ixiptla Ach—”
“Neca will tell us its age.”
“I know not, Ometeotl Ix—”
“Neca, enough of our full title for now – most tiresome it becomes.  Call us
Mahui it will, for we are a marvel.”  Went on, “Of course – if it remembers
nothing of whence it came, then it cannot know its age.  Clearly though, old
enough it is for the huepilli.  Slave” —kicked the other girl in the shin, who
winced— “will get this Neca a suitable shirt.”
As younger teocalli female gracefully turned and left – slaves learnt not to
make sudden moves in the abode of innumerable aggressive creatures bearing
poisonous fangs and stingers – Ome addressed the boy in the same manner, with a
kick.  “Slave will pull up Neca’s cueitl.  See her age we will.”
Male teocalli did so, carefully, albeit only to refrain from disturbing any
creatures lurking about, such as the one in Ome’s lap (the green one), not due
to any reluctance or prudishness.
Surprisingly, a thicket of black hair screened the girl’s ihuayo, quite unlike
the sparse covering, at most, typical of a Menkali – pubescent or older. 
Slight tremor in stocky frame as Ome reached, fondled the girl’s crotch.
“Ay ay, Neca!  Truly, much tzontli it has down there, too!  Done is this with
some kind of sorcery or substance, we wonder.  Ahmo?  Hmmm…  So nice…  Coarse
and curly… thick.  Not like a child’s…  Ahmo, Neca is no conetl.”  Ome rudely
probed the girl’s cleft, felt no resistance past constricted entrance.  Then
again, Ome’s fingers were not that long; effective withal.
Neca once more made a sound, this time mostly grunt; face contorted, though Ome
did not see.
“Hmmm… no ichpocatl, either, but plenty of cihuayo.”  Ome withdrew fingers,
shiny-slick with girl secretions even in the poor light; sniffed, licked and
sucked.  Thrusting them at the boy, kicked him, instructing, “Slave will clean
us.”  As he did so, licking mistress’ fingers obediently, Ome continued gazing
at Neca’s crotch whilst she resumed petting the snake, including now-prodigious
member poking from reptilian embrace.  “Did Neca acquire the blessing of
Xochiquetzal, or give it to Huitzilopochtli, we wonder.”
“I… know not, Om—Mahui.”
“Unhand me, slave!”  Ome backhanded the boy, whom had taken hold of her wrist
with free hand; the better to attend to his task, perhaps.  “Get out!”  Cuffed
him again.  “It will get us something to eat and drink.  It will bring us what
we want, or to the pyre with it!”  Turned once more to Neca.  “I mean, attended
you the Pillahuana and lost your maidenhead, or taken you were as spoils first
by a soldier – that is how you became slave, quemah.  Neca will pull up her
cueitl – we tire not of looking at her furry ihuayo.”
Neca obeyed.  “Mahui, I have attended the Pillahuana, but as to the other I
know not.”
Ome stamped a foot – strangely, it still did not disturb the snake in her lap,
despite her now lashing out several times to get the attention of a slave, as
well.  “Neca, it cannot ‘not remember’ where it first got fucked!  Her father
it was?  Brother?  A stranger at its first Pillahuana?  Or fucked it herself,
perhaps, with a cob of maize?  Neca, we tire of asking so many questions!”
“I… I am s-sorry, Mahui.  I… remember nothing of my childhood ere I came to be
here.  Naught of family, naught of… anything.”
Contrary to Ome’s normal temperament, she calmed, despite the slave meeting her
glare without flinching.  “Hmmph.  No matter.  Neca is cualtzin.  Also from
this moment, heuhhuey.”  In addition to beauteous, mistress deemed the slave
adult, when mandatory schooling for Menkali children, including the indentured,
ceased.  “Attend Moqua on the morrow it will – as our guest, not teocalli. 
Nevertheless, please Malīnal and My Lord of Duality it will, or cast it on the
pyre we will, survive it or not.
“Now, Neca, this slave has returned with her huepilli, but find her something
nicer we can.  Do her hair as well – though it needs not much.  And face,
quemah.  Ay ay, though what to do about all this hair on its cunt…”  Stretched
once again to pet the girl’s groin.  “Grotesque, in a delectable way.  Obsidian
itztli it is, then, for attend to her top hair we must as well…”
 
All four spent most of the remaining night arranging mistress’ and guest’s
accoutrements, including earlobe- and nose-plugs, bracelets, chokers, bangles;
all of turquoise, obsidian, gold.  Of course, Ome had to first pierce and singe
Neca, even though she did not have such authority – a significant blood rite
recognising adulthood, the purview of Huitzilopochtli.  Yet, Ome despised
‘convention’, had in any case already usurped many prerogatives of other
deities’ priests.
She gorged on delicacies, even allowing Neca to partake.  The boy did not get
them right at first, yet Ome’s vibrant mood such that she did not beat him too
badly; may not even remember her vow to sacrifice him, for she started herself
and Neca on requisite doses of atextli, as well.  When the girl looked at her
mistress as if to question, Ome did not take umbrage; instead reassured her
that, since she, Ometeotl Ixiptla Achto Tetotopixqui Malīnalxōchitl ihuan
Tenochtitlan ihuan Teotihuacan, prescribed it, so would the gods approve,
despite it being too soon.
Inevitably, she needed release for pent up ardour; anticipating to savour Neca
later, bade male teocalli fellate her until she came, spraying thick warm
ixinach down young throat whilst holding his head hard against her crotch, so
that he nearly choked – one way she ritually smothered other slaves.  Releasing
him this time, kicked him away.
In the small hours ahead of sunrise, in order to preserve their coiffures and
makeup, both women slept nude, side-by-side on Ome’s bed, half-sitting against
pillows, backs to stone wall.  A teocalli stood at either side of the petlatl,
tasked with applying soothing unguent on Neca’s raw, freshly shaven groin, as
well as massaging conditioning ointments into mistress’ brown skin.  Otherwise,
normal duty to ensure that no resident creature invited itself into First
Priest’s bed during the night.  How they did so mattered not, nor did Ome
concern herself overmuch about their success or lack thereof; she had… taken
precautions.  Withal, should anything besides invited partners and teocalli be
found near her bed when she rose, there would simply be two more sacrifices to
Malīnalxōchitl or Ometeotl come next auspicious date; it would not be the first
time.  Also not uncommon should, at tonatehua, one or both ‘guards’ be found
dead or nearly so, having given their lives for their mistress. 
As was Ome’s due.
 
*[High Priest’s prayer adapted from ‘Hymn of Tlaloc’. http://www.sacred-
texts.com/nam/aztec/rva/rva03.htm]
 
***** Ukok-1 *****
Chapter Summary
     A young man and woman from the Amarygi tribe are about to be
     initiated as shamans of the Scolotoi steppe peoples.
         "In the beginning there was blue sky above, dark land below,
               and humankind inbetween.” (The Kultigin Monument)
                                        
Pungent smoke gushed from the entrance flap of a cluster of roped-together
yurts, along with the naked form of a very tall, bald young woman. Staggering
and choking, she collapsed to hands and knees in the flattened long grass,
spewed a stream of kumiss into the clearing whence her tribe had located their
seasonal camp near the source of the river they called Ak Ana, after the river
goddess. Despite near-dusk, one could make out tattoos of stylised animals on
Ukok’s tanned light skin, mostly on left shoulder and arm.
“Şaman,” an amused male voice queried from the tent opening behind her. “Do you
live?”
Ukok cleared her throat, spat. “Fear not.” Got somewhat unsteadily to her feet,
wiping her mouth with the back of a large hand. “It takes more than a little
nasha and kumiss to unhorse me.” Blinking, wristing her eyes against the acrid
sting, part sweat and part smoke, turned, squinted at her questioner. Wisps of
blue-grey swirled about him where he leaned easily on a mamont-bone tent stake
supporting the entrance to the communal medicine yurts, an amused, almost
mocking glint in dark, vaguely ovoid eyes. Matching his quizzical tone, she
demanded, “Seek you to tempt me, Crig?”
The man, older though shorter and less robust, also stood naked; tattoos
similar to hers covered both arms and shoulders, lower right leg, a couple of
smaller ones on chest. In contrast to the woman’s baldness, however, long
ochre-dyed braids and matching scraggly beard lay over broad shoulders, throat.
A heavy gold chain around his neck denoted rank in addition to wealth; whilst
generally not permitted for sacred rituals, such trappings were increasingly
more common amongst the Scolotoi, despite the breach of tradition. Even so, his
large erection, straining as if to reach gloaming Sky Father from its own
thicket of darker hair, had provoked the young woman’s query.
Handsome face split into a grin; pelvis thrust forward almost imperceptibly as
he returned laconically, “Do I tempt you, Kohini?”
The muscular woman hoped her momentary study of the well-formed şahzoda – a
prince of the Saka, their sister tribe, territory located a few days ride
downriver – would not be interpreted as deliberation. After all, an about-to-be
initiated virgin tribal shaman could couple only with the ruhoniy, her opposite
and equal male priest partner, and then only on this occasion.
Indeed, Ere Gün Ana, the sun goddess, left Sky Father’s yurt to sleep in Earth
Mother’s, this day would end with an extra special ritual: the şamans had
foretold that an erdişi would join them! Yes, for the first time in living
memory of the Scolotoi, a member of the third gender had been prophesied as
şaman.
Excited, Ukok mentally thanked Bai Ulgan, god of blessings, that the Amarygi
had the right to host the sacred rasmu rusum every age. Then again, she
reflected, it was their right, since their territory included the sacred spring
of Ak Ana beneath the turaingye Tree of Life, near the summit of Dağ Etugen,
the highest mountain in all Scolotoi territory (though rumours persisted of
supposedly much higher ones, far across the vast waters of the Buyuk Dengiz to
the south and west). Following, however, she must be celibate for an entire
yil, or turn of the seasons, until the Amarygi returned here next summer. That
thought did give her pause…
“Yo'q,” Ukok lied easily enow. “I am not kohini yet. And I can wait for the
rasmu rusum with the—my ruhoniy and enarei. Now, get that out of my way – I
need more kumiss. And I must tend the sweat lodge.” Made to push past, but he
blocked her; actually thrust hot sik against bare thigh (she stood that much
taller).
“You sure, Ukok? Not all acts forbidden, you know.”
“For me they are.” Despite herself, began to feel heat on cheeks, neck,
hairless loins; ascribed it to lingering effects of the sweat lodge. “Until the
rite.” Took his arm with one hand, easily removed his from whence it grasped
the opposite bone tent post, blocking her. Other hand grabbed his cock, gave it
a stroke or two ere she thrust it downward and let it snap up, a gesture she
knew would be painful as well as pleasurable. Indeed, Crig grunted, sagged
almost to one knee as she ducked past.
Well, perhaps notallacts…
Dedicated to Umay, goddess of both virginity and fertility, Ukok’s new role
held no contradiction for the Scolotoi. Indeed, next to being xon, high king
over all the tribes, the position – along with that of her male and intersex
counterparts – was considered the tribes’ most highly regarded occupation.
Every nine summers, when all three of Yer’s oya rose at once – as they would
this night – the Scolotoi celebrated the cycle of life and death, renewal and
rebirth, with a special ceremony of propitiation and supplication.
Reentering the yurts, she began sweating again, eyes watering anew from the
acrid atmosphere; her opposite, Ardz, the ruhoniy, occasionally cast nasha
seeds on several fire pits. Responsibility lay with Ukok to keep ladling water
– a little at a time – onto braziers scattered about the several yurts,
ensuring the place remained steamy. Across the ground – covered with skins,
felt rugs, mouflon blankets – naked bodies writhed and moaned in preliminary
acts of sex play; yet, no actual coupling was permitted until she, Ardz, and
the enarei ritually commenced the proceedings later on. After all, the gods had
to be aroused ere people could please and placate them by copulating in their
presence – that to take place outdoors. Thus would the bounty of their herds
and crops as well as the animals they hunted be ensured, as the tribes
simultaneously called upon deities of prosperity, confidence, and the rest, to
grant them all good fortune during the coming age.
Ukok started as a hand slapped her ample, round dumba; rubbing her smarting
rump, she saw Crig, grin intact, saunter by, erection preceding him. Another
woman, dark braids swaying along with heavy breasts, quickly kneed over to him,
grasped his sik, gave it a cursory slurp or two ere impaling broad, flat face
on it. The lanky virgin priestess struggled to concentrate on her duties.
It gets out of control, she thought; no one was supposed to climax until after
the ceremony, and she could not see how…
Though mamont leg bone posts supported the felt roofs of the yurts higher than
most Amarygi required to stand erect, the big shaman had to stoop slightly as
she sought her partner in the hazy gloom. Ardz found her instead; sidling up, a
bare shoulder contacted her upper arm. In spite of the humid atmosphere, she
shivered in anticipation as he encircled her waist, quickly kissed her damp
neck – for which he might normally have had to stand on tiptoes, if not for her
stooping.
“We should move everyone outside,” the ruhoniy breathed.
“Ҳa. M-My thoughts too – it grows dark.”
The two – ruhoniy and kohini, the former a yil younger but also bald and
equally tattooed, though on opposite extremities, as well as darker-skinned and
much shorter than the priestess – circulated through the conjoined yurts,
instructing everyone to head outside for the ritual. Although some appeared
quite engrossed in pre-ceremonial activity it did not take much urging, as all
eagerly anticipated the formalities, when their pent-up ardour would be given
free rein. Thus, the entire clan of the Amarygi, save the very young, very old,
the ill – including those few women whom were cursed by Erlik, the god of
disease and illness, during their moon-cycles – plus important guests from all
other Scolotoi tribes, moved out of doors whilst Ardz and Ukok prepared.
The pair had been raised from childhood for this moment. A complicated series
of visions and prophecies handed down from a succession of tribal elders and
şamans had identified Ardz and Ukok as the next incarnations of Karşit and
Umay, respectively, triggering their initiation a little more than nine yil
previous. They would be joined anon by the enarei from the Agrippea – a tribe
at almost the opposite end of the Scolotoi steppes, a ride of many days –
escorted by the outgoing ruhoniy and kohini. Tabu forbid the latter two from
participating or even witnessing any of the proceedings until they formally
handed over their roles. Following that, however, they would become as any
other member of the clans, able to marry, hunt, go to war, and whatever else to
which a Scolotoi could aspire, including becoming xon, if they so chose –
albeit that would take another ceremony, comprising proof of favour by the war
god, Kyzaghan.
For the nonce, the new avatars ritually bathed and dressed one another. Bathing
consisted only of sponging each other with soft chamois cloths made of mouflon
hide, erasing the sweat from the lodge; a ritual bath would take place at the
spring. Ukok looked forward to the anointing there with perfumed oils and
balms, as the smell of smoke irritated her – indeed, she felt as though it had
crawled down her throat. Accustomed to very small fires of dried dung on the
steppes, it seemed the odour of woodsmoke permeated the entire camp. Yet, part
of the reason the ceremony took place this high in the hills was to take
advantage of sparse trees for firewood, as they were nigh non-existent on the
steppes, and dried dung simply did not suffice to honour the gods – aside from
the latter taking great labour to gather enough for the ceremonial ocaq in any
case.
Ardz aided Ukok to don a full-length woollen skirt called a yubka, dyed in
three colours: red, then pink, scarlet at the bottom third. A braided belt of
mouflon wool kept it at her hips, although it could have been unrolled and
secured below her generous breasts. Over this went a baggy-sleeved yellow
ko'ylak; a narrow stripe of red embroidered ipak – a shiny material from the
land of Xitoy, faraway to the north and west, from which the entire shirt was
made – trimmed the tight collar, as well as each cuff, shoulder, and in the
middle from throat to knees, whence it hung loosely. A braid of red, web-like
jiyak, also made of ipak, trimmed the collar as well. Head remained bare,
though on her feet Ardz helped her into high, soft horsehide boots. The priest
donned similar footwear, though the rest of his attire contrasted: breeches of
mixed mouflon wool and camel-hair, also red; on torso, a light mo'yna of white
sheepskin decorated with, in addition to geometrically patterned edging of
embossed leather, black fur and tufts of red horsehair. It also had a short,
rounded ‘tail’, much like a bird’s.
Ardz’s trousers could not hide his arousal; in spite of Ukok’s playful swats –
which he begged her to desist, lest he climax – his erection at last subsided.
For a time.
Both applied ritual cosmetics: blue-green rouge for cheeks and forehead made
from a sacred mineral called zangori; a darker highlight around eyes, of mixed
charcoal and fat. Strings of mamont-ivory beads, gold earrings with dangling
wrought flower-shapes, and bracelets inset with jade and garnet, completed both
their outfits, save headgear – which would come later – and a ceremonial bronze
knife in an embossed leather sheath.
They emerged, excited, giggling, mounted splendidly caparisoned otlar, one
totally black, the other white; shaggy manes and tails decorated with fetishes
similar to their own; patterns likening their tattoos painted muzzle to
hindquarters in dark blue and black. Proceeded to the sacred spring under the
huge, gnarled Hayot Daraxti – much like Ukok, the revered turaingye tree
dwarfed all nearby kin – whence the rest of the tribe waited, some having
donned at least a little clothing or wrapped themselves in light blankets.
Though normally cool even during summer in the hills of Altay, tonight the air
felt warm, heavy; pregnant with rain or… something. The unseasonable warmth did
naught to dispel the mood; perhaps even enhanced it, obviating as it did the
need for much clothing.
Dismounted and carried by specially selected tribe members to the centre of the
clearing, the pair sat cross-legged upon a low platform made of flat stones
spread with colourful blankets and rugs decorated akin to their bodies and
horses. Ukok thought she already sensed the presence of spirits and ancestors,
but this ceremony would ensure it. Entering a semi-trance, she added a prayer
to Ak Ana for rain; the steppes had wonted for moisture all summer, the grasses
– fodder for their precious herds – dry and becoming sparse. Not to mention how
the crops of the Scolotoi farmers, farther east, suffered; even the goddess’
river ran low, the sacred pool here small and shallow.
A drum began to beat slowly not far off; a low chant. The encircling crowd’s
anticipation heightened. Outgoing kohini and ruhoniy would appear shortly with
the enarei, to complete observances prior to the ritual coupling. Ukok had seen
it before, of course; all Scolotoi were welcomed – indeed, obligated – to
attend as soon as they reached adulthood, generally at about eleven to thirteen
summers, after their first bleeding, for girls, and perhaps another one or two
turns of the seasons for boys, following their first solitary all-night vigil
and successful hunt. Still, to be the centre of attention this time… She
shivered again in anticipation; tried to remain immobile, head down, eyes
closed.
Though the wind picked up, dusk air remained warm. Ukok, perspiration beginning
to soak her full outfit, almost wished she could pull away from Ardz; where
their legs touched, the sensation slowly magnified to almost unbearable, a
mixture of desire and trepidation, tingly warmth and clammy fear. Heat radiated
by the banked flames of the large ritual ocaq several paces away did not help.
Lit earlier in the day, various foodstuffs arrayed on spits and coals finished
cooking in the fire pits for the feast that would ensue as soon as the rasmu
rusum ended. Tantalising odours drifted along with the smoke.
Thinking about it as she sat and waited, the smoke, aside from how it clung,
somehow smelt odd to Ukok; unlike a dung fire, but not like wood, either – and
hardly any smoke rose from the fire now, so why did it still smell so strong?
Then again, the initiate was unaccustomed to the smell of woodsmoke – trusted
not her memory of nine yil ago, despite her abilities – so dismissed these
musings as her mind naturally wandered once again to anticipation. Sat in
meditation for uncounted moments until…
Behind them a mouflon horn instrument suddenly blared a low note, escalating
slowly to a drawn-out hooooOOOMMMMMmmm. The skin drum, joined by a second,
simultaneously increased rhythm; one more, and then another, each with a
different tone, entered the performance; then a fifth took up a counter-
cadence, each tone and beat perfectly complimenting one another. Ukok felt the
bass notes rumble through the ground, undulate against her dumba; a thrill
rippled through her body, tingle remaining between shoulder blades, base of her
spine; she sensed Ardz trembling next to her. Horn sounded again as the chant
increased, taken up by the encircling crowd.
 
Umm hut-hai,
Ehm ho-lai…
Umm hut-hai,
Şai bo-elai…
 
The Scolotoi entreated the spirits of their ancestors to attend; only when that
occurred would the gods also join. Ukok felt certain they were already there –
she had had a sense of something, aside from obvious anticipation, all day.
Could it be only the ritual and her role? As an initiate şaman, she had of
course been trained to be sensitive to such things as portents and omens. Even
so, this and other aspects of her calling, such as ascertaining illnesses and
curing them with herbal medicine, smudging, and ritual to appease angry Erlik –
or supplicate Akbugha to overcome his rival – came instinctively to her, the
reason, in part, that she was chosen after all. Still, she had not cast the
bones for some time now; the last occasion had been most propitious, sending
Rad and Hāko, the outgoing ruhoniy and kohini on their season-long journey to
the lands of the Agrippea to escort the the erdişi back for this night. Withal,
contemplating it again now, there had been something odd about the cast that
Hāko had dismissed as unimportant, although Ukok felt unsure. Thus, she sent a
brief prayer to Argimpasa to show her the truth as she reflected.
 
A hornedzichlaş,easily the size of her thumb, flew amongst the human finger
bones scattered onto charcoal sigils drawn on a piece of hide as Ukok, in a
semi-trance, contemplated them on the floor in her yurt. Surprised first by its
presence – this type of beetle was uncommon, more so the insect’s colour: white
instead of black or brown – she could only watch as it crawled on six legs,
antennae wavering, wings buzzing, actually grasped a knucklebone in its
oversize jaws, marched about amongst the others ere it replaced the charm,
exactly where it had picked it up, without disturbing any others. The creature
then launched itself in its ungainly way, buzzed about her head and yurt,
briefly alighting on various objects, including, lastly, hermagjiqese,a pouch
of magical talismans and fetishes, whence were also kept the scrying bones, on
a thong round her neck. Despite the ticklish-creepy feeling, she did not move
as it crawled down between her largeko'krak, mandibles probing, antennae
questing, seemingly following a rivulet of sweat that trickled toward the pit
of herKindik Kubai(whence at birth the attached cord must be cut and ritually
burnt to Kubai, the goddess of motherhood and children). There it did not
hesitate, went on to investigate freshly shaved pubes, slightly spread due to
her cross-legged position. Ukok could barely remain immobile whilst it actually
probed at her virgin cleft, jaws flexing as if to bite—
 
Ukok started out of her trance, found her eyes affixed to the low flames of the
ocaq as she recalled how the creature had abruptly sprung from her sensitive
moyliq, darted straight into her yurt’s small fire pit, landing on a clod of
orange-glowing dried dung; instantly curling and blackening, it expired with a
loud POP! ere it burnt to an unidentifiable husk. The acrid odour she now
recalled as well – could almost smell it…
The warm wind had stiffened; yet, despite the unusually warm night and Ukok’s
continual sweating, she shivered. Focusing on the bonfire once more, closed her
eyes, resumed her introspection as she waited.
She had not related the entire incident to Hāko, only the part about how the
zichlaş had moved the bone. Her mentor shrugged it off, saying that if none of
the bones had ultimately changed place, then the divination had not varied
either. Again, however, the novice felt unsure – and the more she thought about
it now, the more uncomfortable she became.
I should have told Hāko the whole story…
Suddenly trembling more than shivering, Ukok struggled to regain control;
reached mentally and physically for Ardz, conveying in an instant her mild
distress; with the ruhoniy’s aid, plus that of the drums and chanting, relaxed
her breathing, quieted thumping heart. Aware of thirst, she pushed it away,
concentrated on Ardz’ knee contacting hers; warmth of his hand; music and other
night sounds… which, strangely, she did not hear. Typically, the propitious
call of wolves, plus owls and nocturnal insects, would have joined them by now,
to greet the third oy as it rose. Ukok attributed it to the fire and music
scaring them away.
Behind the pair, over the crest of the hill a short distance away from the
Hayot Daraxti beneath which they sat, the long awaited aspect of Yer Tanri
would soon appear simultaneous with the other şamans, and the rasmu rusum could
begin. Ukok tried to concentrate on the chant, willing the ancestors and gods
to attend. As she did so, the girl could not help thinking back to the last
ceremony of Uch Oy. Though young, it had naturally been a memorable experience…
 
Initiate ruhoniy and kohini sat side-by-side, holding hands, heads bent over
crossed legs, underneath the great tree. The soon-to-be former şamans, arriving
one on a black ot, the other on a pure white, dismounted with assistance,
approached the novices. They needed aid, as each wore a headdress almost half
their height. More than simply hats, Ukok knew the coiffure consisted of an
elaborate wig made of two layers of human hair over a felt skullcap. Stiffened
with a sticky black substance calledqatron, into this had been inserted a
stick, also made of dark felt, wrapped in black woollen cord and covered in
blue felt. Carved figures of birds, each slightly smaller than the next,
descended from the peak of the device, which resembled a tree trunk, though
approaching the thickness of an arm and but a half-manspan in height. In front
ascended a shorter rednakosnik,a conical decoration made from braided red wool;
atop that a bronze pin with an antlered woodenohustanding on a sphere.
Resembling a circlet ortijara, another carving of a deer completed the
apparatus. All figures glittered in gold foil.
 
Ukok had known even then that the ‘tree’, with its majestic golden burgutlar,
represented the Hayot Daraxti under which she now sat. The girl herself, at
barely an age-and-one, had been allowed to attend the last ceremony, since she
had been visited by Umay mere days before and had her first bleeding – which,
at the time, confirmed her designation as the goddess’ next incarnation, even
though she was somewhat younger than usual. Of course, as kohini-ta'lim-da she
would not participate in any of the rituals; would remain bokira, chaste and
pure until the next rasmu rusum. Withal, despite her youth, the elders agreed
that, since she had been acknowledged by the gods as both woman and kohini-in-
training, it behoved her to observe and learn. Thus, she sat by herself (Ardz
still too young) on the edge of the dais, away from parents and other tribe
members, as befit her special status – though Ukok recalled disliking the
feeling of being singled out, left alone…
 
Ceremony continued as elder kohini and ruhoniy removed their headgear and,
synchronised with the drumbeats and chanting, placed them on their acolytes’
heads; a moment of trepidation, crowd holding its collective breath, until they
saw that the wigs fit. (Ukok knew that minor adjustments would be made as
required, along with normal maintenance of all their garb, but at least they
had no trouble donning them; ill omened should they settle too low or, worse,
fall off.) Each now took off their respectiveshol ro'mol,a light brown fur
cloak with long narrow sleeves and dark blue woollen border trimmed in leather
and fur patterns; draping their counterparts’ shoulders, thus almost concluded
the outgoing şamans’ duties. The initiates would now close the rasmu rusum.
 
At the time, Ukok had not understood much of the events that followed the
ritual draping. Yet, with benefit of another age of maturity as well as
training, plus her shamanist abilities – which included a capability to
actually enter a trance and, in essence, go back in time to almost flawlessly
‘re-see’ events – she could now meditate on those proceedings.
 
Scarcely able to breathe, Ukok stared. Even untrained, the young girl felt the
breath of Yel Ana upon the back of her neck as the wind goddess rose along with
Ay Tanri, whilst Gün Ana prepared for sleep in Earth Mother’s yurt. Low flames
of the ritual fire, whence dwelt Od Ana, fluttered; simultaneously, Ak Ana sent
the blessing of a patter of rain, and, wondrously, a golden burgut alit in the
boughs above. Shrieking its piercing cry, it announced the presence of Gök
Tengri himself – as well as, she later learned, attesting to the presence of a
new xon amongst them! She couldfeelthe rest of the gods manifest,sawspirit
ancestors hovering at the edges of her vision, ever quick to move out of sight
if one tried to focus.
Beneath the chanting, a subliminal murmur rippled through the crowd at the
multiple auspicious omens. The eagle took wing, circled the gathering,
raucously proclaiming the gods’ approval ere it soared ever higher, out of
sight and hearing in the gathering dusk of Osmon Ota. Abruptly, chanting and
music ceased. The throng sat, completely silent and immobile, fervency palpable
withal. A single, deep bass drum note reverberated.
“Uuuhhhmmmm,” the crowd chanted in response.
Rad, the new ruhoniy, rose.
BOOMMMM!
“Aaahhhmmmmm.”
Hāko stood.
The pair, relatively equal in build, she a little shorter, faced one another;
expressions indistinguishable, though both trembled. Started as two drums burst
simultaneously, contrasting in pitch: BooOOmmMMmM!
The new şamans began to undress one another; garb, including headdress,
collected by the retiring duo, traded for soft chamois cloth and felt towel.
BOOMM-BOOMMM!
Completely hairless, naked but for their magjiqese, Rad and Hāko took one
another’s hand, strode regally off the stone dais into the broad pool at the
base of the turaingye. Each accepted a small clay bottle of oil, poured it over
their opposite, proceeded to massage into flesh, from bare scalp to toes,
careful to avoid one another’s makeup.
A man of medium, stocky build, typical of the Amarygi, Rad’s sculpted torso,
broad shoulders – more a warrior’s physique than a priest’s – glistened, bold
tattoos rippling in the torchlight. The kohini, similarly proportioned though
moderately endowed, broad hipped, tanned and inked skin also shining, faced her
partner. Kneading oil into one another’s skin, each alternated at signals of
the drums; went to knees in the shallow pond, worked up, lifting each foot
clear of the cold spring, caressing calf, knee, thigh, hip; followed by its
twin…
Hāko washed her partner first, the crowd shouting, “Suyak!”, which meant ‘bone’
– confusing their youngest observer at the time, although Ukok now understood
as she recollected Rad’s erect sik. Although his opposite had not yet touched
it, when Hāko did so, eyes fixated on the modest (Ukok now knew) member a
fingersbreadth from her visage, Rad moaned. The young woman stroked it, two-
handed; only a couple of times, albeit sufficient to weaken his knees as he
grasped her sturdy shoulders for support. When came his time to reciprocate, he
had to steady her in turn, as her own low cries vented; the audience echoed
them both in sing-song. (Once more, at the time Ukok had not been able to make
out what he had done, but perceived it now.)
Stepping out of the pool, the pair returned to the clearing, strutted hand-in-
hand betwixt glowing fire pits, dais, admiring throng. All could now observe
and voice their approval, as well as touch whatever they wished; as well as
skin contact, most women – and not a few men – grabbed Rad’s sik, gave it a
stroke or two as the initiates passed, several going so far as to kiss it or
essay a lick or slurp. Similarly, the crowd tweaked Hāko’s
stiffenedg'uddacharepeatedly; ko'krak mauled, moyliq probed, body caressed.
(Ukok only now appreciated the considerable restraint both exhibited, that
being part of the test.) Meanwhile, outgoing priest and priestess lit several
torches in stands around the platform, retiring to a place in the audience. As
the music and chanting changed tempo again, the new şamans remounted the
platform. Open to the night wind that rippled its felt roof and agitated the
torches, it allowed everyone to see them finish anointing one another in the
fitful light using a small clay jar of unguent.
Young Ukok shivered, felt…something, like the thrill she got riding her new ot,
a sturdy roan she had named Qizil – ‘Red’. Watched as, face-to-face, the pair
stroked, twined about one another, began to kiss, rub noses. Both shifted
position frequently so as to exhibit to the entire audience. Rad’s sik,
seemingly larger and more insistent, thrust as he tongued her nipples, kneaded
breasts. Both groped and caressed one another. Kneeling, mouth open, Hāko bent,
bobbed on his shaft, alternating hands, mouth, tongue; moist pink moyliq winked
at the audience as Rad growled in pleasure. Accompanied by drums and horn, the
crowd kept up a chant, mimicking sounds of copulation in arousing harmony.
The kohini laid on her back, knees up, partner positioning himself between her
widespread legs. Propping her rear on a small pile of furs, he deliberately
parted herpiçkalips, displaying them to the rapt crowd. Inserting a finger or
two and thrusting here and there, also applied mouth (including, she now knew,
tongue, lips, even teeth) until the woman wriggled and moaned, suddenly
thrashed as the multitude shouted, “UmayBaraka!”, which meant ‘Blessing of
Umay’ – something else Ukok only understood much later.
Now positioning himself over her, Rad lowered his hips, sik disappearing into
welcoming sheath; the crowd matched the couple’s rhythm. Anon, the man went
rigid, groaned, Hāko crying out once more in release. No sooner had he
collapsed atop her than the eldest female member of the tribe – calledSobiq
Ona, a epithet of respect meaning ‘Old Mother’ – pushed the man off, thrust a
gnarled hand into each lover’s crotch. Stepping away with both skinny arms
raised, cloak flapping like an odd bird and displaying toothless grin, flat
dugs, gnarled grey crotch, she croaked, “U bo'ladi ishonchli bokiralik!”
 
Despite not comprehending the phrase when the crowd echoed Sobiq Ona’s
approval, Ukok later understood the literal, ‘It is good maidenhead!’ as
confirmation of the kohini’s chastity, the proof – Hāko’s virginal blood – on
the old woman’s hands.
 
Ultimate climax had not yet been reached, however. In order to ensure the gods
blessed them, they must consummate once more, this time ‘proving’ to all in
attendance, including deities and spirits, their fecundity – or at least Rad’s;
should Hāko have a child within the coming yil, the Scolotoi’s prosperity for
the next age would be ensured. Thus, once more the couple performed, this
timejinsiy aloqa qilmoqas stallion and mare. Under the gathering’s
encouragement, it did not last long; as the ruhoniy suddenly withdrew, the girl
whirled, grabbed his cock, pumped whilsturug'spurted across face, neck,
breasts. Eagerly, she rubbed the head into glistening streaks and globs,
spreading and obviously relishing the ‘blessing’ as she licked it from fingers
and hard member. The crowd erupted at the same time, roaring their approval –
and not a little relief that they could now imitate.
 
Ukok all at once emerged from her meditation. Something felt wrong; Yel Ata,
Yel Ana’s violent brother, thrust the wind goddess aside; dead grass, leaves,
debris whipped through the warm air as tent ropes and yurts thrashed and
hummed, threatening to tear away. The smell of smoke, strong now, threatened to
choke Ukok – albeit not from the ocaq, as its sparks and flames bent in the
opposite direction, downhill. Chanting, music ceased; the crowd, agitation
rising, shielded eyes from the growing storm, looked about for guidance.
Boshliq Žed, of the Sava, senior of all tribal chiefs present, rose naked but
for a blanket that whipped away in the wind, entered the clearing near the
platform, gestured, shouting. Ukok fought to hear him; could not, though she
believed he asked for calm. Gripping Ardz’ hand, her shivering now a tremble,
she suddenly noticed the horizon above the crest of Dağ Etugen behind them: it
glowed red, as though Gün Ana rose – but of course the sun goddess had just
gone to bed. Ay Tanri should be taking her place—
Yel Ata lashed at the Hayot Daraxti; snatching a huge bough from the great
tree, slammed it down upon hapless Žed, others. Screaming people began to flee.
Despite the wind, smoke obscured the rising third moon, streaked the orb’s edge
angry orange, dull brown. Ukok detected a crackling roar above Brother Wind’s
fury, as though Od Ata, Od Ana’s elder brother, usurped the fire goddess’
place, emulating the wind siblings. Suddenly, shrieks and shouts of
consternation sprang from the remaining throng as animals and birds – many
predator and prey, such as ohu and mane-less sher – stampeded together through
the sacred clearing, down toward their encampment of Olbia, into and over
people.
Night erupted into a lurid scene from the underworld of Do'zax.
 
***** Ehlia-3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Ehlia meets some new people.
Chapter Notes
     All,
     I am actually posting Ch. XV before XIV, as I am still working on the
     latter. No worries, though; there should be no continuity issues, as
     XIV will introduce a new character in a different setting.
     However, AO3 will not let me renumber the chapter -- at least, it
     won't save as XV vice XIV after I edit it. :/
     Cheers! :)
                      “I am knowledge and obliviousness.
                          I am humiliation and pride.
                                I am shameless;
                                 I am ashamed.
                         I am sanctuary and I am fear.
                             I am war and peace.”
    [The Thunder: Perfect Mind. Translated by George W. MacRae. Nag Hammadi
                                   Library.]
Ehlia spent at least a nineday nursing Whelp, during which the dispossessed
little errain otherwise passed the time tentatively exploring, then building a
shelter – or at least repairing one. Although reluctant to leave hiding and the
boy, she felt unsafe in the ruin by the road, at the same time disliking the
idea of venturing off on her own – even though she had done so as a matter of
course around her former home. Tufter normally accompanied her now when she
went far – this, not often. Whereupon, however, she found an abandoned cottar’s
hut a little ways from the road.
The hound kept them fed, bringing back all kinds of small game, once even a
baby deer; if Ehlia felt a stab of pity for the spotted fawn, she quickly cut
it away as she gutted and dressed the creature (having sharpened the knife
using flat stones; she found she had learned some useful skills, despite her
family’s disinclination to instruct her on subjects she thought she really
wanted to learn). Thus, she dared a fire and was able to cook for herself and
Whelp.
The little boy, though he gained strength enow to chew and drink when she
pressed it upon him, still would not – or could not – pick up his own food or
speak; only stared at her as she fed him or went about endless tasks of cooking
or making clothing out of rabbit skins and the like. Furthermore, much to her
disgust, he would not – again, mayhap could not – control his bowels or
bladder, thus she was obliged to clean him and launder both their clothing.
It did not occur to the young girl to question responsibility to do such
mundane chores herself, despite, as the daughter of a noble, heretofore having
had servants to do such labour. An observant, curious child, who liked to learn
by being shown, once, then doing, she thereby absorbed a great deal (though she
did not believe so). Moreover, now that she was free to learn what she pleased,
she looked at virtually everything she did not know as a challenge, a problem
to be solved. Thus, having settled – albeit unconsciously – routine worries
such as clothing, laundry, and hygiene, she turned to more elemental problems
of shelter, food, water.
In addition to a small stream nearby, she found nearly all the cottar’s tools
and implements, such as an axe, a number of pots, utensils, and the like; one
cauldron large enow for bathing Whelp and even herself, a leg at a time,
anyway. Once she repaired the wicker door of the hovel simply by using a little
of her precious rope to tie an edge back into its frame, the dwelling became
almost comfortable; there seemed to be no explanation for its abandonment,
other than proximity to the keep and recent sacking of the surrounds.
Against her fear of reavers, she practised daily with the broken sword – having
sharpened it, as well – hacking at shrubs, trees, all sorts of imaginary foes.
By the time they would leave, not a twig within reach would remain near the
hut.
Summer arrived meantime; the weather cleared, warmed. Still, the girl could not
go without outer garments, other than when she was working hard, such as
chopping or gathering firewood, or at swordplay. Nonetheless, even in aught but
shift, she perspired, and its ill fit meant it tangled about her arms, such
that she shed it anon when she practised. These intervals of nudity exhilarated
Ehlia, summoning memories of when she was smaller. Like most children of less
than about a half-age, she had happily paraded about unclad – at least, indoors
or during high summer, when not too cold. She even used to disdain her nappy –
a number of which she had fashioned from rabbit skins to swaddle Whelp – more
or less training herself to use the chamberpot when she was very young, so she
did not have to wear one of those, either, just smallclothes (which she still
felt were for babies, withal). As time went on, however, her mother began to
teach her to be a ‘lady’, which meant clothing – damned uncomfortable clothing.
Why could she not wear what boys wore? Girls’ chemises and bliauts were so
restrictive! In any event, when her mother passed, her father and brothers did
not pay much attention to how she dressed, thus she re-adopted her childhood
shift and (seldom) smallclothes, despite nanny Mae’s disapproval.
Now that outdoors remained comfortable most of the day, she even eschewed
indoor bathing, opting instead for the stream. Further, seeing that she had the
freedom to wear (or not) what she liked, as well as do what she pleased, when
the weather allowed, she disported unclad. Sum effect lent a sense of
empowerment, of new-found freedom, almost eclipsing her feelings of loneliness
and dread.
It required only a few days to make their temporary home modestly livable, and
not much time at all each day to cook and eat, and to feed and clean Whelp.
Therefore, the young girl spent most days hacking at the surrounding shrubbery
– quite nude – whilst Tufter hunted. She wished she could accompany the hound –
maybe she could learn to hunt, despite not having a bow or spear – but she did
not want to leave the boy alone.
Thus did bandits find her one day, just as she executed a particularly
devastating cleave to a tree limb that ended with her bent nearly double at the
waist, legs spread, broken sword all but buried in the ground.
“What ’ave we ’ere?”
Whirling, Ehlia stumbled, managed to remain half-crouching, sword held in both
hands in front of her. Trying to look threatening, she had the feeling she
failed pathetically, small and naked as she was, shaking with exertion and
sudden fright, broken weapon quivering like a leaf in a high wind. Three men –
no, two men and a woman – rough-looking in bits of dirty, tattered linen and
leathers, coifs, and boots, save the woman, barefoot – faced her, spread apart.
Left-wise figure held a bow, arrow nocked, pointed at the ground; the second
male, in the middle, loosely gripped the haft of a club in a leather belt,
other hand caressing butt of a long dagger on opposite hip; the woman had a
dagger as well, also in a rope-belt over masculine trousers, though her hands
remained loose, empty. Ehlia realised she would not get away from them, should
she try to run.
“Leave ’er alone, Raus,” the female rebuked the speaker. “Ye kin see she ’as
nuthin’.”
“I kin see ever’thin’ she ’as,” Raus replied salaciously. “Not as much as ye,
eh, Sou, but enow—”
“Raus, she a chil’,” Sou admonished.
“Naw, nay chil’! Look ol’ enow ta bleed ta me.”
Ehlia, swallowing a lump of terror, tried to control her trembling; the end of
her half-sword continued to waver distressingly. Whilst intuiting intent, she
had trouble actually understanding the coarse peasant dialect. Obviously, she
knew about rape; had witnessed its aftermath.
The second man, with the bow, looked from one companion to the other, as if
adjudging likely winner of the confrontation ere taking a side.
The woman had already chosen. “Raus, doan.”
Ehlia thought the woman named Sou told Raus ‘don’t’, yet he took a step
forward. Though her quaking increased, knees about to turn to water, Ehlia did
not back up; thrust the sword out.
“Har-har! Whatcha gonna do wi’ a busticated swor’, ’ey, luvie?” Took another
step, hands on weapon hafts.
Ehlia swung, a downward, two-handed hack she knew would not hit him but hoped
would scare him.
“’Ey, that nay funnin’ there, girlie!” Pocked, ruddy face twisted from leer to
scowl. “Pud id do’n, no’.”
The youngster deduced he wanted her to ‘put it down, now’, which she was not
about to do. Swung again, this time across her body, actually hoping to cut his
belly; missed.
“Raus, leave ’er be! Come on, I’ll suck yer prick – whaddya say?”
“Fuck off, Sou! I wan’ this ’ere little cunny.” Snarling, Ehlia’s assailant
whipped club from belt, clouted her weapon out of her grasp, sending it
spinning at least two manspans.
The girl’s shock overcame her natural urge to wring stung hands; ere she could
think, the man’s back swing clipped the side of her head, dropping her near
senseless. Vaguely, she heard voices in argument; fought off nausea and
dizziness to try to orient and defend herself. As the world swam, the sweating,
black-bearded face of Raus came partially into focus right above her own; she
felt her legs being pried apart, began to kick, feebly, cried, “NO!” The
exertion set countless candlefire igniting simultaneously in her head.
“Grif,” she heard Raus yell, “git over ’ere! ’Elp me! ’Old ’er legs – then ye
gits a turn too.”
Ehlia tried kicking again – Raus had both thin arms pinned above her head using
just one of his own, whilst the other fumbled at breeches. Lifting her head
required extreme effort. Biting his cheek as hard as she could, she fell back
without flesh, tasted blood withal as the man shrieked, hand whipping from
crotch to wounded face.
“Fuckin’ little cocotte!” Punched her in the ear.
Once more, she nearly blacked out, fought to remain conscious.
“Grif, ye doan git over ’ere rat no’ I fuck’e up the arse next. As fer you,
luvie,” he grabbed her by the throat, choking her, “ye doan quit yer buckin’, I
cut yer throat then fuck ye!”
She felt hands grab her ankles; struggled; another punch, this time to nose;
stars and unbidden tears burst. Dim awareness faded of the hands around her
throat squeezing away her remaining life…
 
Ehlia, waking to a tongue washing her face, hazily thought to admonish Mince,
the keep cat (this was a familiar dream…), who used oversize tongue on her
tender face. Cats had to be big, to catch the large rats that were their normal
prey – the reason they were kept – but they were not that big… No…
Tufter smelled of blood and… Of course; he had been hunting, must have caught
something… Tongue encountered nose; pain erupted.
No! No dream!
Moaning, the young girl pushed away the animal, tried otherwise moving; head
felt too heavy; withal, any effort to evade the pain in her face worsened the
hammer blows inside her skull. Moreover, a weight held her down. Head reeling,
she squeezed shut her eyes, opened them again. Blinking away tears of agony,
tried to make sense of what… where she was. Fought nausea, confusion, more pain
than she had ever experienced in her young life. Anon, she made out a man atop
her; he wore a leather cap, a strange necklace hanging backward—
Suddenly, all returned. Thrashing from under the corpse of Raus, Ehlia made to
jump to her feet; staggered, fell to hands and knees, vomited into the long
grass. Again and again her guts heaved; would not quit till she felt she had
nothing left to disgorge but her innards – and surely those would emerge next…
Ehlia had never prayed much, though Mae tried to teach her after mother passed.
Just now, she wished she could remember the name of a god – any god, besides
Ēostre and Taranis, both of whom seemed inappropriate just now.
At last it stopped, yet her head, along with her nose, continued to throb. She
collapsed onto her side. Managing to move an arm without overwhelming agony,
determined that her nose still bled, though not a lot; cunny, as far as she
could tell, unharmed. Naturally, she had no way of knowing exactly how it
should feel had she been raped, but felt safe in assuming it would hurt,
doubtless bleed there, too – albeit different from the sort of bleeding she
knew girls eventually went through each moon once they became women and their
cycle came upon them (something else not eagerly anticipated by the girl).
High-pitched whimpering approached; tongue tentatively bathed neck, cheek,
forehead. Ehlia hoped it would not go near her nose… Yet, almost as if the huge
beast empathised precisely whence his young mistress suffered, the big, rough
tongue delicately traced around eyes, mouth, nose, causing the girl little
further suffering, even some assuagement. Indeed, she felt recovered enow to
open her eyes, survey the environs.
Upon acknowledging her faithful hound’s enquiring gaze with a feeble stroke to
his muzzle, her confusion only intensified; she made out three figures lying in
the meadow whence she had been drilling at swordplay; she did not remember
actually killing anyone… One – Raus, she now recalled, with a stab of loathing
that threatened to burst her head anew – sprawled face down, bare, cacky
buttocks to the wind, hilt of a dagger protruding from the back of his neck.
Grif appeared to have suffered a similar fate; also face-down amidst a blood
spray across the nearby grass, spreading pool around his head. Sou lay supine,
half her throat ripped away – much as Ehlia had seen in the aftermath of a wolf
attack on nearly an entire flock of her father’s sheep (how she had begged to
go along on the hunt for those predators!). Ehlia made out strangled sounds
coming from the woman, who twitched, one hand clawing at nothing, dirty bare
foot moving weakly.
The girl crawled over. Ehlia had no doubt the woman had saved her from the two
men, yet had been repaid by Tufter seeing her as part of the problem; the
hound, defending his mistress as he returned during the assault, launched
himself into her – presumably just after Sou stabbed Raus through the back of
the neck, having slit the throat of her other companion, whereupon the mastiff
tore out most of hers. Blood bubbled from Sou’s mouth, pulsed weakly from
ghastly neck wound; coughing wetly, she appeared to be trying to say something.
“I…” Ehlia’s head throbbed as she tried to speak herself. “I…” She did not know
what to say. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “You… you stopped them.”
“BBBB…” The woman hacked, small geyser of blood erupting. “…gggrr…”
“What? I don’t understand.” Helplessly, the young girl watched her rescuer’s
life literally drain away. Feeling she should do… something, she futilely – as
she knew it would be – put her hands around the grievous wound, as if to slow
the bleeding.
“…fulllbbb-b…”
“What?”
Ehlia knew the woman was dead; light had vacated eyes, though blood continued
to flow from neck – slower – foot continuing to twitch, hand still clutching,
mayhap to life… now gone.
“I… I’m sorry,” the girl repeated, letting her bloody hands fall away, wiping
at her own dripping nose. She wished she knew what Sou tried to tell her; felt
it somehow important.
Probably would never know.
***** Imyryn-3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Imyryn and Sefr have an encounter on the road.
“What I tell you,
             let the singer weave into song.
What I tell you,
            let it flow mouth to ear;
            let it pass from old to young.
My furrow, the horn,
            the Boat of Heaven,
            is full of eagerness, like the young moon.
My untilled land lies fallow.
 
As for me, Inanna,
            who will plough my furrow?
Who will plough my high field?
Who will plough my wet ground?
As for me, the young woman,
            who will plough my furrow?
Who will station the ox there?
Who will plough my furrow?”
[Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth.‘The Courtship of Inanna and Dumuzi’. Diane
Wolkenstein and Samuel Noah Kramer. Harper & Row. 1983.]
 
Frustratingly, Imyryn’s moon-cycle came upon her next morning; it appeared she
would have to postpone Sefr’s instruction as she procured more strips of red
cloth, tied them at her crotch beneath a kaupinam – which he insisted she wear,
as ‘proper ladies’ did.  Although she had little idea what a supposed proper
lady did or did not, she was fahsh; what difference did it make?  Still and
all, if it were part of the outfit he had given her…
The girl wondered how much she would have to instruct Sefr, aside from how to
pleasure her.  What did he know about women?  About their bodies’ functions? 
Did he know that some cultures treated women during their cycle as tabu or even
‘unclean’?  In Medaea, the simple fact that a woman experienced her moon-flow
did not constitute reason to avoid sex.  Some partners nonetheless found it
distasteful – literally and figuratively – especially as some women had quite
heavy flows.
That being so, in the exclusive company of women, they all tended – as in the
serai – to have synchronous moon-cycles.  It followed, then, that in the serai
at least, fahsh could not very well all avoid sex at the same time.  Hence, a
guest would be offered a choice of fahsh, if they expressed a preference when
advised of the moon goddess Ninhursag’s visit; those who might prefer to return
another day could do so, whilst others could unabashedly proclaim a preference
– or not – for those experiencing a lighter or heavier flow.  In Imyryn’s
experience, some customers, though not all – curiously, mostly women – chose to
avoid sex at those times.  It made no difference to her, but she knew it
affected others.
The courtesan decided to delay the eunuch’s education withal, even though her
arousal only intensified during her cycle.
As they broke camp, Sefr taught her how to lead the ox.  Imyryn found that,
indeed, despite its fearsome looks, it acted like a tame salep, thus held no
fear for her after a short while.  Once he had hauled his bulk into the waggon
– following a few more weak protests – she proceeded down the rutted, dusty
road.
Traffic was light southeast to Hulwan; like as not, Sefr theorised, the war
affected normal commerce, as they met hardly anyone travelling north toward
devastated Susa – of those, when informed of that city’s fate, most turned
back.  Others either passed them fleeing south, or joined them, until soon they
had a modest caravan of refugees, merchants, others.
Sefr told her that about 15 leagues stretched between Susa and Hulwan, another
30 to Bishapur on the coast.  He then had to explain to her that a league
equalled approximately a day’s walk, which meant something like 10 more to go
till Hulwan, but at least 45 in total – five ninedays – to Bishapur.  Almost
twice that remained through Pasargadae and on to the Medaean capital of Parsa,
at the mouth of the River Pulawa, whence that course emptied into the Medaean
Sea (itself a small portion of the Tamtu Saplu, or ‘Lower Sea’, in the ancient
Askellan language).  To get there, however, meant crossing a desert, which
would take up to two ninedays.  Thence, they would more or less follow the
coast until their next major destination: the Thubani border city of Broăch, at
the mouth of the River Sindhu.  From Broăch they would proceed south and east
up the Sindhu, across the hilly terrain of Kamarupa, until they got to
Pitalipŭtra, on the River Pŭtra.  At that time, overland along that watercourse
to Pundrahavŏrna, whereupon they could supposedly get a boat again all the way
to Gaŭhati, whence the Pŭtra conjoined the sacred River Ganga.  Their ultimate
destination lay even farther downriver from there: the venerable Thubani
capital of Kolkat.
An alternative, he said, existed to turn southwest approximately half-way to
Hulwan toward the Kenaani city of Panormus, also on the Medaean Sea; there,
they could instead take ship for Broăch.  Likely a much shorter journey,
although travel by sea had its own dangers – and would cost actual money; Sefr
doubted they could simply trade for passage, which had sustained them thus far
on the road.
The eunuch had to explain to the girl many of these concepts, including
counting.  In camp, or during breaks, he drew with a stick in the dirt, to try
to demonstrate numbers and distances.  Yet, she could not really grasp anything
other than the fact that they would likely be more than a winter and then
another summer on the road; if Nidaba smiled on them, they might reach Kolkat
by this time next year.  The almost unfathomable realisation sank her into a
depression, as Imyryn had great difficulty conceptualising such an excursion;
the farthest she had ever travelled being from her bed – a communal lounge of
cushions, feather-stuffed mattresses, blankets, rugs – to the open, heated
pools that were the baths, to the garden, and back again, all within the
confines of the serai courtyard, a restricted, though relatively large, space. 
Despite the garden opening to Anu, never had she seen a horizon, let alone a
virtually limitless one.
Thus, despite the sunsets, the journey quickly became almost colourless to the
girl: grey-green scrub land of low bushes and waving yellowish grass as far as
she could see.  After a while, all she could smell, above her own body odour –
and Sefr’s – was dust and ox-piss and -biṣṭhā; the animal lifted its tail and
defecated or pissed even whilst plodding along, often soiling the waggon
harness and tongue.  Once it even splashed her – much to her disgust, as for a
day she had only straw to clean herself.  She now remained on guard when near
the animal.
Sefr continued to try to distract her through discourse as they took turns
walking beside the plodding varzā.  He told her that the aghat no longer needed
to all be palace guards – at least, not all the time, although they all still
took the traditional training – since there were so many of them now.  The
reason there were so many, he surmised, was because of the ‘new’ operation;
formerly all of a boy baby’s genitalia was removed, many dying as a result. 
However, some time ago the operation to open the aṇḍakōśa and remove only the
aṇḍak began, which resulted in many more surviving.
The reason for creating aghat in the first place, he further speculated, was to
prevent ‘distractions’ between fahsh and aghat; to ensure that fahsh,
especially, performed their state and religious duties without emotional
entanglements, aghat otherwise being the only males with whom they would have
regular contact, other than patrons.
Although it was not unheard of for customers – male or female – to become
romantically involved with fahsh, Imyryn knew severe punishment awaited both
parties: death by public flaying.  Then, each culprit’s skin would be sewn onto
the other’s body, a reminder that everyone had a place in Medaean society; that
to desire be someone they are not, much less wish to exchange places with the
gods, was – or should be – unthinkable.
Withal, Imyryn wondered what, exactly, they could be guilty of.  After all,
fucking was natural, as long as certain rites were observed and payment
submitted to the enkum.  Thus, the prohibition did not make much sense to the
girl, as she could not see how any ‘attachment’ would occur.  She had heard of
romance, of course; yet, fahsh simply did not aspire to such emotion, as it
went against all training and sense of morality instilled since birth.
In any event, aghat received lessons on other tasks, for example keeping
accounts and the procurement of goods.  Nidaba had blessed them once more, Sefr
declared, since he could negotiate with passersby and traders for necessities
such as food and water.  In fact, although Imyryn had not yet noticed, the
eunuch showed great astuteness in his dealings, actually increasing their
modest wealth from the ‘confiscated’ stock of the Askellan dealers, which
included everyday items such as rugs, pots, utensils, plus clothing, as well as
some luxury goods.  Of course, the market for the latter was nigh non-existent,
due to the fact that most people they met fled for their lives.  Many had
brought only bare necessities, namely the clothes they wore and whatever food
they could carry.  Still more, not thinking clearly – or perhaps too clearly –
grabbed their liquid and movable wealth, and aught else.  Along the way, also
fleeing the approaching Dhenebans, farmers and herdsmen joined them.
In all, Sefr did quite well.  Indeed, they quickly ran out of room in the
gharry, and so began to hang goods from its sides and in panniers – he called
them rūṭira cupaṛi, ‘hanging bags’ – on the varzā.  These reminded Imyryn of
aṇḍakōśa (full ones).  Beyond another night or two, however, she tried not to
follow such thoughts.  Lack of comfort aside, she realised that self-
gratification was nigh impossible to practice morally, as there were no lagar
to perform the appropriate rites.  Her only option, therefore, that of acting
as some sort of karkid.  Although street whores were also her ‘sisters’
inasmuch as they were Daughters of Inanna too, the tavern prostitute practised
a less honourable profession than fahsh; withal, Imyryn considered it.  Even
though the courtesan tried to reason with Sefr that she should do business with
travellers, the aghat – rather appalled – dissuaded her, pointing out what she
already knew regarding the dearth of official oversight.  More problematical
for her, though: she knew not what she should charge.
Meanwhile, it became customary for the growing crowd to halt a little before
sunset each day in order to set up an impromptu marketplace.  These delays came
earlier and earlier; although Sefr chafed at them somewhat, the eunuch deemed
them worthwhile nonetheless.  Thus, they found themselves virtually a mobile
hamlet, still a day or two from the crossroad to Panormus, when a disturbance
rippled the throng.  Imyryn, whom had begun to look forward to their daily
shopping – in order to bask in the ravening looks she garnered, as well as to
shop – felt, rather than heard, a distant rumbling over hawkers’ calls and
sounds of massed livestock as she wandered the ‘stalls’.  Beginning to panic,
as was her wont when away from Sefr and confronted with the unfamiliar, she
looked for the eunuch, did not see him in the throng.  People began to run,
dropping everything in terror, away from the road into the drab emptiness
beyond. 
The rumbling became a thunder; Imyryn, still searching frantically for Sefr,
saw from whence it came: south, a billowing cloud of dust.
What could it mean?
“Little sister!”
“Sefr!”  Imyryn almost collapsed with relief as he caught her, lifted her one-
armed over a muscle-knotted shoulder as if she were a small bolt of cloth,
lumbered like a mad varzā through the tumult toward their unhitched waggon,
unceremoniously tossed her within.  The noise built to a crescendo, as if the
thunder god Adad himself descended amongst them from a near-cloudless sky. 
Panicked beasts and people ran thither-whither.
Suddenly it stopped.  Dust enveloped everything, obscuring the girl’s vision,
clogging throat and nostrils.  Gradually, sound returned: Snorting, as of a
great number of animals; unrecognisable creaking and clinking; a few shouts and
screams, doubtless from those of their party still fleeing.  As the dust
cleared, Imyryn made out huge, bestial forms, one or two milling about, the
remainder immobile.  Ordered ranks slowly took shape, expanded about them as
visibility returned.  Shaking with fear, peering over the side of the waggon,
she gasped: Centaurs!  She had heard of these half-man, half-ghōḍā creatures,
supposedly living in far away places such as Achaea and Scythia…
No…  They were but humans on horseback – of course, she had heard of them, as
well.  Warhorses at least the size of a varzā, though taller; rider and steed
encased in what looked to the girl to be full coats made of bronze scales the
size of her hand.  Barding hung below mounts’ knees, whilst armour reached
shoulder to mid-thigh on the riders, bands of similar material wrapping limbs
and extremities.  Tall, conical bronze helmets, beneath which a type of veil
hung, also apparently made of bronze links, left aught but eyes visible.  Each
rider carried a lance more than twice the trembling girl’s height, plus at
least one other weapon – mace, sword, dagger – in a scabbard or leather belt. 
In spite of the dust, armour and helms gleamed in waning sunlight; certain
riders bore colourful pennons, barding, saddlery, helmet crests.
The most awe-inspiring sight young Imyryn had ever seen!
One approached.  The broad back of Sefr interposed, dark, sweat-sheened muscles
tense beneath leather baldrics; a hand on Shamshir’s hilt at his side.
The rider spoke in muffled Medaean: “What is this?  Who are you?  What are you
doing here?”
The girl remembered to breathe as Sefr answered in a steady voice:
“Coryphaeus, we are but wretched refugees, fleeing the sack of the great city
of Susa – may Shulmanu swallow the Dhenebans whole.  I am—”
“What?  What say you of Susa, aghat?”
“Forgive me, prabhu.  The Dhenebans – may Shulmanu swal—”
“Yes, yes, get on with it!  Better yet, come with me, slave – the sepahbod will
need to speak with you.”
“Forgive me, my lo—”
The spear swung about; from whence Imyryn cowered, it had to very nearly prick
the eunuch’s chest.  “Come with me or I skewer you where you stand, aghat!”
“Stop!”  Imyryn could not believe how she found herself suddenly standing tall
as she could beneath the gharry’s canopy, stepping to the ground.  “H-He has
done nothing!  You… you h-have no cause—”
“Liṭala Bōna!”  Sefr hissed.  What are you doing?  Get back!”
The rider’s weapon swung to her.  “And who are you?”
Fighting to control her trembling, Imyryn placed herself beside the eunuch, a
step ahead of him; the spear tracked her, unwavering, between small breasts. 
Adjusting her bernous, quelling hesitation, she affected the most imperious
posture she could.  “I am Mahilā Arsīdúses Imyryn Nysray Ydynah, Banśa Therybel
of Susa.  I… I demand that you let me speak to your… sepahbod.”
For long moments, no one spoke or moved, other than the rider’s mount; snorted
softly, tossed its head a little.  The girl deliberately did not look at Sefr,
tried not to imagine what he was thinking.  Indeed, she was unsure herself. 
Imyryn held the rider’s gaze, tried to discern from aught but slitted dark eyes
the status of her outrageous bluff.  Just as she thought she would either faint
or become shishkebab, the lance lifted vertical, butt fitted into some kind of
cupped holder on the end of a leather strap attached to saddle.
“Come with me, then… Mahilā Imyryn – only you.  Stay here, aghat.”
The eunuch would no doubt point out later – if they lived – how Nidaba blessed
them still, for the goddess to have inspired Imyryn to wear her new clothing as
often as she could, despite the heat (and the water it took to keep them
reasonably laundered).
“I… go nowhere w-without S—my aghat.”  The courtesan wondered exactly who
continued to speak so using her voice, even as she mentally chastised herself
for once more losing composure.
Upon but a moment’s hesitation to observe her narrowly, the rider answered,
“Very well,” tossed another word or two Imyryn did not catch, spun toward the
ranks, doubtless expecting them to follow, fearing naught from either.
“Little sister—” Sefr began again.
“Shhhh!  Do you want to give us away?  From now on I am the Lady Imyryn –
follow my lead, as they seem to know you are aghat, but not what I am.”  The
pair had to hurry to keep up.  “I do not think we are in any particular
danger.  These soldiers came from the south, and speak Medaean, so must be ours
– cataphracts, they are called.  Or so I have heard.  But best to be sure.”
“Yes… mahilā.”  Sefr sounded bemused.
Imyryn had no more time to think as they neared the serried ranks of horse
soldiers; lines curled in about their campsite almost as far east and west on
either side of the largely deserted road as she could see in the setting sun;
unknown rows deep to the south.  Now that it became apparent they were not
under attack, some refugees began to return to their makeshift shops or tents,
round up scattered beasts.  Even so, much of the improvised hamlet remained
surrounded by stoic riders; thus, most simply observed, doubtless awaiting an
outcome to the minor spectacle.
She and Sefr stopped before a rider on a purple-caparisoned steed; a flying
‘horsetail’ crest and similar pennon held by a nearby mounted soldier marked
the figure as someone of rank, indubitably their sepahbod, or general.  This
figure and their guide exchanged brief words ere the commander’s horse took a
few strides forward to tower over the quaking girl, blowing heavily from foam-
flecked jowls and nostrils.
“You are the Lady Imyryn?”
Was her bluff being called?  “Y-Yes, Excellency.”  She would see it through
withal.  “Might I h-have your name?”
“Certainly, mahilā.”  Doffed helmet, musically tinkling veil and all.  “I am
Rājakumārī Surya Ardyvyn, Sepahbod of the Sārbabhauma Cataphracts, only
daughter of Shahanshah Ardyvyn, the Fifth of that name, of the Eternal Empire
of Medaea.  Pleased to meet you, Lady Imyryn.  Did my bījāi get it right – you
said Susa has fallen?”  Though friendly, her tone hardened on the question.
Imyryn thought she may have been struck by Adad’s lance; Princess ‘Flower
Face’?  Else, the girl knew Sūryā as the Thubani sun goddess.  Either suited
surely the tallest woman Imyryn had ever seen, despite how being mounted
doubtless exaggerated the effect; perhaps of two ages or so; black hair held in
tight braids against regal head; relatively light skinned, high, roseate
cheekbones; flashing hazel eyes that grasped Imyryn by the heart.  Leaving her
almost speechless.
“P-Princess,” she got out at last, bowing and falling to both knees; Sefr
followed.
“Get up, mahilā,” the young woman admonished.  “No place for that in the
field. 
At first Imyryn did not realise she meant ‘field’ as in, of battle, rather than
just the field of dirt and grass in which she knelt.  She felt blaśa come upon
her; could not look up. 
“Do look at me, my lady.  Now, my question…?”
“Y-Yes, P…  I am sorry – do I call you P-Princess, or Sepahbod…?”
“Call me ‘Surya’.  After all, we are almost equals, hā?  My question,
mahilā…?”  Her tone became hard-edged once more.
“Y-Yes…”  Imyryn squared herself.  “Susa was taken, Your—Surya.  I… m-myself
and my aghat here, m-managed to flee the palace as it b-burnt – may Shulmanu
swallow the Dhenebans whole.”  That much, at least, was the truth.  Now came
the thornier part.  She had met the actual Lady Imyryn of House Therybel, even
fucked her; unfortunately, they did not look much alike, and the other was much
older.  If that Lady Imyryn and the princess were know to one another…  “I was
visiting the serai wh-when the city fell.”  Not a scandalous thing to confess
at all; many high- and low-born alike paid their respects to the Deity of
Light, Life, and Love.  “We were… f-fortunate to escape – Nidaba’s blessing
upon us all.”
“Indeed.”  The princess-general’s expression remained inscrutable.  “And whence
do you now flee?”
“Why, P—ah, Surya, w-we thought to get to Hulwan first”  —thank all the gods
she had listened to at least some of Sefr’s lectures— “and then, who knows? 
Perhaps Panormus.  Or P-Pasargadae and on to the capital.  Where is safety,
these days?”
“Indeed,” the intimidating young woman repeated.  “Do you have family there? 
In Hulwan?  Or Parsa?”  Warhorse shifted slightly, snorted, dipped its head.
Imyryn tried not to flinch (high-born ladies should be used to ghōṛā, yes?). 
“I… that is, yes, Surya.  In Parsa, I mean.”  She had heard that the family
Therybel actually came from the capital.
“And what will you do?”
What an odd question, Imyryn thought.  Was it not obvious, assuming the general
believed her?  Said, “I expect we will simply carry on, P-Princess—that is,
Surya.”  She happened to know that the Therybels were traders, although in
what, she hoped she would not be asked.  “M-My aghat here is well versed in
accounts, and so I will set up shop again, as it were, wherever might suit
us.” 
“Indeed.  It is getting late… Mahilā Imyryn.  I invite you – and your aghat –
to attend me at sapara this eve once we have set up camp.”  She directed some
orders to that effect toward her Second.  “I do hope you will accept.  I am
certain you will find the amenities of my camp exceed those of your… kāphēlā.”
“I… I can only humbly accept, P—Surya.  Thank you.”  Essayed her best
obeisance; since fahsh often entertained nobility, including the real Lady
Therybel, training again held her in good stead.
“Shall we say, full dark, then?  I will send an escort – to your gharry
yonder?”
“Yes, Surya – just b-behind it is our tent.  I look forward to it. 
The woman smiled, pivoted her mount with an unseen command, began rapping
orders as she repositioned her veiled helm.
Imyryn stood a-tremble a few more grains, feeling heat around neck and face;
she knew her discomfort had little to do with fear of discovery, nor the fact
that she had just met high royalty, or even her recent fright when the cavalry
force came all at once upon them.  She was, in short, in lust.
“My lady,” Sefr muttered as they made their way – she rather wobbly – back
toward camp.  “What are you doing?  You mean to impersonate an archduchess? 
Are you mad?  You could not have reached higher if… if you tried to pass
yourself off as the rājakumārī herself!”
“Oh, I don’t think that would have worked quite as well, do you?”  Batted her
eyes
He made a dismissive sound.
“Get out our best clothes, Sefr.  We are about to sup with royalty!”  She
sounded giddy.  Only when she began to change did she recall her moon-cycle;
cursed with such vehemence that Sefr came running, ducked into the tent; left,
laughing.
 
Imyryn’s pique, compounded by her bedazzlement of the warrior-princess, gave
her great difficulty maintaining her façade that evening.  She wanted so badly
to fuck – that is, to honour Inanna with – Surya, she could not concentrate;
picked at her dinner, although it was the best she had had for quite some time:
Flatbread stuffed with vegetables and shredded roast lēmba, including a sauce
made with a fragrant herb called ‘mint’; cikana balls in a soup with the chana
bean; finished by tart white wine plus an̄jīra and tārikha, the former partly
dried black fruits the size of one’s eye, with tiny, crunchy seeds, the latter
soft, partially dried greenish fruit about twice the size of a thumb,
enveloping huge pits that were to be spat at one another.
A curious tradition amongst the cataphracts, involving a twist which intrigued
Imyryn straightaway.  The objective being, whomever one could strike with a
pit, one could then ask of that person a question, boon, or small gift.  Were
it reasonable, it could not be refused; questions had to be answered
truthfully.
Ere that could occur, however, ‘business’ had to be cleared away along with the
remnants of sapara, as such things could not politely be discussed during the
meal proper.  For Princess Surya, that had to do with her guest’s final
experience of Susa.  Fortunately for Imyryn, no wine had been served until
after supper, or the girl thought that her mind might be even more fuddled; she
did not drink often, as spirits were forbidden to fahsh, other than when they
entertained, then limited to a small chalice of watered wine.  She shifted
position on the low couch; a somewhat new convention, they supped reclining on
pālaṅka, rather than on rugs and cushions.
Sefr stood watch outside the commander’s pavilion, alongside Surya’s personal
guard; thus, the only diners besides Surya and Imyryn were the sepahbod’s
second-in-command, also named ‘Bījai’, and two more lieutenants, Bylid and
Belyd, twins.  All female – unsurprising, as women comprised the entire force. 
Bījai – an older woman of about four ages, short and heavy-set, albeit none
comprising fat – being most senior, lay to her commander’s right.  Imyryn, as
guest of honour, to her left.  Belyd and Bylid – brown-haired, approximately
two-and-a-half ages, of average build – occupied a couch each across the low
supper table from the princess.  Bījai had a rather sour lined face – although
Imyryn thought if she smiled more she might be considered reasonably good
looking – as well as close-cropped, slightly greying dark hair.  The twins,
dark-eyed and quite pretty, had elaborate hairdos Imyryn envied: tresses piled
atop their heads in varied rows and coils, secured with so many pins and jewels
Imyryn wondered they were not top-heavy.  In contrast, Surya’s shiny black mane
gathered behind her in a single braid, a red ribbon securing it around the back
of her head, a small, plain gold tiara atop it.  She otherwise wore gold
armbands, as well as golden earrings reminiscent of Inanna’s dawnstar-shape,
inset with turquoise.  Imyryn could not keep her infatuated gaze off the
general.
The courtesan herself felt embarrassed, having come in her finest outfit –
quite similar to the first received from Sefr, only yellow and blue – whilst
her hosts wore aught but almost sheer robes akin to what she, as fahsh,
normally wore.  (They did, however, appear to wear some kind of undergarments,
much to their guest’s chagrin.)  Even her shoes she had had to leave at the
entrance and accept the offer of plain slippers – after some trouble finding a
fit for her tiny feet – which the warriors also wore, at least until taking
their dining positions.  Another source of deep self-consciousness for the girl
was her hair; despite Sefr’s best efforts – including a hasty wash and nigh-
futile brushing, plus the addition of a few jewelled baubles the eunuch had
acquired – it remained a tangled mess.  Thus, Imyryn had a good idea what she
would ask for, once the pit game got under way.  That is, unless it became as
naughty as she hoped…
First, Imyryn had to answer questions regarding the fate of Susa.  Since she
truly did not know anything aside from its presumed destruction – as had been
essentially confirmed by other refugees – and was uncertain what the real
Mahilā Imyryn ought to know, it would be the riskiest point of the evening. 
Still, although naturally outraged at the news, her hosts seemed more or less
satisfied with her lack of detail; after all, she was a ‘high-born lady’, not
privy to military dispositions and the like.  Even so, Surya questioned Sefr
personally – since Imyryn attested truthfully that she had been knocked
unconscious during the sack of the palace, and he had gotten her out.
The eunuch gave a simple account of how he had fought the invaders all the way
into the serai, whence he and a couple of fellows – their primary assignment
being the sanctum, although they were working elsewhere at that most
unpropitious time – finally cut their way through, whence they found Imyryn the
only one left alive.  Determined to protect their ‘adopted’ charge, they
decided the best way was to flee the burning palace-temple, though to do so
they knew they still would not be allowed out even by their own people if they
were recognised, so they disguised themselves as invaders, wrapping Imyryn as
if she were a bundle of loot.  Unfortunately, they were confronted by more
Dhenebans, who wanted their ‘plunder’, thus had to defend themselves; Sefr, the
only survivor, managing to get out as the city burnt.  Finally, they did not go
north to the Medaean city of Haŋgmatāna because, logically enow, it also lay
under siege, as everyone knew.
The account appearing to satisfy the cataphract commander, she dismissed Sefr
with ample praise for his bravery and sense of duty, as well as the promise of
a suitable reward anon.
“Mahilā Imyryn.”  The princess’s tone became less serious as female servants,
dressed similarly, entered in answer to some undetected signal carrying wine
jugs, poured a silver goblet for each of them, left, after bringing each a
small platter as well.  “You will notice that we each have but four tārikha. 
You may have more later, but with these four you must choose whom you will
bōlē.  The rules are simple: First, you may bōlē each one of us, or only one
with all four, and so on.  You have four pits to aim as you please.”
Imyryn, although she did not fully comprehend ‘one’ or ‘four’, understood well
enow.
“Next,” Surya went on, “the target of bōlē may not move, nor may she curl up or
turn away.  She may close her eyes, as a sharp pit in the eye is not pleasant. 
Lastly, the value of the prize won depends on where the target is struck: head,
face, or neck being most valuable, next to dumu and gink, then hip.”
Imyryn’s own parts tingled; she was certain to like this game!
“Torso,” concluded Surya, “other than paps, being least valuable, after limbs. 
If you miss, you must drink a full goblet – but that does not mean you cannot
drink otherwise.  Any questions, Mahilā Imyryn?”  The princess’ hazel eyes
twinkled.
Imyryn reminded herself to breathe – and answer.  “N-No, Surya – and please,
you must call me simply ‘Imyryn’.”
“Very well, Imyryn.  As guest of honour, you may choose to go first or last. 
Oh, a final rule I almost forgot: Prizes may be claimed either immediately or
at any time later on.”
The guest looked over the other participants, all of whom, even Bījai, wore
eager expressions: the twins identical smirks, Bījai a salacious grin, Surya a
naughty smile.  Obviously, they had all played this game before; delighted in a
new victim.  “I will go last,” she decided, causing a few puzzling giggles.
Surya advised, “That means Bylid, to your left, goes first, then Belyd” —Imyryn
wondered how she could tell them apart, other than maybe their hairstyles—
“Bījai, and me.”
Bylid immediately popped a little fruit into her mouth, chewed carefully,
swallowed; full red lips pursed, she turned from Imyryn, to the others, back
again, ere the pointed pit ejected, almost faster than Imyryn’s eye could
follow, striking her in the left cheek, deflecting behind her.  It stung a
little, yet Imyryn, hardly flinching, also resolved not to reach for the spot.
“Ha!” Bylid cried.  “I claim a question: How old are you, Imyryn?”  Quaffed
from her cup, though she had struck true.
The girl thought she knew whence this proceeded.  “I have an age-and-four —
almost -five,” she replied somewhat defiantly.  “I may not be twage yet” —she
referred to those of many lands whom had reached ‘two ages’, and were therefore
considered beyond guardianship or regency— “but I am… old enough.”
The precept of twage was not universal; from stories, she knew that various
peoples practised it to varying degrees, from total enforcement (rare), to it
being wholly unheard of, whence children were treated as ‘miniature adults’
almost as soon as they could walk and talk.  In many cultures in the lands of
Anonna, chronological age meant very little, compared to necessities of life
such as having to mature quickly in order to take on responsibility, especially
bearing and raising children to carry on in a short-lived society.  In Medaea,
the practice varied; thus, many struggled against restrictions based on one’s
age.  Fahsh met no such discrimination, but often ‘royal ladies’ did, Imyryn
knew.
“That is quite young to be… travelling on your own, hā?”  queried Surya.
“Ahhh… do I have to answer that question?”
The others laughed.  Bījai refilled her own goblet, passed the jug to Belyd.
“She is most quick, is she not?”  the general observed, smiling broadly.  “No,
you do not, little one.  Belyd’s turn.”
From across the low table, the other twin scored a hit on Imyryn’s forehead. 
Gulping the lees of her cup, she claimed Surya’s prior question.
“P-Perhaps,” their guest responded.  “But I have little choice in the matter.” 
The girl thought they tried to discern something else – namely, if she were a
fully sexual woman yet.  She felt both defensive and titillated; the former
only because she was unsure how sexual ‘high-born ladies’ should be, regardless
of age, even though she had of course been visited by many – of all sexes, a
few even younger than her.  Yet, she would have to be careful not to give away
her true nature.  Then again, she found herself wondering just why it should
matter; decided that, now she had begun the performance, ought to see it
through.  Nervously, she drank several swallows of wine.
“Indeed,” Surya remarked, draining her own goblet, refilling it.
“I claim a following question, since I got her in the head,” Belyd piped.
The others adjudicated it a fair request.
“What does a Mahilā Arsidúses of an age-and-four-or-five do with her time?”
A more dangerous question, Imyryn realised, requiring a more careful answer. 
She opted to respond to that at which she thought they probed, whilst trying to
think how a highborn lady would indeed occupy herself.  “I have been a woman
for two—no, three summers, now.  As such, I am free to do what I will,
including going to the games, shopping, and sailing on Lake Kebai.”  That was
very risky; she had never seen a boat, let alone been on one.  “And getting
married, if I want.  Or honouring Inanna.”  She accepted the vessel from Bylid,
poured the remainder into her cup; took a slightly tremulous draught.
Surya chuckled.  “I think she sees through you two,” she scolded the twins
mildly.  “Pāpī chōkarī'ō!”
‘Dirty girls’, indeed, Imyryn thought, pleased with the general’s praise that
she had guessed right, in addition to her excitement regarding the gist of the
game.  However, another pit landed between her breasts, stuck there.  Looking
up from it, met Bījai’s wicked grin.
“Dumu!”  the older woman claimed.
Despite Imyryn’s first impression of the Second as a dour, unappealing old
woman, something about the abrupt appearance of such honest lechery intrigued
the girl such that the sudden attraction she felt was… most disconcerting,
diverting, as it did, her full attention from the princess.  Regardless, she
determined to play the game.
“No!”  she protested.  “You missed them both – it lies between them.  See?  You
can all see, yes?”  She thrust out her very modest chest, trying to be both
sexy and sincere in her counter-claim; the pit rolled away.  A new jug of wine
magically appeared; Imyryn drained her cup – the vintage was very good –
refilled, passed it to Surya.
Ruling: torso hit.
Bījai’s disappointment, if any, did not show.  “What does a Mahilā Arsidúses of
an age-and-four-or-five wear under her fine clothing?”
Not entirely due to the wine, Imyryn felt blaśa coming on.
Following a short debate, the guest would only be required to tell, not show –
after all, the ruling went, a torso hit was not that prized.
“Kaupinam, and of course cōḷī, on top,” Imyryn replied, once again silently
thanking Sefr.  “Like any proper lady.”
“Indeed.”  Surya’s expression remained bland, although the others chuckled.
Imyryn missed her first shot at Surya; it was not easy, she found, as her
effort fell woefully short.  The next round saw Imyryn under furious assault;
she was forced to answer more questions, though Bylid missed, and honourably
drained an entire cup of wine; only Belyd managed a dumu hit.  She asked, “Has
Mahilā Imyryn visited the Serai of Inanna?”
Oddly, the girl’s blush intensified, though she answered boldly, “Of course.”
No one said anything; all quaffed more wine, returned her frank look.  She
could not tell if they appeared disappointed or excited.  In fact, she had
begun to have trouble focussing at all.
Imyryn fully expected Surya to target her next round as well; quite
disappointed when, following a healthy draught from her goblet, instead got
Bījai in the hip; the twins moaned, apparently wishing for a gink hit.
“I ask a boon of my Second,” Surya bade: “Bījai, dance for us.”
Their guest could only speculate to herself what the request – or dance – would
have looked like had the princess’ aim been truer.
The eldest of their company rose, left the partitioned room in the large tent,
returned shortly, jingling.  She now wore, in addition to her gauzy kārpāsa
robe, a belt of shiny golden disks at ample hips, over large chest, several
bracelets about muscled arms as well as ankles.  Without accompaniment other
than a rhythm the others began to clap out, Bījai sinuously swayed, twisted,
pranced around the others whence they lounged; deliberate movements of ample
hips, limbs, hands, head, bouncing dumu, even eyes, bestowed a most suggestive,
melodic performance.  Imyryn’s distress increased many-fold as she all at once
found herself unable to prize her blurred gaze from the older woman. 
Suddenly, once more at some unseen signal, the exhibition ended.  Bījai
returned to her couch.
Imyryn’s stimulation amplified as the game progressed; she forgot all about her
moon-cycle in anticipation of whence the night would end.  Unfortunately, she
missed her next shot at Surya too.  Bylid hit Imyryn in the leg, thus enabling
her to require Imyryn to drink yet another goblet of wine in one draught – by
which time the girl had trouble distinguishing any detail beyond her own
couch.  Belyd missed her head, though she claimed that Imyryn cheated by
ducking, which was upheld; but Belyd missed again, also drained a cup, refilled
it.
Bījai pretended to aim at Imyryn, then shot Belyd in the head, pit entangling
in coiffure.  “Nagna!” the Second exclaimed.
‘Naked’?  Fuzzily, Imyryn approved, though she wished she could see better;
something was wrong with her eyes.
Belyd rose, languorously pulled the pit from her hair, followed by pins,
jewels… clothing.  Completely nude, she reclined once more, drank.
Imyryn tried to focus; did she truly have no hair on her gink?  She did not
realise she leaned forward until a bōlē darted past her eyes, striking Bylid…
somewhere.  Blearily, she grasped that Surya had shot at her, but missed and
hit the still-clad twin.  The judgement came down that, regardless of the
intended target, a hit was a hit; another demand for ‘naked’ followed.
Cursed be all the gods! Imyryn thought; two pretty naked women — twins,
moreover; she had never fucked twins before!  — and her eyes had stopped
working.  Though mildly disappointed that she had been the princess’ target and
would have liked getting naked, she returned to the game.  Missing Surya a
third time, and downing another goblet, the game progressed with the twins
teaming up to disrobe Bījai; frustratingly, however, Imyryn still could not
seem to get a good look at any of the bare flesh on display virtually all
around her.  Suddenly, she felt something hit her in the lower throat.
Bījai groaned; clearly, she had aimed even lower.  Claiming a kiss, however –
neck being part of the head – obtained murmurs of approval.  The naked,
powerfully built warrior stood; glided over, sat almost on top of Imyryn.  Her
heat… some kind of aura, sent tingles scurrying all over the dizzy courtesan’s
petite frame, raised little bumps everywhere, ḍīṇṭī stiffening acutely under
light clothing as the older woman leaned in, cupped Imyryn’s head with both
hands, pressed lips; tongue darted, slithered, swirled.  Bījai tasted of wine
and tārikha and… and…
Imyryn did not notice the kiss had ended until she opened her eyes, blearily
saw herself once more alone on her couch.  Breathing heavily, heart threatening
to emerge from her chest, she reached for her goblet; relatively little of its
contents actually got in her mouth and suddenly parched throat.
Amongst giggles, someone gave her a refill.  “Ahhh…” an unidentified voice
sadly intoned, “you will have to change that upara, Imyryn – wash it before it
stains.”
“Yes,” came another suggestion, “perhaps you should just get out of it now.”
Imyryn, though willing, also felt disinclined; the game was still on, after
all.  Fortunately, help arrived immediately as she felt a bōlē strike her
square in the nose.  More than one pair of hands, it seemed, helped her out of
stained garments.  Nude at last, she garnered several endorsements, mostly
regarding her bud'dhisampannatā, or cute, small size; none commented on
kaupinam and padding.  One – Surya?  – announced it was her last turn with the
bōlē.
Last turn, but whom should she choose?  Both Surya and Bījai held a powerful
attraction for the girl, Surya the only one still clad.  The problem was, the
world refused to keep still so she could aim…  She missed miserably, pit
spilling pathetically from mouth to couch.  Staring at it, head swimming,
reached for her goblet; found it already in her hand but empty.
“Poor girl.  It seems she has had a little too much wine.”
“Yes.”
“We should grant her a boon anyway – as a guest."
More chuckles, the suggestion meeting with approval.
Even so, Imyryn was not thinking clearly.  She slurred, “Will… will one ’f’you…
hel’ me fish m’air?” ere she remembered naught else.
***** Akzir-3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Akzir 'loses' his sister, visits the Ma'bad of Hubal and receives an
     education...
“When you make the two into one,
and when you make the inside like the outside,
the outside like the inside, and the above like the below –
that is, to make the male and the female into a single one, so that the male
will not be male, and the female will not be female –
and when you make eyes instead of an eye,
hands instead of a hand, and feet instead of a foot,
images instead of an image,
then you will enter the kingdom.”
[Gospel of Thomas. Translated by Stephen J. Patterson & James M. Robinson. Nag
Hammadi Library.]
 
Since Akzir had not yet attained adulthood, which the Akmari generally
recognised at around an age-and-six for boys, perforce he remained at home when
his parents departed for war.  Akmari nobility usually brought their entire
families along on campaign, for morale and to care for the fighters, but the
Quraysh had not this time.  Nor had they called for assistance from the many
allied tribes that would have supported them.  The expectation had been for a
short operation against the Imladan rebels, with little serious fighting – yet
it did not turn out that way.  Thus, Akzir’s and Zeniah’s mother saw it as her
duty to raise such a force as she could, and come to the aid of her father and
their kin, to avenge the disgraceful loss at what came to be known as the
Battle of Badira.
Albeit not entirely a given, presumably, they would join the malik’s army in
opposition to the rebels; yet, Hemub argued most vehemently against his wife,
demanding that they join with the Prophet instead.  As that would mean betrayal
of her family, Zalidda naturally refused.  Further, as Emira of Hejaz, she
ordered her husband, the Sheikh of Bakkah, to provide slaves and supplies, as
well as himself as a fighter, to the Qurayshi cause.
Gone now almost two ninedays; no word how they fared.
Even though not yet considered a man, Akzir nonetheless had been entrusted with
the protection of his sister and the supervision of their slaves – only, he got
the parties slightly intermingled and misinterpreted his duties, trying instead
to command his sister and corporally discipline the slaves.  For a few days ere
they departed, Zalidda overruled her husband and son when the men tried to
forbid Zeniah from attending maqtab; Akzir himself, true to his word, refused
to go.  Though he was supported by his father, his mother told him he must
attend, as he was not yet a man, and could not make such decisions for
himself.  So, whilst pretending to go with Zeniah – and threatening her against
telling their ummū – instead he wandered the city, finding like-minded men on
whose conversations he could eavesdrop.  Finding only two, his father and a man
naming himself Abd'Al'lah – ‘Slave of God’ – a cousin of the Prophet, he more
or less deliberately got noticed; gratifyingly, they invited him to sit one
day.
Frustratingly, however, after taking morning shay at a local shop not far from
the main ryad, they would almost invariably depart for the ma'bad, where they
supposedly went ‘for bunn’, a different hot drink than shay (the latter made
with dried plant leaves from Thuban or faraway Chow, the former brewed from
ground, roasted seeds from another plant obtained via trade with the Mountain
People).  Although Akzir was allowed shay, he was not old enough for bunn; it
was a sacred drink, his father told him, for ‘ritual’ use.  Of course, the boy
questioned his father about his regular visits to the pagan temple; Hemub told
him he did it in an effort to convert the unbelievers therein.
In any event, once the adults left, Akzir shut his sister indoors, instructing
the slaves not to allow her out.  Since he had been made in effect master of
the household by both his parents, they had little choice but to obey.  Thus,
it took not much time at all ere Zeniah escaped.  Akzir quite naturally
presumed she had simply gone to school in defiance; when he found only Hadim
there with Mudarri, several emotions rapidly coursed through him, from
perplexity to anxiety to anger.
“Where has she gone?” he demanded of the teacher.  “Tell me or I shall—”
“Threats are not necessary, young sayyid.  I do not know where she is, but I
will be honest with you and tell you as much as I know – though not because you
demand it, but because I have concern for their welfare as well.”
“‘Their’?” the boy repeated.
“S­ē – I doubt it is coincidence that Zeniah disappears on the very day that
Tesil does not come to maqtab for the first time since… well, since ever. 
Especially as I noted them earnestly talking together the last few days Zeniah
was here.”
“About what?”
“I do not know, Akzir – I do not listen in on young girls’ private
conversations.”
“Young girls should not be allowed private conversations, Mudarri – this is
what happens!”  Akzir turned upon the younger boy.  “Hadim, do you know
anything?”
“N-No, Akzir.  T-Truly, I…”
“Tell me!”
“You will not intimidate the other—the young, Akzir.  Hadim, if you know
anything that could help, please tell Akzir.  The girls could be in danger.”
Hadim looked nervously from youth to man, squirmed on his cushion atop the
fountain wall, crossed and uncrossed sandalled feet.  “I… I heard them m-
mention Ta'if,” he confessed.
“Ta'if?” Akzir echoed.  “Why would they talk about Ta'if?”
“I… d-do not know, Akzir.”
“What else?”
“S-Something about Attar-shamayin, and… and q-qiyan.  Th-That is all I know, I
s-swear upon Manāt!”
Akzir looked set to interrogate the youngster further – or mayhap call his oath
into question on account of the goddess by whom he swore – but a glance at
Mudarri dissuaded him.  “Very well.”  Turned on his heel.
“Akzir,” Mudarri called out.
Pausing, the boy looked back, readjusted the tail of his white emãmah that had
escaped over a shoulder.
“Take care of her, sayyid.”
Akzir thought it a pointless admonition.  “I mean to, Mudarri.  I shall find
her and lock her up – under guard, if I have to!”
“No, I mean, take care of her, Akzir.  Zeniah is wilful and can be… difficult,
I know.  But she is your sister, and she… has much to learn.  She cannot learn
if you lock her up.”
“Girls do not need to learn anything except how to be a wife and mother.”  The
boy would not think a great deal on what his former teacher actually meant
until much later.
For the nonce, he went home, commanding one of the house slaves to accompany
him, armed, to Tesil’s house.  Everyone knew whence the Kazhal family lived;
theirs was probably the largest, most luxurious white-washed mud-brick house in
Bakkah.  Doubtless, they had many more guards than the Abdani-Mosdan household,
even if Akzir brought all theirs – had most not accompanied his parents
regardless.  Yet, he intended no violence; only wanted to make some kind of
show of strength.  Not to mention, young people, especially nobility, did not
go about on the streets unaccompanied in the evenings.
Nonetheless, he did not gain admittance to the Kazhal estate.  Although he
convinced the guards – two ḥurrāi, armed and capable-looking, attended the gate
– to send for the kabir al-haddam, they turned him away.  The master and
mistress were not at home, he was told; one accompanied a caravan to Yathrib,
the other had joined Akzir’s mother and father.
“What about Sayyidāt Tesil?” the youth demanded, aggravated that the slave
butler would not admit him.
The servant, aught but aged dark eyes and bridge of hooked nose visible through
the screened panel in the gate, answered, “The shabba sayyidāt is not at home
either.”
“Where is she?”
“I do not answer to you, young man.  Now, be off with you.”  Backed from the
portal, started to close it.
“No!  Wait, sla—  Sir, please.  My sister is missing, and I need to find her.” 
Torchlight, held behind him by his slave, cast uncertain shadows in the fading
daylight under the dusky green dwarf trees surrounding the elegant home’s
entrance, whose faint pungency wafted in a slight warm breeze.
The Kazhal domestic enquired, “What would lead you here, then?”
“We—that is, she… my sister, used to attend maqtab with Tesil, and… and they
were overheard talking together recently.  About Ta'if.”  Akzir decided not to
disclose remaining details for the time being.
“Well, I suppose it does no harm…”
“Sla—!  Sir, please, if you know anything…”
“Sayyidāt Tesil left with a caravan to Ta'if this morning.”
“What?  I mean, why is she going to Ta'if?”
“Even if I knew and were at liberty to say, shab sayyid, it is really none of
your business.  Now, I suggest you leave, as it is late.”  The portal shut;
Akzir heard a lock of some kind engage.
“You heard the Abd Rais,” one of the gate guards advised, both hands hanging
casually, away from the worn hilt of a short, curved sword in his belt.  “Leave
now, young sayyid.”
Though the guard offered one of them as a further escort, Akzir declined; kept
his fury barely quelled at being rebuffed by slaves as he worked out what to do
next.
The boy could only surmise that his sister had sneaked out early that morning
and somehow joined Tesil and her caravan without anyone noticing or questioning
her presence.  Though their young master bade several slaves go about the city
and find what information they could, they returned with scant.  Akzir could
determine only that what seemed to be a normal merchant caravan had departed
for Ta'if shortly after prime.  Even so, several Kazhal trains either passed
through or originated from Bakkah daily; nothing unusual about that, nor the
lack of information as to what it might carry, since merchants were naturally
leery of advertising to thieves, especially so with the recent troubles. 
However, one slave did find out that the Kazhals had hired all the guards
available in the city – uncommon only if they had more than the usual number of
caravans, making too many for their guards already on retainer; which did not
seem to be the case, as far as could be discerned, anyway.  One could only
deduce, therefore, that they protected something unusually important or
valuable: for example, the sole child of a rich merchant family.
Akzir now found himself in a quandary.  First, however, he took out his
frustration on the slave he held responsible for ‘allowing’ Zeniah to escape. 
It did not matter whose fault it may have been, even that it might be no one’s
– the boy felt he had to teach the slaves a lesson.  Though his mother
generally advised restraint, his father taught him that a firm hand was
required with slaves, else they became proud and lazy.  In order that it be a
true example, he made all witness – at least the few that remained, after his
parents took more than half the household with them.  He chose the eldest
offspring of their own Abd Rais and his wife, their Khadima, who kept house and
supervised the female slaves.  He made Rudab, two years older, strip naked,
kneel in their home’s small ryad.
“Please, s-sayyidī,” the youth begged, head bowed.  White emãmah all that
remained of clothing; partly unravelled, it trailed over Rudab’s shoulders,
upper torso.  “I did nothing…”  A hand hid genitals, the other crossed over
chest, clutching turban tail, as though to rewind it or prevent it coming all
the way off.  No body hair; thin, though not overly so; a rather pretty face;
soft brown eyes, pleading in fear as they dared glance up.
“That is the issue, slave.  Now turn around!”
The older youth shuffled awkwardly on the packed clay of the ryad; remained
bent, now facing away from Akzir.
Raising the soƫh, the young master brought the leather strap across Rudab’s
bare back.  “You let my sister escape!”
Rudab grunted, hunched, cringing as the whip laid across bare skin again and
again; seemed to resist crying out, as if unwilling to admit being hurt. 
Emãmah unravelled completely, strewing shiny black ringlets as slender body
jerked with each stroke.
“I warned you to guard her!  Now you will learn.”  Akzir began to ramble,
vituperations having less and less to do with the supposed crime.  “Foul
kahlet!”  Young face twisted, a mask of sadistic glee.  “I will beat the evil
out of you.  I will teach you to fornicate.  Filthy manyak!  A hundred stripes
for you, as the Prophet commands!”
Akzir stopped only when the the slave collapsed face-down, back raw, bloody
ruins.  Panting in excitement and exertion, Akzir did not realise he had a
tizik until he spurted inside his dhoti.  Ardour cooling as mortification took
over, he bent at the waist, trying to hide his condition; fled to his room. 
Albeit not his first orgasm, it nonetheless took him by surprise.
 
The young master spent the night vacillating between rage, fear, and ecstasy. 
He could not help himself; had to masturbate twice, thinking about the
delicious thrill experienced when he disciplined the slave.  The next day saw
him over his shame at least enow to glare a challenge at any slave who might
dare look at him, especially Rudab’s mother, Kahlila, on whom he thrust his
soiled dhoti to wash; none did.  Since Akzir did not see Rudab, he demanded to
know where the youth was; the latter’s mother stood before him, eyes downcast,
voice shaking.
“N-Not well, sayyidī.  Rudab… s-sleeps.”
“Sleeps?” burst Akzir.  “The lazy kahlet!  I will give him another hundred
stripes if he does not get back to work immediately!”
“B-But—Yes, s-sayyidī.”  She backed away, bowing, clutching Akzir’s laundry. 
“R-Right aw-way.  I see t-to it.”
“I will see that you do!”
Rudab lay face-down on a pallet in the servants’ quarters off the kitchen.  No
shirt, though a cotton sheet covered waist down; back swathed in strips of
linen packed with herbal poultices and ointments.  Akzir’s initial reaction, of
revulsion, quickly gave way to excitement, then outrage.
“Lazy kahlet!”  Kicked the slave in the leg.  “Get up and get to work, or I
will strip more skin from you!”
Rudab, moaning, remaining hunched, managed to get to knees, slightly turned
away from Akzir, arms clutching sheet to chest.  “Y-Yes, sayyidī.  I… obey.  I
c-come… as s-soon as I dress…”  Hesitated.
“Sē?” Akzir demanded.  “What do you wait for?”
“I… Th-That is, sayyidī…”
Akzir yanked the coverlet away.  Rudab cried out, squatted, turned facing the
wall.
“No!”  Kahlila interposed herself between them, as if to shield her offspring’s
nakedness.
Normally, Akmari were not prudish about nudity, so Akzir’s curiosity piqued. 
“Stand aside, slave!” their master ordered, shoving her.  “His airyaen is of no
concern.  Turn around, abd.”
“N-No, please, s-sayyidī…”
“Stand up!”
Rudab did so, slowly, either in pain or…  Without an emãmah, the slave’s locks
fell loose half an armslength, though arms and hands continued to hide chest
and crotch.  Withal, now more or less standing erect, Akzir could make out…
He had bizaaz!  His chest… a girl’s!
“Move your hands, slave,” Azkir almost whispered.
The other youth sobbed, “P-Please, s-sayyidī…”
Also crying, Kahlila stood by, wringing her hands.
“Do it or feel the soƫh.”
With great reluctance, Rudab obeyed.
He—Het… Rudab was mukhannathun!
Shocked, confused, angry, Akzir retreated once more to his room.  He could not
decide if he was repulsed, titillated, or enraged.  No small measure of guilt
bubbled in that stew as well, though not due to his most recent treatment of
Rudab.  Nor did it stemmed from having whipped the boy—het, but having buggered
the slave once, as well as demanding that Rudab fellate him on more than one
occasion – as was his right as a slave owner, recently confirmed by Mudarri.
Lying on his bed of cotton-stuffed linen, the boy tossed, tried to think. 
Mukhannathun!  What was it Mudarri had said: ‘not male or female but both – and
neither’?  Something like that.  Despite Mudarri more or less absolving them of
same-sex relations, he knew that the Prophet forbade such activity, deeming it
ḥarām, thus amplifying Akzir’s mortification.  Although somewhat relieved that
Rudab was not a he, the boy felt ambivalent; did that lessen his attraction to
the slave, or heighten it?  However, neither was het a she; Akzir knew that the
Prophet allowed even non-consensual sex with female slaves (albeit not males,
unlike the Akmari in general), but what about mukhannathun?  How to find out?
In his mind, he tried to recall what, exactly, he had seen.  Rudab indubitably
had breasts; though not an expert in breast assessment, Akzir felt confident in
what he had seen.  Despite – or perhaps because of – most Akmari families’
casual attitude toward nudity, Akzir took little notice of such things; more
pertinently, however, girls held little attraction for him.  The only females
he had regularly seen unclad were, of course, his mother and sister; the latter
still flat-chested, though his mother, if he were any judge, had quite generous
bizaaz.  He knew enough to guess that Zeniah was probably still too young to
start developing for a year or two yet – or was she?  He did not know for sure,
although felt more certainty that most girls – and, apparently, mukhannathun –
of Rudab’s age commonly had at least started growing breasts.
Regardless, the slave should also have hair ‘down there’ by now, no?  Akzir
himself had recently begun to sprout a few proud wisps, so why not Rudab, older
by two years or so?  Het also had, apparently, a zeb as well as a koos; the
former no longer than a middle finger, not nearly long and dangly enough to
hide the latter…
Akzir found himself erect once again; stroked himself to climax.
Anon, getting back to his deliberations, what about his sister?  He felt
additional guilt and shame for ‘losing’ her; his parents, especially ummū,
would not be pleased.  Overshadowing even those feelings, however, rage and
humiliation that Zeniah had disobeyed him.  Thus, he could only think of one
thing to do.
 
Surprisingly, it was easier than Akzir expected to enter the ma'bad of the
false god Hubal.  When he asked to see a khouri, his name was requested; saw no
reason not to give it.  Whilst he waited in a small, windowless, lavish room
appointed with colourful hangings, rugs, several golden candelabrum on low
tables, a slave brought him wine – a qayna!  Staring, the boy felt reasonably
certain of the femininity of this figure with the lightest skin he had ever
seen.  Mayhap of not quite two ages, she wore a long, sheer izar of an
unfamiliar pink material similar to the room’s draperies, hanging (somehow)
from hips well below waist to ankles.  A similar strip of yellow – a hariimi,
the goggling boy recalled – barely covered swelling breasts.  Wispy white
hijaab draped shoulders but did not even cover her head, flowing with every
movement of bare arms.  A small green taqiyah capped dark hair, its ‘tail’
swishing against all but naked back, whilst a few sliver and copper bracelets
jingled as bare feet slid across the carpets.  As permitted indoors, a khimar
veiled the sharmūta, made of another translucent wisp of the same white
material as her scarf, leaving only black eyes to shine and tease.  Akzir had
never been attracted to girls, but this…
Gaping, he took the wine, held the silver goblet in a tremulous hand.  It was…
it was shameful!  He could see everything, from dark pubes to pointy 'hilmat to
smiling red lips behind the khimar…
“Does shab sayyidī wish anything else?”  Even her voice was ḥaram… or was it
ḥarām?
Akzir suddenly could not think.  Even forgot to treat her like a slave.  “Ahh…
th-that is, no th-thank you.”
Winking deliberately, she turned, walked through a curtained archway, hips
swaying like…  The youth had no comparison, neither for her walk or the shape
of her faq'haa, half of which showed above her semi-transparent skirt (how did
it stay up?).  As soon as she left, he suddenly noticed he had a tizik – and
instantly became enraged.  Wishing for his whip, he would teach the whore…
Akzir calmed himself, as he recalled Mudarri’s information that male qiyan
likely dwelt here, too – as well as mukhannathun.  Remembering what he came
for, he drained the wine goblet – it was quite good – placed it strategically
upside-down on his lap as he bent forward, hands on the edges of the padded
stool, waited.
Anon, tizik had not subsided ere a man entered wearing the black thawb and
emāmah of a khouri.  Full, speckled grey-black beard, light blue eyes, he
looked to be in at least his fifth age.  He brought another stool closer, sat
before the boy, wrinkled brown hands on knees.  “Ah, I understand you wished to
see a khouri – young Akzir ibn Mosdan, is it?”
Akzir felt like correcting him – ‘Akzir ibn Abdani’ – but, other than knowing
he would be technically incorrect, did not wish to waste time.  “Yes, Khouri. 
I…”  Now that he was here, the youthful petitioner found himself unsure how –
or what – to ask.
The priest regarded him, gave him time.
Akzir began to make out sounds of lovemaking from beyond the dim arches; tried
not to let it unsettle him.  “Ah…  That is, I n-need to find my sister,
Khouri.”
“And…?  Come now, shab sayyid.  If it were only that, you could simply have
asked for her in the first place, instead of requesting a khouri.”  The man’s
gaze roved over his visitor, reached for the winecup.  “Can I take that for you
– would you like more?”
“No!”  Akzir nearly slapped the man’s hand away.  All at once, Akzir felt
uncomfortable; something in the priest’s appraisal…  “Th-That is, no thank you,
Khouri.  M-My sister, Zeniah, has gone missing.  I understand she… was heard
talking about q-qiyan and m-mukhannathun.”
The priest’s tone took on an edge, as if offended by Akzir’s reaction.  “And
how old is your sister – she is younger than you, no?”
“Yes, and she is a disobedient—  But, I must find her, Khouri.  Did she come
here?”
“As a matter of fact, shab sayyid, she did – with a friend.  Yesterday.”
“Tesil?  That is, with Sayyidāt Tesil Kazhal?”  The boy’s eagerness shunted
aside his rage that his sister would dare set foot in this place.
“Correct.”  The khouri’s gaze narrowed. “Why do you ask about your sister’s
companion?”
“I… I believe they may have… left together.”
The man adjusted position on the short stool, clapped his hands once.  Almost
instantly the qayna returned with the silver tray and two more goblets of wine;
bent much closer to Akzir than necessary to serve him first, as guest, also
taking his empty, smiling as she noticed his lap, priest accepting the second.
She smelled of…
“‘Left together’?” the man repeated.  “What do you mean?”
Akzir pried his eyes from the sharmūta’s.  “T-Tesil went north with a Kazhal c-
caravan.  I think my sister went with her.  After she c-came here.”
“So, your sister and her friend were overheard talking about qiyan and
mukhannathun, and you thought they might have come here for… education?  And
then run away together?”
Female cries of pleasure increased as the holy whore winked at him, withdrew,
hips swaying exaggeratedly.
Was her izar even lower…?
“Ah… y-yes… That is, yes, Kh-Khouri.”
The priest measured him once again, cocked his head, placed goblet on a side
table, hands on knees.  “Are you… perhaps here for another reason, shab
sayyid?”  Glanced briefly at Akzir’s lap.
Akzir still did not twig.  “Ah… n-no, Khouri.  I w-wish only to find my
sister.”
A qayna climaxed, shrieks of ecstasy drifting about the temple.
“Are you sure, sayyid?  You seem a little… tense.  Perhaps you wish me to show
you about the ma'bad?”  Clapped twice rapidly, then again.  “See what Hubal and
the Children of Al'lah have to offer?”
“NO!  Hubal is a false—!”  Azkir stopped himself.
The priest’s posture became rigid, gaze nearly a glare.  “Hubal is a false god,
you were about to say?  Ah, the young Mosdan scion is also a follower of the
so-called prophet, sē?  Your father, though an avowed adherent of the Imladans’
New Faith, still patronises this holy place quite regularly – you know that, of
course.  Despite his supposed convictions, he does not yet turn away completely
from the gods of his ancestors.”
Akzir almost literally bit his tongue, especially as another crescendo of
carnality wafted in along with three qiyan, all (not quite) dressed similar to
the first, who now held a long-handled fan.  Another had a flute, whilst— 
One—no, two, were male!  Yet, no again; a mukhannathun!  Latter and girl stood
to either side of him, female using the fan, as the male began to dance to the
trilling music played by the intersex.  All were around the same age, the
mukhannathun perchance a little younger, though hard to tell by exotic
features.  Mouth dry as a summer wadi, Akzir’s grip on his all but forgotten
winecup tightened.
“If the sayyid wishes, we can attempt to show him… another way.  Though you are
somewhat young, there is nothing shameful about what occurs in Hubal’s temple. 
I know that your Mudarri recently told you of the Akmari’s sacred duty to
entertain travellers, so you already know one purpose of our ma'bad.  There are
others, however.
“Indeed, what you are feeling now, as you watch Jaman dance, and as you listen
to the cries of our holy Children copulating, is by design of the Mother and
Father.  Why grant these gifts of pleasure, that we should then deny
ourselves?  Only a sadistic god would require such… renunciation.”
Akzir said nothing, barely heard; perfunctorily drank, watched the qiyan.
The khouri went on, “Do you know, shab sayyid, the reason the female,
especially, cries out during jenss?  At one time it was thought that she
announced her ‘readiness’, her objective to attract as many men as possible. 
This notion has some credence, since it was once our belief that it took the
seed of many men to impregnate her.  Therefore, seeing how such sounds
naturally excite most listeners, the men, rather than try to ignore her natural
clamours, instead came running, as it were, and queued up for their turn.”
Akzir unconsciously swallowed the lees of his goblet, nearly choked on it as he
saw the dancer’s zeb had swelled during his gyrations.  In fact, the
mukhannathun had a tizik, as well; nether lips also protruded slightly from a
sparse dark thatch, winking through the material in the candlelight; reddish
caps on normal-sized bizaaz thrust against the diaphanous pink hariimi…
“In fact, young man, our word for ‘father’ and ‘guardian’, or ‘protector’, used
to be the same.  In ancient times we were not concerned with identifying the
actual father of a child; the whole tribe cared for all children.  This is why,
as I believe your Mudarri has told you, that they carry their mother’s name to
this day.”  Khouri clapped three times.
The male qiyan began to sensually remove the mukhannathun’s clothing as they
both pranced, still in time with het’s music.
“Jaman,” the priest continued, “who is from Thuban – thus his darker skin, like
ours – now disrobes Zhō, who is from a faraway place called Chow.  Notice how
het’s eyes have a narrower cast, slightly angled upward at the corners; skin
lighter than ours, somewhat like bunn with the milk of the baqara, sē?  Oh, you
have probably not tasted that most exquisite drink, have you, shab sayyid?  I
will order you some – after all, this is turning out to be a most special
occasion, sē?”
The young guest scarcely heard aught but the music above a subliminal strange
roaring in his ears as he watched the performance hardly an armslength away. 
The qayna named Zhō, now completely nude, continued to play the flute; body
writhed, though het remained in place as Jaman kissed and licked feet,
proceeded up legs, backs of knees, to thighs; nuzzled the cleft beneath fully
erect member – the largest ever seen in Akzir’s limited experience.  The boy
clearly saw the male qayna’s tongue dart into the mukhannathun’s koos, lick
upward, trail the shaft’s underside to tizik tip.  Engulfing the engorged head,
he gripped his partner’s slim faq'haa, thrusting his face repeatedly onto the
cock.  The music’s notes evinced not a hitch as they kept time with one
another.
 The boy marvelled.  Where did it all go?
“Now,” Khouri resumed, “as to your questions, shab sayyid.  Aside from their
skin and eyes and other superficial differences, note how these two are the
same: Two hands, two feet, and so on.  In Zhō, we see the the male and the
female made into a single one – and who is to say het is not perfect, just as
the Creators meant?  Though it is said that some mukhannathun can produce
children, I have seen no proof as yet.  Ah, would that not be even more
perfect?”
Gaman worked one then several fingers into the mukhannathun’s koos, thrusting
as he continued to bob on the intersex’s cock.  Backing off slightly, tilting
back his head, he gripped the member in both hands, broke rhythm as he briskly
stroked.  Abruptly the mukhannathun’s nut'fah spurted in stream after stream
that bedecked partner’s face, straight black hair, spotted the carpet here and
there, a splat even landing on Akzir’s knee.  The boy all at once felt quite
hot; wished the third qayna would fan—
Akzir started as he felt soft warm hands along his neck, hot breath on nape,
ear; teeth nipping lobe; hands slithering over shoulders, chest; fingers
questing at the tent in his dhoti.
Jumping up, goblet splashing to the carpet, he fled on legs of wispy silk.
***** Waryn-3 *****
Chapter Summary
     We visit Waryn during his apprenticeship, where tragedy strikes.
“Evil does not exist except in a good subject.”
                 –St. Augustine
 
Try it, Tam, Waryn urged his blonde companion.
Alone in the library of Corannus Watch, the two youths sat on quasi-real chairs
of pure magical essence, which appeared to be made of dark stone.  Above and
below them a light greyish mist screened the room’s ceiling and floor, drifted
about the rest of the chamber.
Although most pupils knew the Watch consisted of many such extra-dimensional
halls and sanctums, not many could fathom the exact size or configuration of
the tower’s interior – possibly it was infinite – and fewer still knew the
nature of each and every chamber.  Some doubted that even Myrddin Mageorn could
be aware of them all.  Most rooms, however, resembled this one.
Varying in size, all were walled – or at least appeared to be walled – in
plain, featureless black basalt, seldom furnished, even more rarely decorated,
lit magically by no apparent means.  One gained entrance by knowing a password
and perhaps gesture that, with one or two exceptions, no matter one’s location
in the tower, would instantly transfer one to the corresponding vault.  Knowing
this incantation normally presumed an understanding of the destination, but not
always.  Occasionally, an lernanto would secure the password to a certain room
having no idea of its purpose.  Yet, should he go there and blindly experiment…
When known, a visitor might exercise any acquired prerogatives, such as
summoning particular tomes and scrolls of which he had proper knowledge – and
hence clearance to receive – out of the eerily glowing atmosphere of the
library.
The two boys were not studying, however.
Waryn had grown over several summers passed at the Watch, yet few would take
him for a boy of more or less an age.  Beyond a permanent sneer seemingly
etched into his dark features, he had a certain arrogant charm about him,
albeit a mien that could turn cloudy with rage almost without notice.  Still,
his bearing had vastly improved with better clothing, a more nutritious diet,
and closer attention paid to personal hygiene; thus, would likely have been
unrecognisable to anyone whom had know him as the Crown Prince of Franconia. 
Even so, he still walked with a pronounced limp, and as yet could not manage a
vocal word.  Hand language and his mind thus far sufficed more than adequately
here, though.
He had found here in Tamelin the only other lernanto in this dull place who
could understand his mindspeak almost as easily as Myrddin did.  The sturdy,
good-looking boy of about an-age-and-five replied aloud:
“I… don’t think we should…”
Come on, Waryn urged, with bridled contempt.  It’s easy.  All you have to do is
concentrate.
On a table matching their seats, Waryn had pyramided the collection of small
twigs he always carried with which to experiment and demonstrate his prowess –
levitating them, moving them into shapes, and setting them alight, then
extinguishing the pile ere they actually burnt.  The boys faced each other,
Waryn in an attitude of keen attention, hands palms-down on the table, chin
atop them.  Tamelin appeared uncertain; kept his stocky body back.
Waryn tried a different tactic.  Mentora Alfonse says I should share my
abilities with others, that I should teach people how to use mind-magic.  He
says that immanence-magic is fine to know how to use, but the problem is that
it changes.  Sometimes its power grows and weakens, so you can’t count on it
all the time – same as miracle-magic.  Waryn made a face.  You can’t always
rely on gods, either, to give you the power you need whenever you need it.  But
mind-magic is different.
Tamelin appeared wary.
Look, Waryn went on, exasperation emerging, I showed you how to do it.  Now you
try it.  Make one of those sticks burn.
“I… can’t,” the other boy complained.  “I don’t know how.  I…  I just don’t
have any mind-magic.”
Oh, dragon-dreck!  You understand my mindspeak, don’t you?  Mentora Alfonse
says everyone has mind-magic, they just don’t know how to use it.  Come on!
Tamelin jumped to his feet – which, to an uninitiated observer, might have
produced an unnerving effect, for it appeared he stood ankle-deep in
insubstantial vapour.  “Mentora Alfonse this, Mentora Alfonse that!” he
shouted.  “Anyone would think he was your mentora and not Myrddin.  If I were
you I’d be paying more attention to what my own mentora said, and not so much
to the others.”
Waryn also sprang erect; approached the much bigger boy, arms akimbo, jaw
clenched.  Well you aren’t me!  And I don’t care who teaches me what I want to
know.  If I cannot get it from one mentora, I’ll go to another.  And nobody’s
going to tell me any different!  Now will you let me teach you, or not?
“No!  You’ve got no right to teach anyone anything.”  Defensively, Tamelin
backed away; Waryn kept in his face.
I’ve got as much right at any of our so-called mentoras!  Do you know I’ve
learned almost everything they’ve got to tell me in this place already, when it
usually takes at least an age?  What do you say to that, eh?  Waryn forced the
other lad into a dark, unyielding round corner.  It’s all so easy, a baby could
do it.  But you’ve been here longer than me, and you still can’t do everything
I can.  Like this!  Waryn brought his fists suddenly together before him, then
pulled them apart, as if yanking on the ends of something.  A rope, perhaps.
Tamelin yelped, clutched at the rope belt tied about his middle, tried
desperately to loosen it.  Like a hempen snake the thing animated, cinched
tighter and tighter.  Wildly, he sought to defend himself – there being the
difference between an innate magician and a curious peasant boy: Where the
latter instinctively turned to physical means under duress, Waryn magically
toyed with Tamelin.
As the pressure about his belly abruptly relaxed, the enraged blonde boy
advanced toward his smaller, darker peer, hands reaching for Waryn’s throat.  A
simple gesture from the other lernanto caused the hem of Tamelin’s long brown
robes to all at once seize at his ankles and trip him up, sending him sprawling
to the uncertain floor.
Neither boy noticed the altered ambience: the chamber began to pulse and hum;
with each invocation, the noise grew subliminally louder, more threatening.
Coward! Waryn sneered.
His hapless companion gagged as a foul breeze burst in his face; howled at
unseen, pinching fingers; coughed, belched, sneezed…
Then it stopped.  The fair boy breathed with difficulty, pale features shiny
with sweat as he picked himself up from the mist.  Waryn also perspired,
demeanour triumphant, mocking.  Still neither noticed the library’s
atmosphere.  Tamelin glared at his tormentor.
You going to try it now?
“No.”  The other boy appeared, quite inexplicably, calm.  “You think you’re so
good, eh, Waryn ’ware-it-all?  Well, all you know is tricks, that’s all.”
Tamelin’s confidence swelled whilst Waryn’s faltered a little; surely, after
such an ignominious lesson, this fool should not be speaking to him this way… 
But Waryn’s curiosity piqued, so he remained silent, listened as the older boy
went on:
“You’re so thrice-damned smart, but you don’t know anything.  You think those
are spells?  Making me belch and hair grow on my hands?  You think that’s
magic?  Why, you can’t even talk!  How in all Nine Hells do you ever expect to
do real magic if you can’t utter Words of Power?  You poor, hopeless cripple! 
You’ll never be a wizard, you hear me?  Never!  Because you can’t talk!”
Waryn stared dumbly, blinking.  He was less appalled at the other boy’s
derision than at Tamelin’s revelations.  Several thoughts occurred to him at
once, all confusing and upsetting: What if it were true, that what he knew was
not real magic?  If not, then what was it?  Must one really be able to speak in
order to work proper magic?  Why had no one told him?  How could it be true?
Tamelin approached the semi-illusory table, indicated the forgotten pile of
twigs.  “I don’t know anything about mind-magic,” he went on, manner becoming
more self-assured, “but it doesn’t look like real magic either.  But go ahead,
Waryn.  Show me again how you make these twigs burn with your mind-magic, and
then I’ll show you something!”
Anger overcome, Waryn could not resist.  He stood near Tamelin and, in an
instant, had the little pyramid blazing heartily.
“Now you’ll see something!” Tamelin asserted.  “This is real magic!” 
Gesturing, he spoke a few guttural words.
The tiny flame swelled, became the size of a campfire, then a bonfire.  The
room crackled with intense light; flames leapt toward the vague ceiling.  Waryn
retreated, arms up, turning away from the heat.  Breathing became difficult; he
began to feel giddy from lack of air.  The nearly invisible, sulphurous smoke
exuded by the magically intensified fire caused his eyes to burn; he began to
choke.
All right, he gasped, mind shouting over the roar of the mounting
conflagration.  Stop it, Tam.  Stop it!
Tamelin stood still, as if petrified; no sound, no thought.
Tamelin!  Make it go out!  Tam, it’s getting too high – it’s too hot!  TAMELIN!
The elder boy moved not at all – and the insistent warning buzz abruptly peaked
into thunder, drowning out even the fire’s roar.  The blaze flattened, roared
off the table, across the misted floor, gushed against the edges of the room,
winked out of existence – though not ere it incinerated half the room’s living
contents.
                      *                *                *
“Mentora Alfonse, I am quite aware of the Circle’s attitude toward my
understudy.”  Myrddin addressed the convened masters of Corannus Watch, tone
neutral as he spoke to his subordinates in the Circle Chamber somewhere near
the apex of the spire.  The other eight Coranéid sat around a stone slab, shiny
black and smooth, suspended without physical support in the windowless, misted
room’s centre.  Myrddin resumed defence of his apprentice: “You are reminded
that Waryn la Gaiseric is my lernanto, and although he may not seem, to many of
you, an appropriate candidate for this institution, I have my reasons for
allowing him to remain.  And no one shall gainsay me in this matter.  Is that
understood?”
Each Coranéid, to one unfamiliar with their race, appeared to be identical
except for their differing modes of dress – which, more than statements of
individual preference, traditionally indicated badges of station as well as
served to distinguish each wizard’s general views on subjective matters
concerning morality and ethics.  For instance, those who retained ideals which
most people might view as antisocial or ‘evil’ tended toward robes of black,
red, and/or gold, whilst the other extreme favoured combinations of pure white,
silver, and pale blue; betwixt, greys or purples predominated.  A few
accouterments, such as Myrddin’s gold-tasselled cincture, were reserved for
specific ranks, but variances and shades of comportment were otherwise wide. 
Secular and clerical society adopted the same propensities, to a degree, at
least in Northern Lands, but nowhere was such ‘colour-coding’ universal.
The aforementioned Alfonse, clad in robes of primary red, brocaded in black and
gold, rose.  Cat-eyes glittered with barely restrained anger.  “Do what you
will with the cripple, then, but I want no more dealings with him!  He is
dangerous and disruptive, and if my teachings are to be corrupted by your
interference—”
“Alfonse, you shall seat yourself and mind your tongue.”  The air crackled with
arcane electricity, though Myrddin raised not his voice.  “I know what you have
been ‘teaching’ my lernanto, and it is not all Conjuration.  You are not here
to teach him ethics – none of us are to provide anything but the Basics for
another’s student.  As you all well know, when a candidate is recruited, they
are to be influenced only by our ancient tomes and customs, such practices as
have been laid down over aeons.  I am well aware that each of us, in his own
way, exerts an influence on our subjects – intentionally or not.  It is my
responsibility to see that it is not blatant.  And what happened with the two
boys…”
Grudgingly, Alfonse resumed his basalt chair.  “It was not my fault,” he
returned sullenly.  “He had it coming.  Tamelin had no right to try to
demonstrate—”
“Tamelin met his demise through his own carelessness,” a grey-clad Coranéid
interrupted.  The speaker pulled the gold-chased hood of his robe slightly
forward.  “It is a marvel how Waryn even survived, let alone unharmed…  In any
case, if what Lernanto Waryn says has any truth, then it was not his doing – at
least not directly.  But can we believe him?  We have only his word—”
Myrddin spoke again.  “If there is one thing I know about Waryn, Mentora
Grimmel, it is that he is not a liar.  He has had little opportunity to learn
such expedience, given that he cannot utter – to me and to others with the
mindspeak – things which are contrary to his actual thoughts.  At least, he has
not learned to do so yet.”
Another wizard, attired in robes of blinding ultramarine trimmed with white and
silver, stood.  “Forgive me, Ultermentora Myrddin,” he said quietly, “but I
believe what Alfonse says has some validity.”
Myrddin stared; never, ever, had Alfonse and Tristam agreed on anything.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ultermentora,” the Transmutation instructor went
on.  “And I am not approving of Mentora Alfonse’s methods.”  Elliptical pupils
narrowed as he glanced at his opposite, turned again to Myrddin.  “All I am
saying, Ultermentora, is that, whether or not Mentora Alfonse may be held fully
responsible for young Tamelin’s unfortunate demise is not the issue we should
be addressing here.  Rather, we should be regarding it as a valuable lesson for
us all.”  Tristam graced each Coranéid at the table with a saurian stare. 
“That is, to refrain from deliberately attempting to influence another’s
apprentice.”
Another mentora jumped to his feet.  Sweeping the air with a hand all but
hidden in a voluminous sleeve of purple and white, he injected hotly, “That’s
easy to say, Tristam, now that it’s too late!  He was not your lernanto.  You
know how much it takes to train—”
“Masters,” Myrddin interjected sternly, “that is enough!  Mentora Pollenus –
all of you – sit down.”  A grain or two of mutually exchanged glowers ere they
all did so.  Myrddin sat too, paused.  “As masters,” he went on, voice lowered,
“you are all aware of the constraints under which we must work, and the lessons
we can and cannot impart to the students of Corannus Watch – both to our own
lernantos and to others’.  And I do not intend to go over them again here.
“Mentora Alfonse,” he said, turning to the subject of his address, “you are
hurt and angry, as are most of us, because the ‘cripple’, as you call him, far
surpasses any of us in the progress he has enjoyed at this institution.  And,
as for Waryn la Gaiseric, if it will ease your minds at all, I do not think he
shall be with us very much longer.”
Murmurs drifted about the quiet chamber.
“Do you mean to say, Ultermentora, that you will deny him his Transformation –
turn him out of the Watch?” The tone of the speaker, a Coranéid in silver-and-
blue on white, sounded hopeful.
“Not at all, Mentora Crethlek,” the mage in charge replied.  “I know you have
not been looking forward to your turn to instruct my newest lernanto in the Art
of Theurgy, but as soon as you do so, the sooner we shall all be rid of him.”
Stunned silence.
“You…” Crethlek breathed, “cannot mean that…”
“Oh, but I do, my masters.”
“You mean you’ll allow him his Transformation as soon as he is done with
Mentora Crethlek?” another voice queried.  It belonged to Kirio, the Astrology
master.  “Why, it’s unprecedented…”
“How so?” Myrddin countered.  “Are not all lernantos granted their First Trial
when their studies are complete?”
“Ye…s,” Kirio remonstrated, “but, after only four or five summers – or a little
better?  Even though time in the Watch is not constant, he cannot possibly—”
“I appreciate your concern for my lernanto, Mentora Kirio, but are you not
losing sight of the whole point?”  Leaning forward a little, Myrddin folded
arms inside purple sleeves, rested them on shallow chest.  Elliptical glance
probed each master in turn, Kirio last of all.  “Tell me, Mentora Kirio, how he
did in your class.”
The Seer squirmed uncomfortably.  “Well, I admit he hardly needed any
instruction at all – just in long range application and Augury.  He seemed to
know everything I was going to tell him before I had even chosen the next
subject.  I…”  Kirio, using both hands to rub creased pale brow, screwed up
waxy features into an embarrassed grimace, readjusted the hood of his plain
grey robe.
Myrddin smiled thinly.  “Yes, Mentora Kirio.  That is but an example of what we
have all undergone when instructing this ‘cripple’.  I believe your case was
rather extreme, for Waryn has an extraordinary aptitude for the Subliminal
Matrix – in some respects more acute even than mine.  Fortunately, I have
adequate psionic ability in order to instruct the boy in its control and proper
use.
“But that is not the point, either.  The point is that I am sure Waryn will
elect to leave us more or less immediately following his First Transformation. 
Although I do not entirely approve, it shan’t matter so much as a single grain
of sand in all the Horeb what I, nor any of us, think or say.  Nonetheless, I
believe you will all agree that it is best if he does leave us.  Perhaps he
shall return some day for further Transformations, perhaps not.  I rather doubt
it.”
The magister leaned back.  “As for the matter of poor Tamelin, I shall attend
to the required consequences myself.  But consider this a warning.”  Myrddin
eyed each wizard in turn; a prolonged, minatory look.  “I shall brook no more
violation of the mentora-lernanto relationship.  Any one of you who, in my
opinion, obstructs or undermines another master’s personal affinity with his
pupil will have his Corannus Watch Instructional Circle membership revoked.”
Several present wizards displayed about as humanly stricken a look as a
Coranéid could effect.  All fidgeted, glanced away.
 
The solid black wall buzzed and shimmered; an instant later a darkly handsome,
stooped and undersized youth wearing an unremarkable brown robe stood before
Myrddin in the latter’s private chambers within the Watch.
You summoned me, Ultermentora, Waryn stated.  The boy’s mental tone effected a
forced deference.
“Yes, Waryn,” the mage replied.  “Please sit down.”  As his student did so, a
black stone stool materialised out of nowhere to support him.  “I am sure you
know why you are here, Lernanto Waryn.”
Yes, Waryn admitted.  But before you start, I would ask you something,
Ultermentora.
Myrddin nodded.
Why, the boy began slowly, as if struggling to contain his anger, did you not
tell me I had to know how to speak before I could work magic? Realmagic, I
mean.  Waryn’s strong jaw worked.  How did you get everyone here to hide the
fact that even some of the worthless magic you let us learn in our
apprenticeship needs to be spoken?
Archimage’s thin pale lips drew tighter.  “All this,” he began, “is but
partially the reason why I have called you here.  To answer your last question
first, the other students were under geas… constrained magically from
blundering into such a demonstration.  Unfortunately for Tamelin, the geas did
not extended to pure magic, only lernantos’ cantrips – and Tamelin has paid the
ultimate price for exceeding his limits.
“But enough of this.  I need not explain myself to you.  What you did in the
library you know was wrong.  No, I need no excuses.  As I said, young Tamelin
has paid the worst price for his mistake, and you are about to pay yours. 
Although I am sure you shall find that it is much less final, it shall be
nonetheless severe.”
Waryn swallowed, sat very still, said nothing.
“I had intended to help you regain your voice, once your studies here were more
or less complete, but I deem it appropriate punishment that I now do not.”
Lower lip trembled, smooth, olive-skinned forehead creased, began to glisten
with perspiration.  Then… what will I do?  You cannot deny me this,
Ultermentora.  How will I ever be able to work true magic if I don’t have a
voice?
“You shall have to determine that for yourself.  There are… other methods.  But
I shall not help you.”
Because you can’t!  Waryn sat stiffly upon his cold seat, glowering at his
master.  You never had any intention of helping me speak!
Myrddin sighed, blinked large golden orbs dispassionately.  “Believe what you
wish, Waryn la Gaiseric – I shall not be able to convince you otherwise.  And
my decision is final.”
Human youth rose slowly to his feet, stood before his master as erect as he
could, held the Coranéid’s stare.  Very well, he acquiesced evenly.  I’ll
finish my last Tradition, take my First Trial, and then I’ll leave this place. 
I already know enough to get back what’s mine, and when I do I’ll figure out
how to get speech for myself.  And I won’t need anyone’s help!  Waryn spun,
muttered an aphonic word, strode through the temporary portal that abruptly
appeared, almost as quickly vanished through the insubstantial wall.
The remaining figure growled, “Thrice-damned, arrogant whelp.  You know
nothing.  And you shall need more assistance than you can possibly imagine.”
                            *          *          *
In the darkened chamber, Waryn waited alone with his thoughts.  They said it
could take days – weeks, even – but he did not care.  He would wait until he
starved to death, if need be – as more than a few other lernantos had done
before him.  He knew that when an apprentice went in here for his Trial, either
a Coranéid came out, or a dead body did.  Typically, it was a corpse.  The
mentoras would take turns monitoring the Chamber of Trials, replenishing his
allowance of bread and water, and they would know the instant he was either
Transformed or dead.  Waryn determined to be the former.
He passed time chiding himself for failing to realise that a major component of
casting a spell – or most proper spells – was verbal.  Since the confrontation
with his mentora he had learned that, besides hand gestures, or somatics, some
magicks required certain substances worked into them in order to engender an
incantation.  Usually, only the Arts of Conjuration and Thaumaturgy used
material catalysts, as well as, obviously, Transmutation; reason being the
aeons-old adage that one could not get something for nothing – or at least make
something out of nothing.  Yet, the verbal aspect…
Waryn could excuse some of his inexcusable ignorance, for specifics were not
taught to students until normally well after their First Trial and successful
Transformation; there were no such things as ‘experimental’ spells.  It would
invariably be suicide for an uninitiated lernanto to attempt a real spell, as
Tamelin had so fatally demonstrated.  The minor magicks trainee-wizards
employed – the cantrips Myrddin mentioned – were but rudimentary arcane
undertakings.  Almost not actual magic at all, they served to keep an initiate
occupied and believing he was learning something – which he was, in truth –
while preparing him for more intense training.  Except for the danger and
extraordinary aptitude required, it had similarities to many mundane, secular
trade apprenticeships: Neophytes served essentially as drudges until they
became journeymen, when they could practise their craft.  Then, the few who
became masters taught the next generation, and so on.
The youth shifted uncomfortably on the hard bed.  He wished he knew what to
expect from his trial.  But everyone’s experience was different – or so the
mentoras told him – thus, none of them could say aught to help.  They had
advised only that he be ready for anything.  Waryn felt ready.  He wished it
were not taking so long.
He turned to the other thing on his mind that the mentoras did disclose, which
had to do with girls.  Two things, actually.  First, in answer to a primary
source of almost all lernantos’ speculation during the entire time they all
spent at the Watch – namely, the absence of girls or women – Myrddin told him
that girls always died during their first Trial, thus the Watch declined to
accept them any longer.  No one could remember the last girl whom had failed;
her name was recorded in the Annals as ‘Porphyryia’, Waryn had read; ‘died at
an age-and-six during First Trial, 554 NTR’.  (Waryn knew that ‘NTR’ stood for
New Time Reckoning, which supplanted the old system of reckoning from the reign
of a king, with the ascendancy of a god of some new faith.)  Aught else was
recorded about her – unsurprising, since no one was required to give any
details about their former life when they arrived.  Still, a puzzle.  They must
simply be too weak, he concluded.
But then, Waryn had asked, why no female servants, even?  As the youth
suspected, Myrddin said they would be largely useless, as those who could not
even use cantrips could not get about in the Watch, given its magical
properties.  Moreover, they would be aught but a distraction to the lernantos,
thus were banned from the Watch regardless.  Waryn could only speculate on what
life may have been like more than twenty-six ages ago – almost three eras!  –
with girls around.  Not that he dwelt much on such thoughts – at least, not
like the other lernantos.  Which brought him to the second part of his
rumination.
He found somewhat more alarming the disclosure that, once a lernanto
Transformed and became Coranéid, he no longer was a he; he became sexless, a
neuter.  Even so, Waryn barely thought twice about giving that up for what he
craved.  Although naturally curious, neither girls or boys ever had much use
for him, and vice-versa.  Peers had always been afraid of him, his disabilities
repellent.  Though to some extent educated by spying on people’s intimate
moments, and of course he had yearnings and discovered masturbation, as most
children do, sex simply did not give Waryn the same thrill as magic.  Indeed,
whilst many of the lernantos at the Watch ‘played around’, and still others
fucked one another bow-legged, Waryn’s limited experimentation confirmed his
disinterest in sex; passing curiosity and ephemeral urges were woefully
insufficient to tempt him to give up magic.  Although he let Tamelin masturbate
him a few times, even allowed the boy to suck his prick more than once –
admittedly, both acts felt better than his own hand – it still did not thrill
him that much.  He had liked it somewhat more when Tam let him – begged him,
practically – to arse-fuck him; but he had hurt the younger boy, and when he
saw the blood on his prick, in addition to the cack stains, he became
nauseated.  Certainly, he would not allow any of that to be done to him; never
had the urge to suck another boy’s prick, either.
On the whole, Waryn felt content with his decision.  He just wished….
 
The youth thought he must have fallen asleep when he suddenly became aware of a
dull pain inside his head.  It felt like a headache but, instead of compressing
his skull, it seemed to be pounding outward, as if there were a live thing
inside his brain trying to escape.  Groaning, he reached for his head; found he
could not move; not a finger, not a muscle, not so much as an eyelid.  Head
began to throb terribly; felt twice its size.  Body ached as well, and he felt
his heartbeat begin to quicken.  Waryn tried using his mental faculties to
regulate his metabolism, but discovered himself unable to do so for the first
time in his life.  Dismayed, the would-be wizard could do naught but endure as
the pain grew intense.  Mind felt molten, insides rearranging; skin on fire,
turning inside-out.  Bones warping, twisting out of shape.  He writhed and
jerked.  Atop the basalt slab, his body arched, collapsed – seemingly into the
very stone itself.  He could not sense anything… save unbearable agony.  Could
not lift a hand in a feeble attempt to keep his dissolving corpse intact.  Not
even scream.
Darkness complete.
 
***** Lianys-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Lianys returns to Courroi, faces more than one confrontation.
 “The lady shall be left to reign alone – the unique one
having been extinguished.  Seven years shall she weep
for grief…” 
      --Nostradamus
 
Returning to Courroi just ahead of the compline supper hour, Lianys rode slowly
up the road between deep, hardened mud wheel-ruts.  Flanked by narrow,
variegated strips of grain and vegetables, whence peasants now prepared to head
home after yet another day’s toil in the fields, it appeared to be life as
usual about the royal residence, even though the best ruler they had known in
some time had departed the people of Franconia.
Lianys’ first reaction to this apparently disrespectful attitude was one of
indignance: How dare they act as if nothing had happened?  But then, she
thought, what right did she have to be angry?  Should the sun mayhap not rise
for a day in memory of the passing of one man, no matter how noble?  Then she
became annoyed at herself for feeling indignant.  Although she had tried to
love Henryc de Payens the only way she knew, she simply could not bring herself
to be sad at the news of his passing.  Perhaps that only proved he had not
meant that much to her after all…?  Yet, she could not help how she felt, and
she was not about to feign a show of grief for the benefit of the kingdom and
its people.  It would serve no purpose, and she had other things to consider. 
Many, in fact.
Whilst some villeins conversed with one another or headed home to their hovels,
several remained, hoeing or erecting men-in-rags – scarecrows that would guard
the fields in their absence.  Children drove small goat herds or flocks of
geese homeward; here and there one chased a pig or chicken from a garden
patch.  The noise, though distant-seeming, felt vaguely comforting.  The strong
smells of the serfs’ meagre suppers of boiled leeks and cabbage, with maybe
some early turnips, overpowered the odours of green crops and ripe animals. 
Lianys caught the odd whiff of cooking rabbit and fish – both poached, although
that had nothing to do with the way they were prepared…
Though a city girl, Lianys knew that all game belonged to the local lord or
lady, whose permission one must obtain to hunt.  Which meant that everything in
the vicinity of Courroi belonged to the crown – as did other ‘royal’ forests
and lands, excepting the demesnes of other landowners, who still owed fealty to
the realm.  Yet, Henryc had always overlooked these illegal procurements, and,
now that she thought about it, neither did she care; none in the royal
household wanted for food.  Let the people take what they would, even if it was
ordinarily punishable by anything from flogging to dismemberment to hanging.
As she rode by rough-clad peasants, most interrupted their tasks, acknowledging
the return of their prodigal queen regent with looks that ranged from sympathy
through curiosity, to sullenness and occasional animosity.  Lianys did not care
much what they thought of her, even though she intended to follow Henryc’s
legacy of caring for them.  More than that, however, she meant to see that this
kingdom became as great as it once was – greater, even, if she could. 
These apathetic fools would take a little pride in themselves, embark once more
upon the road to prosperity and happiness.  And if a sword rammed down their
throats – or up their arses – was what it took to give them a little spine so
they could believe in themselves once again, Lianys would administer it.
Yes, people of Franconia, the woman mentally assured them.  Look upon your
queen.  For I will be Queen…
Dismounting, and leaving her steed in the care of a trembling, silent Régis,
she entered the castle.  Lucius awaited her in the arched vestibule on the
ground floor.  Sweating, even in the draughty castle, the patriarch’s sunken,
reddened eyes flitted nervously.  Lower lip trembled as addressed her: “M-My
Lady, you… you h-have a visitor.”
Lianys offered the cleric a quizzical look.  Deciding his state was only
natural – Father Lucianus Novum had, after all, just lost his closest friend –
she did wonder about the title; they had known each other too long…  “Whoever
it is will have to wait,” she advised him rather sharply.  Curiously, she felt
more sorry for the priest than for herself.
Lucius nodded as if he understood, but as the queen made to pass him up the
winding steps, he grabbed her arm in his surprisingly strong grip.  The
cleric’s jaw quivered, dark eyes filled with tears.  Lianys was shocked; she
had never seen the holy man like this.  He must have been more deeply affected
than she guessed.
“He could not b-bear that you would l-leave him at a time like this, you know,”
he quavered.   “He t-told me he feared you m-might never return—”
“Don’t be stupid – you know I would have come back.”  Despite her denial,
Lianys was not so sure herself.  “And so did he.  I’m here, am I not?”
Lucius appeared as if he wanted to ask her just why that was so, but instead
went on, “He was s-sick before you even l-left.  C-Could you not see that?”
“No, I could not, Lucius.  I’m not a healer, and I’m no seer.  Don’t try to
blame me for this – it’s not my fault.”
“N-Not your…?”  Lucius stared, clutched her arm even tighter.  “But he was—!”
The woman cut him off.  “I’m sorry, Sîan.”  Laid an apologetic hand atop the
one that held her; she could have easily pulled away…  “I did not mean…  Well,
I know how much you meant to each other, and how terrible this must be for
you.  And I am sorry, Lucius.”  She brushed a wisp of greying dark hair from
the archbishop’s pale, pronounced cheekbone, patted his shoulder.  “Truly.” 
Were any of us ever young?
“B-But, what about you?  He was your husband, Lianys…”
“I know that, Lucius.  Just… just let me deal with… this in my own way,
agreed?”
The ageing priest’s mouth worked, hawkish brow knotted.
The queen took a deep breath, changed the subject.  “What… happened, Sîan?”
Lucius’ mistiness turned into a downpour.  He began to babble, bemoan his
helplessness.  Lianys took his hand from her arm, steered the priest into a
nearby antechamber, sat beside him on the stone sill.  It tapered into an
arrow-slit; the thinning sunlight thereby admitted only served to reinforce the
cleric’s melancholy, the keep’s chill.
Lianys took both crippled hands in hers; his were cold, limp.  “Tell me,
Lucius, what happened to him.  You said he was sick…?”
The archbishop composed himself.  Licked lips, wiped bloodshot eyes on black-
robed shoulder.  Cleared his throat, stared vacantly ahead.  Began in a dull
monotone, “After you left, he went into the nursery to tell the children
stories.” 
Tears ran freely down the lined face, though he continued without any other
display of emotion.  “They found him there this m-morning.  Cendryth was asleep
in his lap.  At first Ollya thought he was asleep as well, b-but he was not.” 
Lucius broke down; buried face in twisted hands, wept unashamedly.  “He was d-
dead.  I sh-should have kn-known.  It was m-my fault!  He was w-working too
hard.  I should h-have—”
Gripping both the man’s slumped shoulders, Lianys ordered, not un-gently, “Stop
it, Sîan.  It’s not your fault.  I’m sure you could not have done any more for
him than anyone else.  But tell me: it was…  Was it an… accident?”
An abrupt look of suspicion replaced Lucius’ grief as he lifted his gaze to the
woman.  “Wh-What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
The prelate gulped, blinked, daubed eyes again.  “I… I n-never thought…”
“So you don’t know for sure?”
Lucius shook his head.  “No, I…”  Lined face began to regain some of its deep
olive hue, then paled once more.  “You… You think he could have been… p-
poisoned?  M-Murdered?”
“It’s been known to happen, Sîan.”
“Well… there were no m-marks, but…”
“But then you did not look very closely, did you?  You did not use any mag—any
miracle-power?”
“No,” the patriarch admitted.  “There… s-seemed no need.  Why would…?”
Lianys got up.  “I’m sure you can think of one or two reasons, Lucius.  Every
monarch, however well-liked, has enemies.  And the Band… still has enemies. 
I’d… I’d like to see him.  Where is he?”
“I had him taken to your r-room.  He…  He is on the b-bed.”  The priest looked
away, through the narrow aperture into the gathering darkness, expression
vacillating between disbelief, consternation, distress.
The former night-thief leaned, kissed her old adventuring companion’s time-worn
cheek; essayed a smile.  “Get some sleep, Sîan – you look terrible.  I’ll take
care of… of everything.”
Weakly, Lucius nodded, made no move.  Lianys left him, mounted the stairs to
her bedchamber.  A roaring fire provided light to see, heat enow to warm the
still corpse lying upon the suspended pallet – at which she avoided looking
immediately.  First, she opened a window.  Turning to the bed, she dragged her
gaze from the sunset vista outside.  Henryc reposed in a half-sitting posture
against the pillows, hands folded on chest, golden cross on a chain tangled in
his fingers – doubtless placed there by Lucius – slight smile on pale
features.  At first annoyed by the veneration – Lianys did not believe in their
‘One True God’ – she swallowed her resentment; it had been, after all, Henryc’s
faith.  She stepped closer; observed her spouse’s expression, skin, even opened
one eye, then the other.  Closed them.
Understandable how the old nurse had mistaken him for being merely in repose;
with more than a slight pang, Lianys thought her husband had never looked so
contented in all the years of their association.  It seemed quite unlikely that
he had been assassinated, especially not by poison; the ex-burglar had seen
what toxins did to humanoids; invariably ghastly to look upon.  Yet, his skin,
though sallow, appeared otherwise normal, eyes not bloodshot, features far from
the horrendous death grimace often induced by poison.  Henryc appeared, simply,
too happy.  No doubt he had died in his sleep, a somnolent child curled in his
lap.
The queen swallowed an enlarging lump.  Rather fitting, after all the Band had
been through, that Henryc de Payens should go this way: to pass Beyond easily
in his sleep, with a child in his arms – all, it seemed, that he had ever
wanted. 
More than riches, which were fleeting and had meant almost nothing to him –
aside from what they could do for the comfort of others, and without which he
was quite content – having that, at least, in common with her.  More than fame,
which might last somewhat longer, then again might not.
Lianys took his hands (they were so cold, stiff) between hers.  She said,
recalling a moment of some three ages ago, “Remember the first time you took my
hand like this, Henryc?  We were so young.”  The woman shed not a single tear,
nor did her voice crack once.  “And you thought you could fix everything.”  She
inhaled deeply through her nose, a sort of drawn-out sniff, expelled it
likewise; resumed her private eulogy.
“Henryc, I’m sorry I could not love you the way you wanted me to.  And I’m
sorry you’ll never see your daughter – you’ll never even know…”  Lianys
swallowed hard, determined not to lose control.  “Good-bye, Henryc.  You don’t
have to try to take responsibility for me or to make the world right any more. 
We’re both out of your hands now.”  With that she leaned over, kissed the dead
knight’s icy brow.  Straightening as she replaced his hands, sighed again.
“I shall raise him!”  The shout came from behind her, startling Lianys into a
violent reaction.
Lucius!  The prelate raced past her, toward the bed.
“No!”  Putting away her knives, Lianys interposed; grabbed and restrained him.
A strange light shone from the cleric’s dark eyes, a mad look upon his face she
found quite disturbing.
“I will do it!”  He tried to pull away from her.  “It is God’s Will!”
Lianys became angered.  “But it’s not my will, Sîan!”  Yanked on his arm,
keeping him from the bed; though strong, so was she.  “And I don’t think it
would be Henryc’s.”
Jerking his arm from her grasp, the priest turned on her.  “What do you know of
His will, Jezebel?  Luring him away from his Calling with your evil!” 
At first unsure as to whom he referred – friend or god – she had no time to
contemplate as the priest’s tirade intensified.  For the nonce he made no
further move toward the paladin’s body, so Lianys forbore grabbing him again.
Dark eyes held more than a glimmer of madness.  “I shall raise him and give him
to the Church, from whence he ought not to have strayed.  Away from your
clutches and vile purposes!”
The priest’s sudden vituperation stunned Lianys; they had never exactly been
friends, but…  “No, you won’t, Sîan!”  Like a striking snake she moved between
the priest and the bed.  “No one will raise him!”  Softened her tone as the
crazed light slowly dimmed in Lucius’ eyes.  “He is gone to his peace, so let
him rest.  Can you not see that, Sîan?”  Gesturing toward her husband’s body,
she went on, “He is happy… there… wherever he is.  He would not want to come
back.  You can see that, can’t you?”
Lucius appeared to be wavering; she tried a different tactic, reasoning tone. 
“Your Beyond – heaven – is supposed to be a much nicer place than this world,
isn’t it?”
Slowly, the archbishop appeared to return to himself.  Nodded, rasped, “Yes.”
“Then should you not leave him there, with his god – your God – where he ought
to be?”
“Yes, I…  But his work here is not done!”
“Lucius, stop!”
Rekindling fire in black eyes abruptly died.
Lianys entreated, “Is anyone’s?  Ever?”
“No, I suppose…”  Lucius broke down.  “God save me!  God h-help me, Lianys, wh-
what am I to do?  What will we… do?”  The ageing cleric collapsed into her
arms.
Once, she would have been uncomfortable with such a display of emotion. 
Withal, for once, she took some comfort in it herself.
Some time later, alone again in her room with her husband’s still corpse, she
took a moment to question herself: Why had she been so vehement in her
insistence that Lucius make no attempt to resurrect Henryc?  With the priest
apparently recovered and setting about preparations for the knight-cum-king’s
funeral, Lianys found it curious there had been no one about the castle this
time of day – now well after supper time, by all accounts.  A final glance at
her erstwhile spouse, a threatened tear angrily banished, she made her way
downstairs, into the great hall.  Strangely empty of children and diners, the
trestle tables not even erected, let alone draped or set, no sign of servants
or courtiers going about their interminable, incomprehensible business.  She
put it down to a form of mourning for Henryc.
But there was someone in the hall.  Of course; Lucius had told her when she had
arrived that she had a visitor.  The figure faced away from her, apparently
gazing into the low fire.  Though stooped, above-average height remained
discernible; lean frame draped in floor-length, light grey robes, hood down,
revealing a paucity of shining silver-grey hair; hands, long and very pale,
clasped behind its back.
As the figure turned upon her entrance, it brought to mind someone.   She
halted abruptly, held her breath in momentary surprise.  Myrddin!  But, no, not
the magician she knew well.  Although she had met but a thimbleful of Coranéid
in her life, and they all looked very much alike, this one was different. 
Younger, somehow – if not a contradiction in a purportedly immortal being.  Her
visitor appeared somewhat shorter than her former adventuring companion, but
mayhap only an illusion affected by his posture – apparently due to lameness or
deformity.  Moreover, in contrast to Myrddin’s normally steadfastly neutral, if
perhaps haughty, expression, this creature’s saurian eyes and foreign aspect
evidenced a rather cynical demeanour.
Lianys found voice.  “Who… are you?”
The wizard did not answer; tried staring her down with those damnable eyes. 
Though some believed they appeared cat-like, Coranéids’ eyes reminded her of
lizards’.
“What do you want?” the woman pressed.
You are the one who calls herself Queen of Franconia.  Not a question but a
statement, seeming to spring from the back of Lianys’ mind, bypassing auditory
faculties.  Nonetheless, the ex-adventuress was not taken by complete surprise;
she knew that Myrddin and a few others – human, Coranéid, and creatures not
even vaguely either – were capable of such non-verbal communication.
“I am Queen Lianys of Franconia,” she replied coolly, deliberately omitting
‘Regent’ from her title; this Coranéid’s attitude annoyed her.  “And I’ll thank
you to use normal speech if you want to talk to me.”  Wizards may rattle the
common folk – thus explaining the hall’s emptiness – but this one would get no
such reaction from her; she had known one for too long to be afraid of them on
sight.  Granted, they could be exceedingly dangerous, if they were experienced
at their inborn professions.  Even so, in this one she sensed… rawness. 
Withal, their reputations, as usual, credited them with more notoriety than
most members of an uncommon race deserved.
Ignoring her request, the voice went on: Where is the supposed king?
“Gaiseric is dead – and so is King Reg—King Henryc.  You’ll state your business
to me.”
The wizard stared at her.  It evoked feelings of discomfort, long-thought
conquered, similar to those once engendered by Myrddin when she first met him. 
Yet, this one’s gaze was somehow more intense, as if the stranger could look
into one’s soul, read all hidden there.
Maybe he can, Lianys thought suddenly, immediately masking her subconscious,
just as Myrddin had taught the Band to do.  Yet, the ‘voice’ still got through.
I see you’re telling the truth.  Very clever of you, to block off your thoughts
like that – I wonder where you learned it?  But it doesn’t matter – you’re too
late.  I suppose if I’m to deal with you, then so be it.
Angrily, Lianys approached the robed figure.  “Look,” she grated, “I told you,
if you want to talk with me, do it aloud.  You can start by telling me who in
the Nine Hells you are!”
The wizard appeared somewhat taken aback that she would dare face him at less
than an armslength.  Pupils dilated, contracted.  Lianys braced herself for
signs of an arcane attack, which did not come.  Instead, her non-human visitor
smiled – at least, though she had rarely seen Myrddin essay a grin, Lianys
recognised the expression as perhaps the closest a Coranéid could exhibit to
mirth.
I’m sorry if the way I communicate annoys you, lady.  Did Lianys detect a tinge
of sarcasm in the title?  But it’s the only way I can.  And my name is Waryn la
Gaiseric.  The wizard stood unmoving, unblinking.
At first, the woman did not make the connection, ere her eyes widened, just a
little, in scepticism.
Yes, lady, that Waryn la Gaiseric.  And I’m here to claim my rightful place.
“Wha…?  You’re… you what?”
You understood me.  I’m the rightful King of Franconia.
Lianys snorted.  “How in the Nine Hells do expect me to believe that?  I know
for a fact that Waryn la Gaiseric was a normal—well, a crippled human child,
not some thrice-damned, lizard-eyed magic-user!”  One hand made a dismissive
gesture.  “So go back to wherever it is you were spawned and leave me alone. 
I’ve better things to do than converse with a crazy mage who cannot even
speak!”  Turned her back on the Coranéid, made to leave.
Please stay, Queen Lianys of Franconia, the mental voice cajoled.  The tone was
all at once pleasant, a soft, musical sort of lilt to it.  The woman found
herself pausing, momentarily glamoured.  You and I have much in common, and so
much to discuss.  Surely we can be reasonable about this.
Lianys’ temper piqued.  Whirling on the mage, hissed, “So, trying to throw a
charm on me, are you?”  Body tensed in a ready crouch; hands crept
infinitesimally toward hidden weapons.  “I could cut your throat for that.”
But you won’t…
“It didn’t work, Coranéid,” Lianys rasped.  To prove her point, she produced a
steel one; approached the minor wizard, held the weapon at pale throat.  “You
see?”  Glared up into widened, golden eyes.  “I could not do this if I were
under your power.  So now you’d better tell me what you really want or just get
out of here, for I’ve always been curious to see the colour of a Coranéid’s
blood.”  An untruth; Lianys knew Coranéid bled just as crimson as humans, as
Myrddin had (unwillingly) often demonstrated during their adventures.
If it were possible, her visitor’s skin would have paled just then, Lianys was
certain.  His confidence appeared to have suffered badly.  The woman took
satisfaction intuiting that this was a weak and inexperienced magician,
unaccustomed to having his spells resisted.
Withal, the Coranéid went on, mentally whining, But IamWaryn la Gaiseric.  And
I will have what’s rightfully mine!
Lianys sheathed her poignard, stood erect, returned cheerfully, “Are you now?” 
Although she was not convinced, she decided that her visitor’s ostensible
lameness and aphonia fit.  Of course, they could easily have been faked… 
“Well, why did you not say so in the first place?  Have a seat, Waryn la
Gaiseric.”  She took a stool near the hearth, the Coranéid following suit
rather hesitantly; Lianys noted that he indeed limped, though not as pronounced
as she understood the lost princeling had suffered.  Looking around, demanded
of no one in particular, “Where in the Nine Hells has everyone gone?  A lady
cannot even get a thrice-damned drink around here.”  Lianys thought she caught
a glimpse of a dark figure spying on them from the gallery above.  “Carles! 
Come down here, damn you.  Bring us some wine!”
I… need nothing.
“I know that,” Lianys replied, a little testily.  Softened tone once more. 
“Yes, I know; you Coranéid need not eat, drink, or sleep – you hardly even
breathe, for godssake.  But I do.”  Sighing, Lianys shrugged.  “I don’t know
how you can even call yourselves alive,” she opined.  “But I know much about
your kind.  In fact I’ve known one of you for ages – still do, I suppose,
though I haven’t seen him for a long time now…  But you must tell me, Waryn la
Gaiseric, how you come to be in this guise.”
It’s no disguise! he began to deny.  Regaining his composure right away,
amended, I’m not allowed to say.  Will you tell me how you know about my
‘kind’?
“Hmmph.  I know it’s not a dis-guise.  I once travelled with a Coranéid.  His
name is Myrddin.”
Waryn’s inhuman features evidenced complete surprise.  But… How…?  My mentora… 
Myrddin is my Mentora.  How could you know him?  You’re not—
“Really?  You mean he changed you into that?”
No, he…  He taught me about magic, and… and I changed myself into… this.
“Hmm.”  Lianys became chary; for this boy-wizard to have learned from Myrddin…
Just then a dark-haired youth in a plain buckram tunic entered the hall from
the direction of the kitchen, carrying a pewter tray upon which a large, lidded
flagon and two empty goblets rattled.  Halting several paces from the seated
pair, he came nervously forward at Lianys’ order.  Amusing, how the servant
attempted to remain as far from her guest as possible whilst bringing
refreshments to his liege; reminding Lianys of the the general populace’s fear
of Coranéid – no wonder everyone had vanished!  The woman took the tray, waved
Carles away.
Relieved, the boy all but sprinted back to the kitchen.
Serving herself, she sampled it over-heartily, pretended not to notice her
visitor’s rather forlorn gaze at the other cup.  She took pity; filled and
offered it to him.  The acolyte magician accepted – snatched it, almost – with
evident relish. 
She was not surprised; Myrddin had occasionally exhibited a connoisseur’s
appreciation for the fruit of the vine.  However, she also knew that more than
a half-gill or so of alcohol – as well as more than a bite or two of any sort
of comestible – had seriously adverse effects on a Coranéid.  Exactly what, she
was unsure, as Myrddin had never over-indulged in her presence (much to her
disappointment).  She wondered how much experience the youthful Coranéid had
with spirits – before or after he became a mage.  Not much either way, she
suspected, even if he was indeed Waryn la Gaiseric.
The acolyte magician sipped enthusiastically, resumed, But how did you come to
‘travel’ with my Mentora?
“We were—are both members of the Nonagon.”
For an instant, the youthful magic-user appeared awed, then suspicious.  The…
Nonagon?
Lianys, watching him curiously, confirmed with but a nod.  Though he seemed
familiar with her former adventuring band, she could not know how he knew of
it, namely by reading, mostly, at the Watch.  Its library contained more than
magical texts and treatises, and, once Waryn learned to read, he consumed them
all like the starving wolf cub he once resembled.
Nonetheless, apparently undaunted, he pressed his demands anew.  Will you give
me what is mine?
Re-sampling her own wine, Lianys confirmed to herself she preferred it heated. 
She grimaced, looked at the trifling kurcist; just this side of a glare.  “And
what would that be?”
My father’s kingdom.
Lianys set her winecup aside on the hearthstone, kept her gaze steady on the
boy-wizard.  “You keep saying that.  But how do I know you are who you say you
are?”
You and your husband stole my father’s kingdom – my kingdom!  And you probably
killed him, too.
So, he also knew that Henryc had taken over – his reluctance to do so
notwithstanding.  She wondered what more this being actually knew about
Gaiseric and Franconia’s recent history, however.  Deciding to test, him she
demanded,
“Now why would we do that?  And if we did, why did not we kill you while we
were at it?”
I… I don’t know.  And I don’t care.  I want back what’s mine!
Lianys pondered.  Her first instinct, to peel the haughtiness from this… wizard
with a sharp knife, passed.  She sensed more of a helpless, confused boy than a
dangerous mage – although whether he was actually who he professed to be…  It
was possible, she conceded; he seemed to have information that not many others
would possess.  Thus, decided upon a different course.
“First,” the former adventurer remonstrated, sitting forward on her stool, “no
one was killed.  Your father – if he was your father – died sometime before my
hus—Henryc and his party arrived here.  He was beyond even a healer-priest’s
help.”  Lianys placed a fist palm-down on the warm stone hearth, uncurling one
finger at a time.  “Second, a steward named Hamai held the kingdom – whether by
Gaiseric, or from him, we don’t know.  The man has never been found or
identified.  Third, Henryc and I assumed rulership of this sorry kingdom only
because there was no one else suitable.  Perhaps, despite Prince Waryn’s…
handicaps, we could have made something of him, but he ran away.”
He did not run away!  He was—I was… sent away!
Lianys had a different story from Henryc.  “By whom?” she demanded.
By…  Oh, I don’t know.  But… they… they made me go!
“Made you?  How did they make you?  Who made you?”
The young Coranéid looked confused.  I… I don’t know, he repeated.  But it
doesn’t matter.  I’m Waryn and I’m here now!
“So you say.”  Lianys’ voice became a whisper.  “But as it stands, until a
suitable claimant can be identified for certain, I am Queen of Franconia.”
Rising to his feet, pale alien features mottled, the Coranéid mentally shouted,
I am suitable!  You aren’t the true sovereign of Franconia.  And I don’t
believe any of what you say!
The woman responded casually, in her prior, quiet tone.  “Do you not, now? 
Then why not read my mind to see if I’m telling the truth?  I’ll let you—”
I’ll not hear any more!  You and your husband are guilty of regicide and
usurping my father’s throne.  And you were responsible for keeping me in the
dungeons of this cursed place for nearly two whole winters!  There now seemed
little doubt of the Coranéid’s true identity; not many could have known about
the boy-prince’s ordeal.  And if you don’t give me my rightful place, I’ll…
I’ll take it!
Trying not to smile at the boy’s naïve indignance, Lianys responded, “Oh?” 
Retained the same easy posture.  “How will you do that?  Will you try to charm
me again?  You’ll have to think of something more effective—”
Lay yourselves… down to sleep… my little ones.  Sleep is all… you need right
now… till morning comes.  All you need… till morning comes.  May the Sisters
bless… and keep you safe.  From all dangers… great and small… Papa and I… will
keep you all.
Should the attempt to magically sleep her not have been so pathetic, Lianys
might have been angry.  Instead, she sprang to her feet, grabbed the tall
being, had him trussed like a sheaf of grain, bent and flung over her square
shoulders, dumped in the dust outside the castle gates ere the surprised mage
could do aught.  Ordering them shut for the night, Lianys sought her long
delayed supper. 
                  *                   *                    *
They buried Henryc de Payens next day just outside the keep in the grounds of
the small chapel he and Lucius had invested and consecrated two summers ago. 
As the Archbishop of Anvers commenced the ceremony, Lianys morbidly found
herself wondering who, amongst the Band, would fall next.  More importantly –
incongruously so – where.
The first had been Ceallach Llewellyn’s husband, Kaern Finnbaign; he had died
ages ago – and yet, in a way, it could also be said that it was aeons past… 
The fighter had been the first of the Nonagon to succumb to the rigours of
their profession – his indirect manner of passing notwithstanding.  Strange,
though, because neither of the Band’s casualties thus far had gone in a way
that might have been expected: Kaern, poisoned by the deadly atmosphere of
another time and place, whilst Lianys’ husband died peacefully in his sleep,
far from dank caverns and deadly creatures of subterranean night (or, for that
matter, sun-blessed daylight).
Lianys, squinting through the open portal of the tomb, observed the big, bright
disc of the setting midsummer sun.  A warm breeze whipped her dark hair and
cloak, yet she clutched the mantle tighter about her shoulders, as though, for
an instant, resisting a tug of the grave herself…
“…and look into your hearts,” Lucius intoned.  “See Jaweh, the One True God,
there within every one of us.  He is with us from birth unto death, and beyond
into Heaven, where you will join him at His Father’s side.  Let not thoughts of
your inevitable passing rob you of all hope.  Immanuel Christos has shown that
there is life Beyond, for whomever shall believe in Him.  ‘For I am the Way,
the Truth, and the Life; whomsoever shall believeth in me, though were he dead,
yet shall he live.’”
For the first time in her life, Lianys almost wished she could so believe.
***** Ome-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Witness a dedication ritual to a new (old) Menkali deity.
Chapter Notes
     Apologies for odd, double-spaced formatting of some songs. I cannot
     figure out how to make them consistent (or why they aren't in the
     first place).
                        “Put on your beautiful clothes –
                                    the day of happiness has arrived
                        Comb the tangles from your hair;
                                    put on your most attractive clothes
                                    and your splendid leather
 
                        Hang great pendants from the lobes of your ears,
                                    put on a good belt,
                                    string garlands around your shapely throat,
                                    put shining coils on your plump upper arms
 
                        Glorious you will be seen,
                                    for none is more beautiful here in this
altepetl,
                                    the seat of Malīnalxōchitl
 
                        I love you, Beautiful Lady
                        I want you to be seen;
                                    in truth you are very alluring
                        I compare you to the smoking star,
                                    because they desire you up to the moon
                                    and in the fields of flowers
 
                        Pure and white are your clothes, maiden
                        Go, give happiness with your laugh,
                                    put goodness in your heart,
                                    because today is the moment of happiness;
                                    all people put their goodness in you” [1]
 
One did not have to look upon death too many times to recognise when it came
upon another.  For Ome, the sight had become so rote that she now felt only
curiosity, to determine – or recall – how this-or-that one died.  Poisonous
creature?  Sacrificial blade?  Suffocated with her cock down its throat? 
Though usually one of the first things she observed, this day felt different
from the moment she awoke: Instead of looking carefully about to see if her bed
had been invaded during the night, thence to the status of her guards, Ome
looked for Neca, her invited bedmate.
Extraordinary, how the high priestess thought of the slave by name, rather than
merely ordering whichever teocalli happened to be nearest – be it bedmate or
guard – to bring sandals and chamberpot closer.  If they moved instantly she
knew they were not dead or asleep – for which latter wrongdoing  they would be
sacrificed anyway.  If not…
If not, she would look more closely – as she did this tonatehua, peering at the
slave’s head, eyes closed, slumped on her shoulder.  Rudely probing at the
girl’s cleft, she sought a reaction, which she got: faint moan.  Apparently,
Neca found Ome’s special concoction of atextli a little too potent as yet. 
Regardless, the First did not abide laziness – although she would ordinarily by
now have cuffed a teocalli, minimum…
Sitting up carefully and stretching, now following a cursory examination of her
surrounds for uninvited bedfellows, as well as to discern whether her guards
stood at attention, commanded, “Neca will get up now.”  Thought to tweak
painted nipples and perhaps do a little more, but their makeup would be
ruined.  Stood instead, whence a teocalli held her sandals on a mat atop cool
stone floor.  Slipping into them, she leaned to strike the drowsy bed-guard
opposite; bade him rouse Neca whilst demanding of the one at her feet, “Slave
will place the cuitlácamitl,” even though she would trip over the ‘shit pot’ if
she took a step.  Squatting to relieve herself – her urethra being in her
ihuayo, whereas in certain other tepule ciuatl (Yaōtl, for example) it might be
located in their tepolli – Ome waited for the slave to wipe her, rinse her
hands from an apilolli water jar, finally drape her shoulders with a light
huepilli.  Accepted breakfast of atextli, beans, and maize tortillas smeared
with neuctli, the nectar of the bee.
Neca, rising to a seated position, looked about, blinking groggily, expression
as though she could not quite grasp her situation.
“Come, Neca.”  Ome kicked a slave.  “Slave will fetch Neca’s breakfast!  Neca,
we will commence the proceedings, and then on to the temazcalli.  After that,
we return for Moqua.”
All Menkali, save for certain priestly sects, bathed at least daily in the
‘steam house’.  Naturally, slaves always accompanied nobility, albeit as… well,
slaves, not companions.  Ome customarily took at least two teocalli everywhere;
if an ‘accident’ occurred, one would fetch another from the inexhaustible
supply… somewhere.  Though not unusual for her to bring a guest as well – most
often Yaōtl – this morning waxed more and more exceptional.
Today, Ome would purify the main temple by smudging with copalli incense, as
well as reciting ritual ‘flowery song’ with the Xochitlatoanime, the Flower
Speakers.  Mostly intended to adjure the gods, this time the ceremony would
additionally coax all resident creatures from their hiding places; Ome had
special abodes prepared for them.
The rite took most of the morning, during which three teocalli and one Flower
Speaker were stung or bitten, two dying almost immediately.  Ome thus
pronounced the time auspicious when the sun reached its most favourable height,
somewhat before midday.  She could do so even in a windowless building due to
small apertures strategically created in the stonework, which allowed the sun’s
golden teotlanextli to journey up and along its walls.  Thereupon, markings
indicated Tonatiu’s position in his daily sojourn through Tezcatlipoca’s realm
into the underworld of Mictlancuiatl.  Light – and some heat, to warm chilly
stonework – otherwise provided by smoky central fire and resin torches.
During the sun god’s trip to his zenith, guests arrived dressed in their
finest: Garments of ichcatl – material woven from puffy white plant fibre balls
imported from west of Menkalinan proper – most dyed in shades of green and
blue, the favoured colours for luck and wealth.  Pieces of leather, stained
reds, browns, yellows, provided other decoration.  Armbands, pendant earrings,
tongue and lip piercings, heavy necklaces of gold, copper, turquoise, jade,
obsidian; seashells and painted clay ornaments; nose- and earplugs or -rings of
like materials, whilst ornamental, also displayed status and wealth.  Most had
hair done in the stylish neaxtlāhualli, some sprinkled with glittering gold- or
copper dust.  And feathers.  Certain high nobility or warriors had the right to
wear headdresses of especially eagle or quetzal feathers, from a few simple
plumes in their hair, or perhaps a stiff ‘crown’ of mixed plumage, to a huge
fan shape framing black mizquixāhual painted face.  Only the king wore the
latter this day; priests solely during their gods’ special ceremonies; almost
never women, even Firsts.  Nonetheless, Ome donned the crown style, of
interwoven tree sprigs, from which about two dozen blue-green quetzal feathers
sprouted, most about half the length of her forearm; two pair of tail feathers,
twice as long as the rest, angled slightly left and right, over her forehead. 
A large turquoise jewel, set in gold, adorned the front.  Kings – ajawi – of
all the major subjugated and allied altepetli save three, wore the fan type.
Meanwhile, indispensable musicians – drums, whistles, rattles – strode about
the periphery playing devotional music.
Yaōtl outdid everyone, the murmured consensus went, in his close-fitting body
suit armour of scaled maguey fibre, greaves of leather strips, bearing
colourful round shield also decorated with cuāutl feathers, as well as
obligatory spear and macuahuitl; white-and-brown made-up face grinned
intimidatingly from beak-helm fashioned from the head of a giant eagle.  The
rest of the tōtōtl’s neck, all the way to tail feathers, flowed down his back;
wings attached to arms; formidable taloned feet to greaves at the knee. 
Warrior also sported wooden earlobe and nose-plugs, denoting his relatively low
rank as recent initiate.  Even so, he outshone Huey Ocēlōtl, the Great Jaguar
Warrior himself, who did not deign to greet him, especially as Yaōtl joined the
procession a step behind Ome at its head.
All marched round the central fire pit and altar; everyone, even kings,
barefoot, as required in temples.  All save Ome.  Looks of approbation
intensified, especially since Neca, attired as pīpiltin yet with slave hairdo,
promenaded with the new Eagle Warrior.  High priestess, as Achto of this
canahuacantli, led by right, but should have been followed by kings, then
Firsts of other temples, according to prominence in the Menkali pantheon. 
Certainly, no slave should be anywhere near such a ceremony, save to carry
master’s or mistress’ train, or fan them.  Most especially not dressed as
nobility.
Aside from Neca, teocalli strewed flowers at the principles’ feet as the
cortege strode about the relatively spacious main chamber.  Whilst favoured
guests had the right to participate in the promenade, the rest could only
watch, although they joined prayerful choruses of ‘Ohuaya ohuaya!’ as the
principles sang:
 
                        “Flowers descend to Nican;
                        Life Giver sends them,
                                    sacred yellow flowers
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
 
                        Let all be adorned – Princes, Lords
                        Life Giver sends them,
                                    these wailing piles of sacred flowers,
                                    these golden flowers
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
                       
                        What do our hearts want on Nican?
                        Heart pleasure
                        Life Giver, let us borrow your flowers,
                                    these golden flowers,
                                    these wailing flowers
                        No one can enjoy them forever,
                                    for we must depart
                        Ahuaye ohuaya ohuaya!
                       
                        Though they may be gold,
                                    you will hide them;
                        Though they may be your jades,
                                    your plumes,
                                    we only borrow them;
                        No one can enjoy them forever,
                                    for we must depart
                        Ahuaye ohuaya ohuaya!
 
                        O friends, to a good place we have come to live,
                                    in springtime
                        In that place a very brief moment;
                                    so brief is life!”
 
Ome took the next verse by herself, singing in a strong contralto:
 
                        I, Yoyontzin, say, ‘Here our hearts are glad.
                                    ‘Friends, we have come to know each other,
                                    ‘and each other’s beautiful words.
                                    ‘Yet, they are also dark.’
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
 
            All:     Yes, I suffer, I grieve;
                        I am joyless, inconsolable on Nican
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
 
                        I am a hawk!
                        My heart longs for Life Giver’s glory!
                        Here on Nican, Lords are born,
                                    and rule through his glory
                        Ohuaya ohuaya! [2]
 
As they marched and opening ceremonies concluded, guests stripped away clothing
and regalia, slaves taking everything away whilst others placed flowers in
patrons’ hair, behind ears, garlands around necks.  All guests now naked save
sparse jewellery and bouquets – one could now see that body paint resembled a
panoply of flowers, some stylised, like Ome’s – First of Ometeotl soloed a
final prayer song accompanied only by music, although all took up the chorus:
 
                       “Flowers are our only garments –
                                    only songs make our pain subside –
                                    diverse flowers on Nican
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
                       
                        Perhaps my friends will be lost,
                                    my companions will vanish
                                    when I lie down in this place;
                                    I, Yoyontzin – Ohuaye! –
                                    in this place of song and of Life Giver
                        Ohuaya ohuaya!
                       
                        Does no one know where we are going?
                        Do we go to the home of the gods,
                                    or do we live only here on Nican?
                        Ah, ohuaya!
                       
                        Let your hearts know,
                                    oh Princes, oh Eagles and Jaguars
                                    that we will not be friends forever;
                                    only for a moment here, then we go
                                    to Life Giver’s home
                        Ohuayaohuaya! [3]
 
Procession headed outdoors to nearby temazcalli, whence citizens lined wide,
cobbled streets in midday heat, observing their ornamented yet nude betters,
perhaps seeking a small acknowledgement, a gesture, to take as good fortune. 
Though not quite solemn, the atmosphere felt far from festive; trepidation
paced the entourage, almost as if the populace looked upon these rather unusual
rites with ambivalence, uncertain of the gods’ acceptance.  Ome sensed their
disquiet, interpreting it as awareness that they witnessed something momentous
– beyond the dedication of a temple.
Cortege arrived at the steam baths, a large – though much smaller than the
temple – squarish wattle-and-daub building, with a rounded, kiln-like brick
addition built onto one side.  Over the small wooden-arched entrance leered the
stone carved, painted visage of Tlazoltéotl, ‘Filth Eater’.  Around opposite
wall a pool had been constructed, clay walls barely knee high, kept filled
either with rain water or that hauled by slaves from nearby fountain-aqueduct
system.  Partially located inside the temazcalli, slaves would toss water
against heated interior wall to make steam.
Teocalli would perform additional services for their patrons, such as lathering
bodies with the fruit of the copalxocotl soap tree, else the foaming sap of the
xiuhamolli plant’s roots.  Upon rinsing, later towelling, they also beat master
or mistress with bundled twigs or dry grass, especially back, buttocks, legs. 
Thus, with Tlazoltéotl’s help, evil spirits of disease and bad luck would be
exorcised by means of such – oft twice daily – ritual.
Whereas most Menkali households had their own private temazcalli, whence
perhaps two adults and one or two children could squat simultaneously, this
edifice served as the communal baths, hence boasted room aplenty for the two
dozen-or-so nobles and their slaves.  Inside, though rather plain with
featureless walls and a few raised stone platforms and benches – paint would
not stick to perpetually hot, moist surfaces – patrons could stand erect and
move about.  Even one as large – for a Menkali – as Yaōtl.
Thus did the new warrior stand in naked prominence before First in steamy
fitful torchlight.  “Yoyontzin,” he greeted, wide grin intact upon white-brown
painted eagle features.
No trace of Conetl remained in the young adult.  Cuāutli’s muscled torso, arms,
legs, appeared carved of mizquitl wood as an artist’s interpretation of perfect
youthful masculinity, despite small chichi swells on chest and pursed cleft
below proud tepolli.  Dark hair shorn on the sides in cuachichictli warrior
style left a ridge crest stiffened with mizquitl sap.  Cock reared half-ready;
Ome tried to keep avid gaze from it as she answered, tongue moistening upper
lips withal:
“‘Beloved Fucker’ yourself, Moz—ay ay, your pardon, Yaōtl Cuāutl.”  Slight nod
from whence she sat near pool’s edge; this, the temazcalli’s cooler side. 
Neca, now performing normal slave duties, soaped her mistress.  Ome continued,
“Enjoyed you your night of sleeping alone in barracks of stone?”
Yaōtl returned her hungry look – barely any of it engendered by the fact that,
unlike her, he had been fasting since the night before.  Observed, “No
different than your barracks of stone, Achto Ixiptla.  Maybe a little smaller,
like My First.”  Teasing tone emerged through white teeth; ever since he
outgrew her, he had always jokingly disparaged her endowments – with the
exception of her modest chichi – compared to his own.  The youth very likely
the only person in all of Nican nowadays able to talk to her that way and avoid
a trip to the sacrificial pyre.
“Chichitzin will sit,” she returned, a note of pique in her own voice not quite
masked by the pleasure she felt in seeing him.  “Neca will wash the nepoaliztli
Cuāutli.”
Warrior, failing to note her use of the slave’s name, exclaimed in mock
outrage, “‘Tiny tits’?!”  Sat not-quite touching her sweaty thigh.  “And
‘proud’?”  Sighed.  “Well, perhaps the former.   Maybe the latter, too.” 
Nuzzled her neck, murmuring, “Tepollitzin.”
Ome shivered, despite steam building to obfuscating clouds.  He had, of course,
just called her ‘Tiny Cock’.  “Chichitzin will stop – the time for Moqua is not
yet.”
Yaōtl sighed again, though not ere he breathed into her ear, flicked tongue
inside, tickling lobe.  “But I wish to start now.”
“Yaōtl Cuāutl will stop.”
When she used that tone, along with full name or title, most people, including
man-boy warrior, knew one had better obey.  Returning somewhat sulkily, “As
Noche Achto commands,” he leaned back.
Despite his compliance, the priestess’ resolve nearly disintegrated along with
paint powders as Neca began to vigourously wash the young fighter.  Ome
controlled herself, endeavouring to slide a tiny bit farther from him in order
to observe – wrenching a knee away from his as if seared by the glowing wall
some twenty paces away.  Clearing her throat, inhaled several breaths of
purifying steam.
“Does… <ahem>  Does Yaōtl like our Neca?”
“Your what?”
“This slave – its—her name is Neca.  We have named it.  Her.”  Ome began to
feel confused; no wonder the warrior’s expression evinced same.
“Achto Tetotopixqui Ixiptla Malīnalxōchitl named a slave?”
Ome, glancing away, scuffed a bare foot along slick, warm stonework.  “We did. 
What of it?”  Challenging look returned to brace his questioning one.
In response, he held both hands palm up, fingers spread, over mostly-wilted
cock in lap; gesture shewing potential enemies that one held no weapon, no ill
intent; nothing.  Likewise innocent countenance.  “Acte, acte, Achto.” 
Needling inflection remained, overlying residual petulance.  “Let me see it.
 Slave will—Neca, is it?”  He asked Ome, not the teocalli herself.
Former replied, “Yes.  It—she says her name is Necāhual.”
Older, roundish slave – naked, as were all in the temazcalli – stood head down
before seated, lean warrior.  Ome, watching his reaction carefully, saw
dubiety, surprise, wonderment, quickly flit one after the other across sculpted
adolescent features.  A sound of appreciation concluded Yaōtl’s appraisal,
followed by voiced curiosity: “Chamactic chichi…  Ay ay!  No hair on its
ihuayo?”
“It was too much – we removed it.”  Ome needlessly elaborated, “Neca is… not
Mixteca.”
“Ahmo, it—she… certainly is not.  I see that.  Rather furry everywhere else.” 
Gaze explored all of the slave; even signalled her to turn, arms raised,
displaying small dark tufts in pits in addition to fine, fleecy pelt virtually
covering her round frame.  “Ahmo… not Olmeca, or Tolteca, or…  Ay ay… 
Chichimeca, perhaps?”  Warrior repeated clucking noise.
“She has the chichiualli for it.”  Ome laughed at her own joke.  “That is why
they are named Big Tits Tribe.”
“Actually,” he remonstrated, “they are the Dog People, because they eat—”  Then
joined her mirth, realising she jested; chichi, depending on the inflection,
could mean ‘dog’ as well as Menkali slang, short for chichiualli.  Chīchī, for
example, meant ‘to suckle’.  Indeed, so many interrelated words existed in
Menkali dialects to describe various breasts – from child’s to maiden’s to old,
empty breasts… brown ones, long ones… even men’s – they could squander
remaining daylight making feeble puns.
Fortunately, Yaōtl wanted to know, indicating the slave’s groin, “How does it
feel?” 
“Feel it for yourself.  Neca will come closer to Yaōtl.”
Teocalli fairly leapt betwixt warrior’s spread legs.  Ome’s entire body spasmed
as Yaōtl grabbed generous handfuls of Neca’s ample tzintli cheeks, pulled her
crotch into his; swelling cock reacted, straining for the foreign girl’s
strikingly bare cunt.
Ome interposed.  “No!”  Pushed the slave away, simultaneously pulling tototl
from would-be smooth nest (similar to tits, all kinds of slang terms for birds
and cocks abounded in Menkali).  “Not that close!”  High priestess felt no
jealousy; simply, the time had not yet arrived.  “Yaōtl may feel the sla—her
cunt, but not with that.”  Swatted twitching cock.
“Aya!  Ciuāchichi!”  He called her a female dog, though did not otherwise
react, or even look at her.  Grin stayed in place as he leaned to stroke the
girl’s genitals, other hand massaging stung tepolli.
Neca made a small sound, as did Ome – involuntarily.
Yaōtl acknowledged both.  “It—she likes it.  As does My First, I hear – and
see.”
High priestess turned away from him, as if to hide her own excitement.
“Noche Achto, did you fuck it yet?”
“No.  We save her for tonight.”
“‘Her’…”  Said as if tasting the word; licked lips as if tasting the teocalli. 
“Did you adopt it—her?  Quemah, it seems I must get used to addressing her— 
What did you say you named it—her?  Neca?   Ay ay…  Slave—Neca… will finish
washing me.  I am eager to proceed… back to the canahuacantli.”
Ome snorted.  “We can see that.  Ciuāchichi!”
Propriety dictated that everyone abstain from overt sexual gambolling ere they
had partaken of ample atextli and Achto initiated activities back at the
temple.  Meantime, usual small talk and mingling proceeded – albeit perhaps not
quite so ‘usual’, considering august company.
All at once the baths cooled as King Xochipepe of Tenochtitlan joined them,
looking far less regal without clothing or feather headdress, sweat beginning
to streak black face paint; shrunken tepolli barely peeking from beneath rather
rotund belly.  “Achto Ixiptla Ometeotl Malīnalxōchitl,” he greeted the First
semi-formally.
Ome did not fail to notice the omission of her other ostensible titles,
including of his own city.  Though protocol did not require her permission, she
bade him sit opposite withal.
He did so, nodding toward Yaōtl.  “Cuāutli.  We congratulate you on your
initiation.”  King appeared to struggle against looking at the warrior’s
stiffening member, especially as Neca soaped it, small hands lingering much
longer than necessary, working the lather up, down, up, down… twisting… up,
down…
Ome refrained from smacking her.  For the nonce.
Remarkably, Yaōtl also restrained himself from deigning to notice the slave’s
ministrations – other than tepolli, impossibly, rearing a little higher,
thicker, eliciting small gasps from his masseuse.  “Thank you, Tlatoani
Xochipepe.”
“‘Emperor’?” returned the monarch.  Licked lips, mayhap at blackish sweat
beading thereupon.  “You flatter us.”  Turned grey eyes to Ome.  “Achto”
—cleared his throat— “you are looking… especially lovely today.  Tell us… wh-
what it was that led the procession along with this w-warrior, obtruding even
upon us.  This slave that w-washes the Cuāutli even now, we wonder.”
All Menkali nobility addressed inferiors with much the same indirectness; even
hesitated to ask explicit questions.  Even so, failing to use names or titles
would be exceedingly impolite, at least for relative equals.  Furthermore, even
in the Menkali language where personal pronouns were usually gender-neutral, to
use ‘it’ in place of he/she, as one might instead refer to a rock or piece of
furniture, would not only be rude – other than when dealing with slaves – but
impolitic, when in discourse with those of close social status.
“Ne—slave will stop!”  Ome slapped Neca in the head.  “Will wash the ajawi.”
Teocalli, to her credit, did not falter; both hands immediately released
Yaōtl’s prick, proceeded to raise faintly plant-smelling lather all over
middle-aged king’s average chest, belly, crotch; travelled over shoulders,
around to back as her superiors conversed and his own tepolli emerged –
actually quite impressive, in contrast to flaccid appearance.  Neca returned to
it overlong, earning herself another swat.
Yet, ere Ome could answer or further discipline the slave, as if instead
responding to tacit summons of all royalty, the ajawitli of Huaxyacac, of the
Tarasca peoples; Tlatelolco, governing the large nation of the Totonac;
Tlacopan, representing the Tepenac; Teotehuantepec, home of the Zapotec and
whose hegemony included the Yopi; and Texcoco, of the Otomi and Huaxteca,
simultaneously entered their circle.  First had already noted the absence of
kings of Tlaxcalan, who ruled the Otomac as well as the Tlaxcala; Cempoala, of
the ancient Tolteca and Olmeca; as well as Ajawi Huitztecol, ‘King Dark Brown’
himself, of Malīnalxōchitl, nominal leader of the Yopetzinco and Chichimeca.
The King of Teotihuacan, of the recently subdued Nezca, could be excused his
absence on account of his having been sacrificed a few days ago; a new ajawi
not having yet been appointed by the others.  Additionally, Ome could almost
forgive the Mountain Lion’s truancy, for the hilly Olmeca-Tolteca lands lay
many perilous metztli (eighteen 20-day periods which divided the Menkali year)
through rugged jungle.  Whilst undecided as yet what to do about the
Tlaxcalani, naturally, there would be no clemency for Huitztecol.
“What plots arise here, we wonder.  ‘Tlatoani’ indeed.”
Host did not move, save to glance up, greeting, “Ajawi Centehua.”
In Menkalinan, female monarchs were addressed as ‘king’ just as one generally
referred to clerics.  In this case, Centehua, ‘Only One’ (daughter) had
ascended her mother’s throne in Texcoco.  Unusual all over Menkalinan, female
succession was not, however, unprecedented.  Centehua’s mother, Xochitl, had
borne but a single child from her first husband, Ajawi Topiltzin, who
predeceased her, thus inheriting herself.  Upon taking a second husband,
Xochitl had only daughters after firstborn son died young.  As might be
guessed, when Xochitl passed to Mictlan after a long reign, Centehua had to
battle her four grown half-sisters for the altepetl of Texcoco.  She won,
obviously, putting to death more than five ages ago the only one who did not
perish in personal combat against her.
Thus unremarkable the queen’s appearance here as indubitably the highest
ranking female, a wizened old woman, naked as the rest.  Withal, despite
agedness, strength of character blazed from lively brown eyes, even as sweat
coursed in rivulets along deep, scarred furrows in cacao skin, arm flaps,
shrivelled dugs, darker ihuayo lips protruding from surrounding grey fuzz. 
Arms akimbo, the formidable, nearly bald little woman went on in crackling
voice:
“What answer, then, we wonder.  Who is to be tlatloani, we wonder.”
Yaōtl rose; intending to kneel, could not help briefly rising taller than the
queen – and all present kings, as well.  “A slip of phrasing, Cihuapilli
Ajawi.”  The designation ‘Lady King’ struck no one as contradictory, let alone
comical.
Nonetheless, Ome could not stifle a snort.
“Something amuses the First.”  Centehua’s tone sharpened to an itztli blade.
“Ahmo…  N-Not at all, cihuapilli.”  Ome, trembling slightly, appeared to be
struggling with composure; some doubtless saw intimidation, others disrespect,
though she felt aught but mirth: Her and Yaōtl’s recent discourse on tits
suddenly sprang to mind in the form of the word quauhtzotzocatli, ‘old
collapsed breasts’.  “M-My apologies, Cihuapilli Ajawi Centehua.”  Knelt beside
Eagle Warrior; after all, surrounded by royalty, Ome had not yet reached their
social summit.  Even so, returned the old woman’s glare, albeit not as
belligerently as she felt, a stinging trickle of soapy sweat creeping into one
eye.
Breaking sudden tension, ordered as she wiped the annoyance away, “Nec—slave
will rinse me, then wash the ajawitli.”  None present other than Yaōtl would
fathom her addressing a slave by name, albeit the offer of one’s personal
chattel – in any capacity – signified respect, even though all guests had of
course brought their own slaves and guards, whom now hovered in the steamy,
ill-lit background or waited outside.  Ome continued, “If the cihuapilli and
tecutzintli will lie down on these benches, my teocalli will wash them.  My
Princes will be most pleased to look upon this slave, as sh—it is quite
exquisite.  If it please Cihuapilli, Tecutzintli, w—I shall make it available
to your royal persons come Moqua…”
It appeared to please most of them, even Centehua; all save King Xochipepe,
who, it seemed, coveted Yaōtl.
All according to plan.
 
Anon the party returned to the temple of Malina, albeit not ere all had
opportunity to change into new finery.  Ome prepared, again with the help of
Neca, then bade the slave return to the temple and await her; she must enter
ritually by herself.
Neca joined several teocalli, male and female, of varying ages, dressed as
usual for age yet unmade-up and bare of jewellery or blooms, hair per custom
shaved in the middle, threading about to offer atextli.  Guests continued
exchanging banalities whilst musicians commenced a steady, low rhythm,
effecting a chant in spite of no singers yet taking it up.  Strangely hypnotic
withal, feeling doubtless enhanced by intoxicating cacao beverage, of which all
partook.
Everyone knew to gather near the altar, a simple raised stone dais near the big
sunken hearth-pyre, upon which stood a life-sized idol of Malīnalxōchitl –
disconcerting, since all who attended the initial ceremony agreed that it had
been but half that proportion, earlier, beside the small figure of Ometeotl. 
Otherwise appeared identical.
Divine magic afoot!  The static ambience quickened.
Snake goddess bore a headdress of real twigs, similar to Ome’s at the earlier
dedication ritual, except instead forming a crude nest in which a life-like
small white coatl curled.  Several shed snakeskins hung, draped over Malina’s
shoulders – obviously placed as part of the artist’s vision.  Carved of stone,
the deity herself otherwise appeared disturbingly nude and serpentine: Scaly
blue-green coatl skin; face reptilian, from golden eyes reflecting unsteady
light, flat nose with tiny nostrils, to protruding fangs, forked tongue
slithering from lipless open mouth.  Most discomfiting, instead of legs, from
waist down the goddess stood upon coiled coatl tail.  Altogether realistic, as
if the deity could manifest at any moment – doubtless the desired effect.
Next to Malina, the Lord of Duality had been carved with one hand proffering
smallish breast, the other wielding grossly exaggerated tepolli.  Braids
encircled the smaller idol’s head, otherwise it displayed aught in the way of
adornment; not even painted.  Indeed, the statue appeared unfinished.  Albeit,
when one looked at it from opposite, that side of the statue had been somehow
carved to resemble Xochiquetzal, the deity of sex, beauty, and fertility – at
least, her unquestionably female aspect known as Ichpōchtli, patron of birth,
childhood, and – contradictively – maidenhood.
Seated on divine jaguar throne, the goddess suckled an infant at one breast;
otherwise clad in luxurious ichcatl garments, including poncho-like
quechquemitl and embroidered skirt.  Also wore a quetzal bird headdress,
fashioned similar to Yaōtl’s eagle, plus much real jewellery, for example jade
half-moon nose ring.
“My Lord.”
Yaōtl turned from the idols to see a slave girl, partially shaven head down,
proffering fired-clay cups of atextli from a copper tray.  Something about this
teocalli almost wrested the warrior’s study from the statues.  Yet, taking a
cup as he eyed the latter, as well as colourful bed mats, ichcatl-filled
cushions, strewn fragrant blooms, vessels of ready food and drink, murmured to
himself, “And somewhat more comfortable,” as though resuming his and Ome’s
conversation about the amenities of First’s haunts compared to his own.
Waiting, he reflected on what he knew about such a dedication: Not much, the
warrior would admit to anyone.  Considered adult barely a season past, and of
unknown parentage and thus dubious status ere then, Yaōtl had not been able to
attend any but public festivals (including the Pillahuana, whence, even at not
quite an age, he had acquitted himself honourably – to which he aspired in all
engagements).  Primarily, he knew that Moqua would normally be held in the
Canahuacantli of Xochiquetzal.  Ome, howbeit, appeared to have commissioned the
idol of her namesake so as to deliberately meld the two deities, as though she
would take on yet another divine aspect, usurping its dominion as well.
Yaōtl fully realised his saviour had ambition – some might see it as naked
avarice; megalomania, even.  Although not exactly consumed by gratitude – he
did not retain much recollection of his rescue and prior life – Cuāutli
nonetheless felt spellbound by high priestess.  Attraction deeper than simple
indebtedness, beyond shared gender; more profound, even, than lust.  Love? 
Mayhap.  Certainly, the connection ofttimes overrode self-preservation, for,
despite having astuteness enow to comprehend the peril he risked at her side,
Yaōtl could not have forsworn Ome if he wished.
Returning thoughts to the coming ceremony, the youth turned roving eye toward
the flesh soon to be indulged, looking for Neca as he accepted another obsidian
cup of atextli from a slave – started, realising the foreign girl stood right
in front of him, holding the tray.  Appraising him somewhat shyly, though
boldly withal, for a slave, he once more felt loins stirring.
Yaōtl also knew that slaves could be availed by any guest during Moqua and with
the permission of their owners at any other time.  As property, they had no
rights to anything, most especially their persons; were also disposable.
During Xochiyaotli –‘Flowery Wars’, in which the warrior had participated but
once – prisoners were deliberately taken to acquire both slaves and
sacrifices.  Other wars, of conquest – such as of the desert Chichimeca people,
whence Yaōtl surmised Neca to have originated – could provide many slaves and
hostages of virtually all the conquered.  Depending on how the victorious ruler
felt, about the difficulty and protraction of the war, as well as the enemy in
general, varying numbers went to sacrificial altars, auction blocks, or were
ransomed back to kin.  The youth also possessed intelligence adequate to
understand the economics of the slave market, as well: Beautiful ones, or those
adjudged fit labourers or otherwise skilled, all fetched sums in cacao beans
sufficient to enrich their captors in addition to rulers.  He himself, however,
only cared about the prestige his captives bestowed upon him.
Yaōtl sighed.  Feeling hornier and hornier, tried not to look through formal
trappings to imagine all the flesh beneath, nor even imagine Neca’s smooth-
shaven ihuayo as she swayed through the gathering, or the tepolli of King
Whatever—Xochipepe?  Grunting as he met the intense gaze of the very monarch
named Flower Gatherer, restrained himself from throwing off clothes and
assaulting the royal.  However, since he observed others kissing and petting,
decided to join the king ere the latter actually approached him, rather
purposefully.  Mildly surprised, warrior acknowledged, “Tecutzintli Ajawi.”
Xochipepe fairly salivated, although something else reaching from the royal’s
intense gaze gave the boy momentary pause.
“Cuāutli.”  Voice thick, raspy.  “We greet you again.  We wonder where is your
First.  The day grows long.”
“Ay ay, Tecutzintli Ajawi.  Ome will as always make an entrance.”  Yaōtl almost
added something to the effect of how she liked to impress tlatlacah, though the
monarch was no mere mortal.  Asked instead, “Does Noche Ajawi enjoy himself?”
Xochipepe grunted.  “No longer your king, young warrior.  We wonder why you say
such things – dangerous things.  Calling us ‘Tlatoani’, for instance.  Wars
have started over less.”
“Apologies, My King.  It is merely this one’s understanding that, once a king
has allied with or subjugated more than five nations, he can rightfully call
himself emperor in Menkalinan.  Forgive this warrior’s ignorance.”
Xochipepe grunted.  “False humility does you no justice, Cuāutli.  We wonder
what you seek by such mendacity.”
“Men… Mendacity, highness?”
“The warrior knows what we mean.”  Leaning in, as if to nuzzle a lover, tone
lowered further.  “We will discuss it more later.  Were it not for this
infernal headdress, we would wish the young cuāutli to kiss us.”
Yaōtl, despite having similar desires, could similarly not have done so without
removing his own eagle costume; even raising a winged arm to stroke the
monarch’s cheek with a finger proved awkward.
“T-Tecutzintli will take more atextli?”
King turned, spluttering.  “This… this slave speaks—!  Ay ay, it is the foreign
one that washed us.  Its mistress is right – there is something about it that
excuses such behaviour.”  Blearily gazed up into Yaōtl’s re-painted
countenance.  “Similar to this upstart warrior.  Slave will tell us what keeps
its mistress.”
Both exchanged empty cup of atextli for full one, handed to each by Neca.
“I… know not, Hueyinaqin.  M-Mistress Ometeotl tells me to await her here.  And
serve the princes.”
“Ummph.”  Xochipepe’s words slurred as he spoke whilst continuing to stare at
the warrior youth.  “Ay ay… we grow impatient.  Slave will fetch its mi—”
Abruptly, certain he saw movement as well, Yaōtl’s scrutiny turned along with
the sovereign’s to idol of Ometeotl.  For a moment nothing more happened, then
the statue appeared to shift, stone features altering intangibly; fleshy colour
there, then gone.  The youth’s heart began pounding as he suddenly felt atextli
rush to his head.  Once again foggily observed the figure distort; and again. 
Whispered, “Ome joins us.”  Without taking eyes from the idol, Yaōtl went to a
knee – awkward in full costume.  “Ometeotl Ixiptla.”
Shadows deepened, as though someone had gradually snuffed most torches.  Sudden
silence prevailed as everyone gathered close, even kings kneeling
reverentially; in the background, slaves and guards along the walls lay on
their faces.  Before awed gathering the statue continued to grow; precipitously
stopped, shrunk back into itself.  At the same time, something appeared to waft
from Ometeotl to temple-mate.
Audience gasped as Malīnalxōchitl’s idol twitched, serpentine eyes blinked,
tongue darted.  The figure animated, slithering off the pedestal.  Yellow gaze
ravaged the crowd, tongue flicking, just as live snake descended from headdress
eyrie, briefly joining decorative dry skins on snake-woman’s bare shoulders ere
draping easily about her neck.  Fondling carried serpent under large indigo
breasts, the figure wound though stupefied guests, cowering slaves; even
bodyguards’ courage fled when confronted by magic – especially of the divine.
“Malīnalxxxxxxōchitl welcomesssss Ometeotl to her home.  SSSssssssss!  We
welcome all guesssstssss.”  Deity paused near one or another; none dared meet
inhuman stare, all trembled as nestled coatl loomed, such that its tongue
kissed painted cheeks, quavering hairdos, ornaments.  “Ometeotl comesssss.” 
Returning to altar dais, goddess hissed, “SSSShe comessss…  The day of
happinessss hassss arrived…”
The figure morphed back into an immobile statue.
“Tlatoque Ximopanōlti.”  A formal address: ‘Welcome, Princes’.
Almost everyone started, turned to see Ometeotl Ixiptla, their First, just
inside temple entrance.  Stood, dressed in aught but priestly garb of xicolli,
a sleeveless jacket that reached only to thighs – though still considered
modest – plainly embroidered at hem with but a few stitched rows of green- and
blue-dyed maguey thread.  Hair done plainly without neaxtlāhualli, gathered and
tied once behind her neck; no other adornment; no headdress, no feathers,
jewels, glitter.  High priestess also barefoot.
The effect, in gradually brightening temple, especially after the spectacle of
the other resident goddess incarnate, sent chills and prickles in opposite
directions along Yaōtl’s spine.  Staring, unable to speak, he could only watch
as Ome approached.  All at once noticed she carried a wreath of flowers.  When
she stepped around him to place it reverently around the neck of Ometeotl’s
idol, he caught her scent: more than flower essence, the potent redolence of
sex followed her.  As she turned back toward him her intense look engaged the
entire crowd.  Young warrior’s throat constricted, even as cock twitched,
ihuayo moistened.  Dazed, he took another drink of atextli; found cup empty but
another in its place almost instantly.
“My Ladies and Lords,” Ome breathed, spreading arms as if to adjure them all
into her embrace.   Most at least looked up, others tentatively stood. 
“Welcome again.  Your attendance is appreciated at these auspicious rites.  Be
assured that the gods favour us.”  Lowered arms.  “Many cochitta have they
sent, disclosing their desires in our dreams.  Ometeotl wishes to help us
again, here on Nican, as My Lord did many ages ago.  But we have forgotten
him.  And her.  My Lord of Duality is not a jealous god; she wants to share, as
do we all, with each other.  As friends and companions – whether we be lord or
prince or priest.”
All regained their feet.
“Now, we have spoken enough.  Let Moqua commence.”  Looking directly at Eagle
Warrior, bade, “My young Lord Yaōtl Cuāutl.”  Raised arms again, higher this
time, causing waistcoat to ride up above crotch, whence small tepolli appeared
half-erect above winking cleft.
The sight, in turn, moved present company to appreciative murmurs as young
warrior stepped up on the dais to doff Ome’s garment in a fluid movement,
despite own unwieldy costume.  More sounds of approval.  Crowd briefly shared
connection, contrast, between Eagle Warrior in full regalia and naked divine
avatar ere she, in turn, disrobed him.  Although it took much more time, the
small audience did not begrudge the spectacle; all remained still, silent,
until the pair stood once more, facing them side-by-side.
They could not have looked more different, yet similar.  Yaōtl, head and
shoulders taller, the more masculine: broad shouldered, tapered waist, hips;
childish little breasts yet large cock.  Ome, smaller, more round; modest
breasts, flare-hipped; tepolli not a great deal bigger than some women’s
Xochiquetzal Flower – no true head, either.  Otherwise skin same light cacao,
eyes deep brown, hair dark black – albeit she had much more, albeit only on
top.
Suddenly Ome turned, spun the warrior to face her, side-wise to the audience. 
Neca slid a mat beneath her mistress at the same time Ome dropped to knees,
leaned forward; eschewing preliminaries, engulfed Yaōtl’s half-rigid cock in
her mouth.  Warrior grunted, similar sounds erupting from the crowd.  High
priestess, hands gripping his thighs, impaled her throat on him; several times
nose poked flat belly, wispy pubes.  Growling now, Yaōtl grabbed the back of
her head, thrust.
“Ay ay, ay ay!” chanted the crowd in rhythm, as recovered slaves hurriedly
disrobed them.
Ome backed off, gasping, wiping spittle from chin; worked it into straining
cock.  Youth appeared about to collapse as First nodded King Xochipepe
forward.  Burbles arose, some disapproving; though not stigmatised in
Menkalinan, same-sex encounters were normally reserved for private occasions. 
Of course, Eagle Warrior and avatar were the only ‘same-sex’ pairing in this
menage.
Monarch stumbled up, all dignity tossed aside with regalia as he joined Ome on
the mat, leaned toward Yaōtl’s fully engorged member.  Ome wrapped both fists
around it, stroked; aimed purple head a fingersbreadth from king’s nose. 
Mesmerised, he flicked tongue at it like a snake tasting air; licked, lips
enwrapping.  Tried shoving it entire down his throat; choked and came up
gasping, stringing drool.  Ome took a turn, lapping at escaping saliva. 
Throated big cock again, grabbing boy’s tzintli cheeks.  Once more king
attempted duplication, but managed little better than half; kept licking,
bobbing, slurping.  Yaōtl seemed to appreciate the dual effort withal; a steady
rumble erupted from the warrior as one hand twisted in monarch’s thick hair,
the other in Ome’s.
Guests kept time.  “Ay ay, ay ay!”
Suddenly Neca joined them, lying naked on her stomach between Yaōtl’s legs,
king’s knees, to suck Xochipepe’s waggling member.
“Ay ay!”
Stiffening, back arching, the warrior’s knees began to buckle.  Scuttling to
stand astraddle Xochipepe’s back, hooking arms round the youth’s waist, as if
hugging both lovers, monarch in the middle, Ome steadied them.  King began to
make gurgling noises; creamy liquid the colour of octli spilt from around the
big cock still jammed in his mouth.  Constrictor-like, high priestess’ embrace
tightened.  Neca, sucking earnestly, palmed and massaged the king’s shrunken
balls; reached to shove a finger in his asshole, educing a muffled gurgle.
“Ay ay, ay ay!”
Ome, expression fierce, euphoric, held tight, one ear against the youth’s
chest; thrust groin against king’s head, keeping sovereign’s face mashed into
Yaōtl’s crotch.  Warrior, releasing Flower Gatherer to enfold her, jerked as
his climax dissipated and king began to thrash in turn.  Xochipepe juddered,
feet drumming on the mat; arms flailed, hands clawing, slapping at flesh.  Neca
made ‘mm, mm, mm’ sounds whilst he ejected royal seed down her throat.  King’s
strangled noises intensified, then subsided; spasms receded to twitches;
stilled.
Crowd appeared too drunk on lust to realise they had just witnessed regicide.
===============================================================================
 
[1] Adapted from Songs of Dzitbalché.‘To Kiss Your Lips Beside the Fence
Rails’. Mayan poetry as translated by John Curl.
[2] Adapted from the Aztec poetry of Hungry Coyote (Nezahualcoyotl, 1402-1472):
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nezahualcoyotl. As translated by John Curl.
[3] Adapted from ‘Flowers Are Our Only Garments’. Aztec poetry by Hungry Coyote
(Nezahualcoyotl, 1402-1472). As translated by John Curl.
***** Ukok-2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Ukok escapes the interrupted rasmu rusum; meets another
     'traveller'...
*****   *****
“From my heart to your heart,
 From my body to your body,
 I speak to you.
 If you be deity,
            let me talk with you;
 If you be mortal,
                        let a destiny be decreed for you.[1]”
 
Flames suddenly crested the hill entire, thrusting higher than the risen moon,
consuming the near-night sky.  Amarygi, many all but naked, began to run,
screaming, down the dağ, away from the wall of fire toward camp.  Stampeding
creatures crashed and leapt, pounding everywhere amongst them, most bawling and
roaring, many unnaturally silent.  Ukok saw a man fall under the sharp hooves
of a long-horned tog'taka; a mouflon butted a woman aside, trampling the youth
she tried to protect.  Smaller animals fled underfoot, tripping several people
who fell to their doom under the stampede.  Even a herd of wild ot joined;
tails and manes flying, eyes terror-filled, they snorted and screamed through
the mêlée, down into doomed Olbia.
Ukok made to flee as well; suddenly froze, uncomprehending.
How could this be happening?  Instead of the rasmu rusum, intended to placate
the gods as well as benefit the tribes, the divinities send only Brother Wind
and Brother Fire?  The Tree of Life kills Boshliq Žed?  How could she have read
the signs so wrong?  How…?
Leaping suddenly to her feet, Ukok pulled Ardz with her.  The platform and
nearby ocaq created a ephemeral island in a sea of madness.  She thought of the
spring, the small stream leading from it, but both were too shallow; would boil
off like a drop of water on a hot rock.  “Run!” she shouted above the
enveloping roar, screams, thundering hooves.  Even as she offered the
exhortation, Ukok knew it would be too late – unless they could make it to
their corralled herd ere they were trodden as well, or the horses stampeded. 
Withal, she would try to snatch what she could from her yurt, save the otlar—
Ukok nearly stumbled as the realisation suddenly struck her: The bonecasting! 
All became preternaturally clear as she, almost dragging the smaller ruhoniy,
raced as fast as she could in the awkward clothing – would that she was dressed
in her usual riding garb, or even naked!  Starting to cough from the thickening
smoke, she yelled at Ardz, “Get to the otlar!  Save the herd!”
“Wh-Where are you going?”  Wide-eyed, terror manifest, he clutched at her.
People ran hither-whither amongst the animals, screeching uselessly over the
cacophony of wind and stampeding creatures.  She had no time for any of them,
even had her parents still lived.
“Our yurt – I must get some things.  Go!”  Wrenched her hand from his.  “Try to
get to the river.  I will meet you there.  Ketmoq!”  She pushed him, almost
knocking him down as a wild horse thundered past, neighing shrilly.  Turning to
run, nearly tripped over her long yubka.  Grabbing her knife, slashed and
ripped at it until her legs at last had some freedom.  A large black wolf
dashed by so close she felt its fur brush just-exposed flesh.
Ukok now knew what she needed, what the omen had meant: The zichlaş had been
telling her to prepare to leave in a hurry, ere fire destroyed her.  She saw it
all clearly, albeit in reverse, each object as the insect landed on it:
 
Magjiqese, of course, which never left her neck anyway, containing her sacred
cosmetics and divining bones, among other talismans and charms, plus dye
powders and needles for tattooing.  Firemaking kit; waterskins; riding clothes;
axe and firewood; saddlery and horse-care materials;yoy.
 
Even though, as kohini, she was forbidden weapons aside from her bronza
ceremonial knife, technically, she had not yet been initiated, so felt
justified in ignoring the tabu against her bow.  In any case, had the augury
not shown her to take it?  Moreover, amongst the Scolotoi, a yoy comprised a
traditional tug'ilgan kun sovg'a, a ‘birth-gift’.  With it came a string and
precisely four o'qlar; a tribe member had to first acquire the strength to
string it by themselves ere they could actually begin to practise with the
blunt arrows.  While most could do so by their sixth or seventh summer, Ukok
had managed ere she had acquired five.  A youngster also had to either not lose
or break any o'qlar – an unheard-of occurrence – else learn to make their own
replacements.  Again, despite her non-warrior status, Ukok had become quite
proficient at an early age; had even graduated to making and practising with
‘real’ hunting arrows some time ago, although forbidden to actually hunt.  In
any case, to leave her bow to burn would be dishonourable, warrior or no.
So, she would fetch everything and follow the river – the trickle of sweat
along which the zichlaş had crawled down her torso.  Exactly why it had probed
at her moyliq ere it flung itself into the fire still mystified, but Ukok felt
it unimportant for the time being, likewise its odd colour; she would
contemplate those details later.  For now—
A giant brown cave oyiq splashed through the pool, ploughed over the dais,
strewing furs and blankets, stone flags, tearing away the flimsy roof. 
Blithely ran through the ocaq; sparks and coals scattered, joining those
already swirling, setting spot fires in the flattened grass.  Momentarily
stunned at the legendary bear’s appearance, Ukok dove aside as a huge paw
swiped at her, massive jaws cracking like the clash of two boulders.  As it
houghed on, disappeared into the dust, smoke, near-darkness, three of the four
torches scattered, adding to the flames.
Platform suddenly aflame, she hesitated no longer, burst into a sprint. 
Leaping and dodging through the turmoil, finding her way by instinct, Ukok
tried to ignore the likelihood that she may be run over from behind by any
number of large creatures, as happened to others in her vision’s periphery. 
Pounding down the dağ toward camp, she even had to vault corpses – of people as
well as animals – that were not fast or large enough; tried to ignore them all,
concentrate on reaching her and Ardz’ yurt.  Providentially, she found it anon,
intact, although others around it were not; bloody, crushed bodies, mostly
children, within.
As she grabbed everything, stuffed all into a leather torbayol, slung it over a
shoulder alongside her unstrung yoy in its case, she heard more screaming just
outside the yurt.  Emerging, saw a naked woman, hair afire, thrashing on the
ground, slapping frantically at her head even as the flames spread in the
grass.  Ukok hesitated, torn; the woman – Ayak; they were childhood friends –
would be horribly injured, even if she did not get run over.  Took a step
toward her—
From pandemonium an apparition appeared: An ot galloped toward her, hirsute
upper body that of a man, skin and body hair the colour of bronza, shaggy black
mane whipping, arms like tree trunks, reaching—
Ayak’s screams cut off abruptly as the kentavr thundered by, snatching Ukok off
her feet.  Powerful arms crushed big upper body against his even larger torso. 
Breath expelled in an explosive gasp, nearly knocked unconscious by the impact,
the girl struggled to remain dimly aware.
All seemed preternaturally silent, slowed, as if the world moved at only half
speed.  Smoke, dust, debris, fleeing shapes… flowed around her like a sluggish
river, colours muted as sounds.  Strangely, she became acutely aware of the
monster’s muscles bunching, rippling against her ko'krak; a kind of ‘wildness’
tainting the smell of horse-sweat; a deep huff-huff-huff as he carried her…
 
Ukok must have fallen unconscious; when awareness returned the man-beast still
clutched her, regular drumming of hooves and jouncing body signifying they
cantered on.  She tried to look up at its face, or even at her surrounds, but
the jostling snapped her head about such that she could not focus – and she had
a dreadful headache.  Indeed, her whole body hurt.  At least, she did not sense
fire and danger any longer, although the sharp scent of smoke still lingered,
along with ot-like muskiness.  Briefly, she considered that some stories about
kentavr must be untrue; she had not yet been eaten.  Or raped.
“St-St-St-op-p!” she commanded as loudly as she could, endeavouring not to bite
her own tongue off.  Did the beast understand her?  Tried beating her fists
upon its knotty, leather-clad back; weak and disoriented as she felt, probably
did no damage, but got its attention withal; their pace slowed.  Demanded
again, “To… To'xtatm-moq!”
Halting abruptly, the creature released her.  Even if Ukok had been expecting
it and could have gotten her legs under her, she likely would have tumbled into
the prickly bush regardless.  Breath ejected yet again, she landed on her broad
dumba.  Recovering quickly, she sprang unevenly to her feet in the waist-high
grass, still struggling in unsuitable attire, disorientation, trauma; rubbed
sore neck.  Demanded, “Wh-Why have you… t-taken me?  Wh-Where… am I?  Answer
me… or I will…”  Suddenly, she wished she had more than a ritual bronza knife
and unstrung yoy.
The creature regarded her implacably from humanoid amber eyes; thick, dark arms
loose at its sides, horse flanks heaving deeply though seeming without great
exertion; otherwise only switching horse-tail moved.  Where an ot’s neck and
head should be, a man’s upper body – a very large one – replaced it.  Chest and
shoulders massive – close to half again Ukok’s, even though she was not a small
woman; muscles pronounced, undulant.  Looking more closely, the girl made out
ot-ears protruding from a dense, long black mane running, as far as she could
tell facing it, all the way down its spine, concluding where a horse’s normally
ought.  Features darkly human, scowling, a monstrous cast to them – especially
when one considered the short tusk protruding up from each corner of its mouth…
Aside from that, she thought – and ignoring the horse-half – he could be
considered vaguely good looking…
Ukok put a hand upon her knife.  “Answer me!”
No response.
“D-Do you speak… at all?”  Reconsidering her feeble threat, moved hand from
knife to upper chest, tapping with four fingers.  “Ukok,” she pronounced
slowly.  “I am Ukok.  U-kok.”  Perhaps diplomacy, where intimidation failed…?
“Ookook,” the man-beast rumbled.  “Үәдебір.”  Thumped its own hide-jacketed
chest.  “Жылқы.”
“What?  That was your name?  Which one?”
“Жылқы.”
“Zhl-lik?”
“Жылқы!”  Two fist-thuds, timed to the syllables of its name, the şaman
surmised.
“Jil-iq, she tried again, to which the kentavr grinned, dipped its head,
switched horsetail.  In addition to the rough, sleeveless hide jerkin, she
noted plain gold-hoop earrings, including one in the creature’s nose, plus a
matching necklace of moderate-sized golden links, all of which bespoke in
favour of his being at least somewhat civilised.  Could not decide if the smile
and trappings made him more attractive, or less, however.  Added, “Ukok,”
stressing the short pronunciation of her own name.
Further appraisal revealed he had a slung bow, similar to hers though much
heavier and curved differently, plus yukida strapped over his equine back, as
well as other goods tied outside the saddlebags; she saw a spear jutting some
distance behind; pots and utensils; a bundle of sticks, presumably firewood. 
Mayhap, she thought, not so bestial after all?  If he wore a modicum of
clothing, had jewellery, made fire and therefore ostensibly cooked – as long as
he did not cook her – not to mention spoke, after a fashion, then perhaps he
did not steal her.  What were his intentions, then?  Had it been a rescue?  All
the tales of kentavr told how they abducted women – preferably maidens – raped
and ate them.  Not necessarily in that order.
“Wh-Why did you take me?” she essayed once more. 
He pointed at her.  “Үәдебір.”
“Wh…What?  Oo-eh-da-beer?”
“Үәдебір.  Құтқарушы.”
“Wait… Kootkaroosh?”  He seemed to comprehend her queries, though she did not
quite understand the answers.
“Wädebir,” he repeated.  “Qutqarwşı.”
“I know these words: ‘Promised One’ and ‘Saviour’ – though you say them wrong. 
What do they have to do with me?”
He shrugged, grinned, pointed at her again, then to his back – horseback. 
“Qutqarwşı Ukook jürw Jiliq.”
“You… you want me to… ride you?”
“Jürw Jiliq.”
A most interesting notion…
                                             *           *           *
Umay waxed and waned once, yet Ukok could not determine much regarding her
plight, the reason for her kidnapping, much less about the fate of her people. 
Though she demanded that Jiliq take her back to check on the tribe, he refused;
insisted they must wait.  For now, she decided she would not try to escape;
whence would she go?  She had no real idea where she was.  Besides, she had to
admit more than a modicum of curiosity – about a lot of things.
Thus, despite her guilt and sorrow at having read the portents so horribly
wrong, the young woman resolved to make the best of the situation; this was,
indubitably, a test from the gods.  What were they trying to tell her?  What
could she learn?  What must she do?  Why did this creature take her?  Simple
coincidence?  It felt not; her şaman senses told her that the kentavr had
deliberately sought her out, and… snatched her from almost assured death.
Due to the apparent similarity in their dialects, it took not long ere the pair
became familiar enow with one another’s language to discuss everyday subjects:
hunting, eating, water, riding, camping.  Ukok had an uncanny proficiency with
tongues anyway; she interpreted when travellers came amongst the Amarygi and
wished to parley – for trade, diplomacy, and the like.  However, despite Ukok’s
anxiety – and, anon, ire – Jiliq would answer no other questions, even though
she felt certain he understood more than he let on.
They also did not move much farther for those many days, other than going on
occasional half-day-long hunting trips.  Instead remained encamped on a low
rise that had a panoramic view of the rolling, grassy cho'llari in a complete
circle about them; aught but boundless, empty steppe in sight.  No animals or
birds, or even an insect; an unnatural situation that further distressed the
young medicine woman.  Nonetheless, Ukok suspected the kentavr had stopped here
for some reason other than the view; he appeared to keep a keen lookout, as
though he expected either company or trouble.  At least there appeared no
further sign of fire, beyond a brownish smudge in Father Sky toward the south
for several days – presumably the direction of her home.
Thoughts of her losses spilled tears as she gazed more than once out over the
plain toward the unknown horizon.  What became of Ardz?  Rad and Hāko?  The
erdişi?
Meanwhile, she could do aught but watch Jiliq; assess and learn.
Proficiency with the yoy amongst her people was taken for granted – her own
skill, perhaps, excluded – yet the kenatvr’s far surpassed anything Ukok had
ever seen.  He taught her to hunt, moreover, in addition to new riding skills;
there were, after all, differences in how one rode an ot compared to a kentavr
– where one could hold on, for instance, absent yugan and jilovi, or any other
tack.  She, in turn, taught him several plants and their uses, plus cooking
skills.  Fortuitously, he did not exhibit any intent to eat (or rape) her,
although he consumed game meat nearly raw and, most un-horse-like, refused all
vegetable roots and wild grains.
Anon, she even offered to tattoo him – using all proper ritual, other than
permission of the elders – since he expressed an interest in her markings. 
Though the şaman did not have sufficient command of his language as yet to
communicate such abstract concepts as religion and societal norms, even so they
managed to converse, getting along in a polyglot of each other’s tongue.
“Jatw here,” Ukok instructed the kentavr, indicating a spot by the dung fire.
“Jiliq not lie down,” he returned gruffly.  “Jiliq stand only.”
“Odat requires you lie down.”
“‘Odat’?  Jiliq not know this word.”
Ukok searched her mind.  “Ritual.  Ceremony.”
Jiliq whickered.  “Salttıq.  Jiliq not lie down.”
The woman, noting that he appeared to even sleep standing up, tried, “Then
sit.  Otırw.”
Man-beast snorted.  “Jiliq not sit.”
Horses could, Ukok knew, but nearly all had to be trained to do so.
“You can lie down, though.  You must.  I cannot… teri gravïrovka while you
stand.”
“‘Teri’…?”
“Tatuirovka…  Skin painting.”
Nickering laughter caused her initial embarrassment; quickly usurped by
consternation as she found herself – once more – attracted to the beast,
formidable tusky grin and all.
Jiliq corrected, “Ukook said ‘skin carving’.”  He demanded clarification that
she would not be using a knife, only ritual needles in addition to powders made
into ink.  Also explained that, to lie down, for a kentavr, implied either
laziness or illness, either condition disgraceful for an Avar (as he referred
to his own kind).  An exception, he added, was made for females; when giving
birth they were excused appearing ‘lazy’, at least.  Something bothered Ukok
about such a dispensation, but she ignored it for the nonce; would come back to
it anon.
In any event, the erkak-hayvon – Ukok was reasonably certain Jiliq would not
consider himself a ‘man-beast’ – refused to lie down, so she decided to make
another exception: He would kneel and allow her to mount horseback, which he
had to do anyway in order for her to ride him.  (She wanted to practise leaping
atop him, as she had on Qizil, but felt somewhat honoured by Jiliq’s deigning
to stoop to her.)  After all, she did this for his benefit, and his gods were
not hers.  He would reap the advantages or suffer the consequences, if the
ritual and results were not pleasing to his gods.
Returning to her previous feelings in regards to his remarks on pregnancy, Ukok
felt like arguing with him against child-bearing and birth being seen as some
kind of ailment, but she did not yet have sufficient words for that, either. 
Her thoughts instead shifted toward the act of creating a baby and her
attraction to the kentavr as she prepared.
Her people knew that it took repeated inseminations of male urug' to impregnate
a woman, which permitted a Scolotoi female – indeed, almost behoved her – when
she wanted a baby, to couple with as many men as she wished; whether or not she
happened to be betrothed or evenuylangan, mattered not.  They knew this
because, approximately nine Umay moons following a rasmu rusum, the tribe’s
population increased substantially.  This, in turn, was the reason an
occasional aysh-ishrat might be sanctioned by the şamans, invoking Kubai for
the blessing of many children in a communal orgy not much different than their
principal sacred ritual every age.
Whilst continuing to prepare ink to tattoo Jiliq – finely grinding blue and
black powders in a mortar-and-pestle to mix with other sacred ingredients – she
considered the Avar, or at least otlar in general.  Although Ukok had loved her
horse, Qizil – thoughts of her losses once more briefly threatening to
overwhelm her ere she swatted them aside along with an annoying insect – she
had never considered coupling with him.  She knew that Scolotoi often made such
use of their mounts, much as they did with one another whilst on long hunts or
campaigns; thus, while not common practice amongst the tribes, neither was it
unprecedented, nor tabu.  Horses not being the most tractable beasts, however,
injuries were only slightly less common.
Withal, Ukok thought, that must have been how Jiliq’s people came into
existence.  The Creators were of course responsible: either Osmon Ota must have
begotten a hybrid offspring upon an ot, else Yer Ona let enough horses mount
her to conceive a kentavr.  Either image, along with Ukok’s continuing
appraisal of Jiliq, intrigued the girl to the point of ardency – mixed with not
a little trepidation as she stirred the dyes.  After all, she had seen
stallions mate with mares often enow to realise that an ot was far more well-
endowed than a man…
Moreover, she felt ambivalence about the possibility of bearing a hybrid Avar-
Scolotoi baby herself, even though she knew and possessed the combination of
plants to make the concoction that would prevent such occurrences.  (As
expected of her as şaman; upon consultation with the elders when a particularly
harsh winter might be foretold, for example, Amarygi women would be advised to
partake of it to avoid giving birth in conditions that mayhap prove fatal for
mother and child, or difficult for the tribe as a whole to bear additional
members at the time.)
In any event, these notions, in turn, led to others.  First, Ukok knew that a
stallion typically did not abide another’s attentions on ‘his’ brood.  Many
other animal species did the same, or appeared to only pair off, thus lending
impetus to certain ruhoniys’ arguments to forbid women from fucking any male
she wished, going so far as to demand the Scolotoi renounce their sacramental
procreation orgies and even the rasmu rusum!  Could they not see that the
stallion was invariably foiled in such endeavours; that a number of inferior
status males would still manage to mount the females, thus ensuring their
impregnation?  Thus far the priests had been unsuccessful, of course, but it
seemed that with each generation the calls grew louder – until this year,
anyway; Ardz completely agreed with tradition.
Once more, Ukok felt throat constrict, tears emerge; would she see him – any of
her people – ever again?
She finished preparing the dyes, heated the needles.  Made from long, sharp
akas thorns, she had to be careful not to burn them whilst ensuring to exorcise
all taint of Erlik in the glowing coals of the dung fire.  Then, feeding it and
murmuring prayers, she began to strip in readiness for her ritual smudging –
which activity conveyed prurient thoughts to the fore once again.
Even though nudity was more or less habitual for all Scolotoi, Ukok had not
been consciously naked in front of the kentavr ere now.  More so, her sexual
frustration at being thwarted at the rasmu rusum intensified with, it seemed,
each passing moment, due in no small part to her discomfiting attraction to the
Avar.  Ukok had to admit to herself that she had appraised Jiliq.  Nearly
always unclothed himself – not unnatural for the horse part, of course,
although he wore the sleeveless leather jerkin and arm bracers when they rode
out hunting, perhaps a similar jacket in adverse weather – the woman felt an
undeniable thrill whilst running her gaze over his enormous upper body; she had
never seen a man larger than her!  Could not help assessing his horse-half,
either; the Scolotoi, being an ot culture, deeply appreciated horseflesh, and
Jiliq’s was magnificent: From long, full black tail, a burnished bronze coat,
starting at golden croup, darker hip, to coppery flank and barrel, deeper
bronze again on shoulder, then lighter human torso and face, ere it
progressively darkened once more to almost black, relatively short mane.  As
for proportions: Legs and knees, straight, not bowed or knocked; large, strong
hocks; short back, moderately high withers; long, horizontal croup…  And size… 
Even at her own considerable full height, Ukok’s head barely came level with
Jiliq’s waist; his head, naturally, soared over hers.  Neither had she been
obliged to look up at anyone before, another thrilling experience.  Could not
help, moreover, wondering about his sik: Did it resemble horse’s or man’s? 
Though a big woman amongst the Scolotoi, Ukok hesitated in presuming herself
that large.
Jiliq’s stallion parts looked normal: cock retracted, paired moyak dangling
huge and heavy.  She knew that a stallion normally must scent a mare in oestrus
ere his appendage appeared in earnest, though often an animal’s emerged when it
pissed.  Yet, how did a kentavr’s work?  Ukok had not noticed Jiliq’s, though
she surreptitiously checked more than once.  (Jiliq, unlike a beast, thankfully
appeared to recognise simple courtesies such as not pissing or lifting his tail
and defecating wherever he happened to be when the urge struck, such as in
camp.)  Although human women, of course, did not go into ‘heat’ like otlar,
what about female kentavr?  Did they have an oestrus cycle?  Could Jiliq sense
her arousal withal, if not her moon-cycle – which happened to be waning right
now?
Some horses, she also knew, were sensitive to the odour of blood; stallions,
especially, could be enraged by the smell of it, including on a woman during
her moon-cycle.  Most otlar owned by female Scolotoi – particularly warriors –
either had to be gelded or have such sensitivity trained out of them, if any;
moon-cycle or no, a battlefield commonly had blood, and a horse that could not
be controlled around it was useless.
Stepping out of the remainder of her now ragged everyday clothing – she would
have to make new ones – Ukok eyed the Avar, who watched her in turn.  She could
not make out his expression, the sun beginning its decent behind him.
“Come closer.  Jaqın kelip.  And turn this way, so we get the sunlight.”  Bade
him stand near the fire, kneel.  She watched him closely, wanting to know if
she excited him; still could not discern, not from his face nor had his sik
appeared.  Taking a deep breath, she tried to control her trembling, clear her
mind – she must concentrate on the ceremonies.
For her people, tattooing, aside from being ritual, constituted a rite of
passage as well.  Much could be ascertained about another Scolotoi from a
glance at one unclothed: Age, social and marital status, tribe, as well as the
gods they favoured.  Though little was simply artistic, to an outsider it
probably would be aught else.  A tribe member could request simple small
designs on fingers between knuckles or similarly on toes, but even so, all had
to be ‘earned’; only when one reached a certain age or status could one receive
the markings, and then only by offer from şamans and elders in agreement. 
Whereupon, often another communal exhibition would ensue, up to and including a
celebratory ritual feast and perhaps orgy, if the person or occasion happened
to be auspicious enow.
 Melancholy seized the girl again at recent raw memories.  Squeezing tears
away, she gathered everything in readiness, began the smudging by adding a
single precious wooden faggot.  Blowing on the coals, sprinkling pungent herbs,
including nasha – she would need to seek more – scent burst effusively as they
ignited; waved smoke toward her, then over the kentavr, murmuring
supplications.
The young woman shooed away another bug; at least the smoke should keep them
away, as they became increasingly—
Insects!
Even as summer faded, life returned to the cho'l?  Eagerly, Ukok glanced over
the steppe; saw qushlar wheeling in Osmon Ota, a few herds roving in the
distance upon Yer Ona.
Most propitious!
Suddenly excited, she turned toward Jiliq, pointed at his jerkin.  “Take off
your… kamzul.”
“Pïdjak,” he confirmed, doing so.
“Bracers too, and… zargarlik.”  She explained that wearing clothing, jewellery,
or anything at all whilst invoking the gods to bless the procedure would be
disrespectful, as though they expected that what they were about to request
would not be good enough, such that one must retain other trappings.
Momentarily hesitant, Jiliq complied, handing her his nose- and earrings,
necklace, golden armbands.  Somewhat taken aback by his entrusting her thus,
she briefly appraised them: exquisite craftsmanship, at least as good as her
peoples’, though plain in style.  Placing them upon their small woodpile,
looked once more at her client.
Again, Ukok’s breath caught at the sight of the Avar’s massive chest and
shoulders; Gün Ana, descending yet still strong, burnished rippling musculature
as though he were actually made of living bronza.  Lump in her throat grew
uncomfortable; nipples, already maddeningly stiff, itched for contact; moyliq
quickened…  Could not help another intrusive sad thought: She had looked
forward all her life to becoming a woman with Ardz and the erdişi; had trained
for the rasmu rusum, meditated and rehearsed in her mind countless times.  Now,
she contemplated coupling with a kentavr alone on the infinite cho'llari,
without tribe, elders, retiring şamans…?
“Tizerlew, Jiliq,” she instructed, controlling herself.  “Bend over the fire,
l-like this.”
“Ukook… jılaw,” the Avar observed as she gestured and he complied.
“What?”  Inhaled the tumaceous smoke; avoided coughing.  Squinted at him,
echoed, “Zhloo?”  Regarded him more closely; did he appear eager?  She suddenly
wished she had some kumiss.  Wondered if female Avar minded being milk—
All at once, reaching with both huge hands, he daubed the corners of her eyes
with forefingers nearly half again the size of hers.  An astonishingly gentle
movement, Ukok nonetheless froze as the kentavr placed each digit into his
mouth, sucked; put palms together, stroked once, twice, as if wiping or drying
them.  Through tusks, formidable bronze face smiled, expression still mostly
unknowable to the young woman.
“What…?  Wh-Why…?  What w-was that?”
“Ukook jılaw.  Jiliq… eats köz jası.  Ukook’s köz jası gone.  No more jılaw, no
more… muñ.”
“What?  Crying?”  Denied, “No, that w-was from the smoke.  Breathe it in
yourself – you will see.  Use your hands and arms to move it toward you, like
this.”
The Avar did so, inhaling deeply; rather to Ukok’s disappointment, hacked only
a couple of times – though now his deep amber eyes watered too.  Chuckling to
herself, turning away as she blinked, squeezed away residual tears, she mounted
his back – the only way she could reach if he would not lie down.  Withal,
Jiliq had to twist somewhat awkwardly regardless, so she could begin inking his
upper left shoulder.  She would have to guess at some things, like his age and
gods, unless she could discover them…
Conversing as she worked, the şaman admitted that she had been crying; he
seemed to understand; sympathetic, even.  He told her he ‘ate’ her tears, the
Avar believing that sadness, ‘muñ’, could be thus assuaged from one another. 
Ukok felt moved by the gesture, almost to the point of further weeping.
Changing the subject, she asked about his gods; had to explain the concept, as
he seemed to have none; when she asked the name of their sun, for example. 
Then again, getting deeper into the discourse, the şaman came to understand
that kentavr venerated Yer Ona and Osmon Ota, much like the Scolotoi: The Avar
also perceived their deities as incorporeal beings or spirits, although whilst
Ukok’s people knew they had once been mortal, or at least lived among mortals,
they had long ago retired to the spirit world.  This was why they must now be
entreated to intervene in temporal affairs.
Most interestingly, however, Jiliq related to her that, in their pantheon
somewhat lower in rank than these supreme deities, they believed that keskin-
çeyndjer still lived amongst mortals.  A ‘shape-changer’ could take on the
appearance of any living thing it wished, from insect to serpent to bird to
mammal – including human and kentavr.  Generally, he said, they did so in order
to mate with a certain species with the intent of producing a new hybrid
creature that would prove the ‘perfect’ specimen, venerating the gods as the
latter wished to be honoured.  Of course, these experiments always failed, so
the shakli-o'zgarish (in her language) kept trying.
Ukok once more became acutely aware of her moyliq, spread on his hot, broad
horseback; one breast pushed against heavy, surprisingly soft-haired upper arm,
the other swathed in thick mane; her g'uddacha erect, pressing… Tried to
concentrate on her work.  But the light, fading; nearly out of ink withal.
Wiping the spots of blood and extra ink with a soft leather cloth, the girl
announced, “That is all f-for now.”  Rather unsteadily, dismounted.
Earth Mother!  The kentavr’s sik hung toward the ground nearly half the length
of her arm!  Definitely a horsecock!  Catching the horsey smell again, she
wrenched avid gaze from sik to face; physically started, knees almost giving
way, at the ravening look Jiliq returned.  Mouth going dry, even as she felt
added dampness in her cunt, she tried to recall procedure; stammered that she
must burn the cloth, smudge them again, put away her tools…
“Ukook… ädemi,” he rumbled, rising from knees – another agile motion for such a
big creature.  Astonishingly, cock lengthened, rose slightly.  “Zor kewdege.”
He thought she was ‘beautiful’?  But, what were the latter words?
“I-I… ah…  Y-Yes,” she responded lamely.  She had not prepared for such a
moment.  What was she supposed to do?  Say?  Decided directness would be
appropriate – since he had made his interest rather plain.  “Y-You wish to… j-
jinsiy aloqa q-qilmoq?”  She used the term for mounting from behind, as a horse
– assuming he would understand more readily.
He did, though the look on his face abruptly changed to what the woman could
only interpret as regret.  “Jiliq… cannot qarğı satqır Ukook.”
“‘Cannot’?”  she repeated, disbelieving, vaguely hurt.  “Wh-Why?  You said I w-
was beautiful…”
“Ukook… Wädebir.  Qutqarwşı.”
Those words again.  ‘Promised One’?  ‘Saviour’?  What did he mean?  “I do not
understand.  What do you mean?”
“Jiliq cannot fuck Ukook.  Wädebir only for Ulıbir.”
‘Great One’?  Now what was he talking about?
“Jiliq bring Wädebir to Ulıbir.”
The girl saw no one, ‘great’ or otherwise; said so.
“Jiliq and Ukook wait.  For Ulıbir.”
Well, that at least explained what they were doing here.  Ukok asked who or
what this ‘Great One’ was; Jiliq said he did not know.
“Then, how do you know I am the Promised One?”
Grinned.  “Ulıbir send me.  Said, ‘Jalañaş emes lısım izdeñiz’.”
‘Look for the bald one not naked’?  Ukok missed the humour, saw only
contradiction.  “You just said you did not know the Ulıbir.”
“Jiliq do not.  Ulıbir always… är türli.”
“How ‘different’?”
The Avar gestured, huge hand palm-down, arm slashing horizontally from rippled
belly outward, returning to his horse-shoulder.  Ukok intuited the motion
represented a shrug.  Scratching her head, she found the few weeks’ growth as
irritating as the man-beast’s answers.
“Why here?” she demanded next, losing much of her lust to annoyance.
He shifted, four hooves pivoting around the camp, opening his arms as if to
enfold the broad horizon as Gün Ana sank in the east.  The girl tried not to
watch slowly retracting sik bob along with movements.  “Here… közdelip bolwı. 
Wädebir and Jiliq wait for Ulıbir.”
“You already said that.  But why are we ‘supposed to be’ here?”
Shrugging gesture again.
Angry now, both at his rejection and perceived evasiveness, she busied herself
stowing her tattooing tools, rebuilding the fire, dressing, having forgotten
the ending ritual of another smudging and prayer, even upon tossing the blood-
spotted cloth into the fire.
“Ukook.”
She started again, nearly jumping over the fire at the gentle touch on her
shoulder just as she drew on her tatty horsehide tunic.  Turning, ko'krak and
engorged nipples shockingly contacted the unnaturally soft hair of horse-chest,
whence cock would normally—
The regret on the kentavr’s broad, dark face appeared genuine; desire
suppressed, there withal.
Returning the ardent gaze, she began to quiver.
He took her chin in a huge, frighteningly gentle hand.  “Jiliq… keşiriñiz.” 
Half-knelt, daunting-striking visage leaned in, down; nose touched hers,
lingered a moment; flared nostrils ejected hot breath, warming her flushed
features; withdrew.
He was sorry…?
 
[1] Inanna: A New English Version. ‘Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld’. Kim
Echlin. Penguin Canada Books. 2015.
***** Ehlia-4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Ehlia begins her journeys; meets a fellow traveller...
                                                                    “But it
matters not, da
                                                                     ’Cause her
da has lots of money, ma
                                                                     And she
has a cunny, da
                                                                     So I will
be content, ya!”
 
                                                                               
             —Traditional Aldeberrani bawdy lyric
 
Ehlia spent several days recovering along with her younger charge.  Summer
advanced as if in retribution for winter just passed.  Nonetheless, the girl no
longer disrobed completely for any reason; used the chamberpot with shift hiked
up, smallclothes down; even bathed in the stream clad, carefully changing
indoors ere she hung wet chemise to dry with Whelp’s swaddling.  Also ceased
sword practise – mostly, she told herself, because she was too sore and ill.
Headache remained at least two days.  Whilst she recalled herbs Mae used to
infuse into tea for such treatment, she could not find them.  Since the
poultices she made from what she scrounged for the slight cut on her leg seemed
to do naught, save for one that inflamed it – thankfully, only temporarily –
she treated it with mud until it scabbed, then washed it regularly.  Nose
remained tender to the touch, felt swollen ten times its size.  She knew that
to be so (well, maybe not quite that big), as she had seen her brothers suffer
similar injuries more than once whilst fighting or sparring.  Naught to be done
about it; she would have a crooked nose, like Moldur and Berne (or mayhap Mo
and Shrayder).
Although thoughts of her family no longer distressed her – except for Jordy –
comparing injuries to her siblings’ mock-combat hurts brought a (painful) grin,
despite herself; she felt as though she now had a ‘war wound’ of her own. 
Moreover, hers had been suffered in real combat, not in training or even a
hunting accident, which swelled her heart further and helped justify her
victory whilst forgetting residual guilt over Sou’s grim demise.
Wolves soon took care of the reavers.  Ehlia huddled with Tufter and Whelp in
the hut, awake all night; door secured with as much rope as the girl could
find; fire in the hearth constantly stoked, despite realising it meant she
would need to gather more wood next day and rendering the interior almost
unbearably hot.  Tufter growled and Whelp puled whilst scavengers howled and
fought.  Come morning, when Ehlia dared untie the door enow to peek out to
ascertain safety, the bodies were gone; daggers, a few grisly scraps of cloth
on the bloodstained grass, the only evidence of three people’s existence. 
Ehlia felt sorry only for Sou; thought she should have buried the woman,
although it would have been a lot of work. 
A few days later she adjudged Whelp strong enough to cling to Tufter’s back –
the girl having tied him there regardless – so they could travel.  Most of
their recently acquired belongings – much more than she could haul alone – she
wrapped into a bundle secured to the axe handle, carrying it over a shoulder; a
smaller pack she also roped to the hound.  Though at first peering at her
askance, Tufter accepted the added burden when she explained to him why he
must.
What now?  Ehlia found herself staring up the rough road one direction, down
the other, back again; which way to go?  Whence did it lead – either way?  She
knew in one direction lay the small town of Altair, Asterion at the other –
yet, to neither had she been.  Reaching Asterion – supposedly a much larger
town that people even called a ‘city’ – she knew would require a several
nineday journey, unimaginably far for a young girl alone.  Altair, however,
reportedly but a long day’s ride.
Tufter and Whelp stared at her; the latter blankly, the former quizzically.
“Which way, Tufter?” she asked the intelligent beast.  “Which way to Altair?”
The hound cocked his head a little more, voiced a deep, “Woof!” ere he turned
and set off; albeit in which direction, exactly, Ehlia could not have said.  It
did not matter; she followed confidently.
Part of her new self-assurance appeared in the form of better clothing,
weapons, even silver and copper coinage; rifling the possessions of the three
reavers, she found a number of eminently useful items, in addition to
ransacking the hut.  Even now, despite all being too big, she clomped along in
a mis-matched pair of worn leather boots, plus a man’s tunic and skullcap, in
addition to sporting more than one dagger in her belt.  Although daggers were
nigh useless for skinning, she found a better skinning knife than hers as
well.  The daggers, she decided – one a wicked thing as long as her forearm –
were much better suited to fighting than a broken sword, at least for her, for
the nonce.  Less likely to trip over them, as well.  Hanging from a tree near
the battle site, the youngster also found – luckily, afore wild creatures aside
from ants – a dirty linen bundle in which she discovered half a loaf of coarse
barley bread, a large hunk of soft yellow goat cheese, and several apples.  It
even contained more than one big, wax-stoppered earthenware bottle of black ale
– almost full.  (Ehlia could not count beyond one; other amounts, therefore,
being ‘many’, ‘several’, or simply more than one.)
Indeed, she now had so much treasure that she perforce had to leave much of it
behind, including the cauldron and several more pots and utensils from the hut,
plus the broken sword.  Much as she hated to give it up, she realised the
weapon was next-to useless, especially now she had the daggers.  Moreover, the
axe and other things took precedence.  Having in addition found sewing
implements in the hovel, the girl even fashioned a smaller tunic for Whelp.
Ehlia almost felt like the daughter of an errai again.  In fact, she could not
remember feeling so good; full belly, new clothes, hurts healing nicely, she
stomped down the road in her new boots swigging ale.  She had never been
allowed ale; always had to to drink milk or watered wine, same as babies.  Such
wickedness lent her a sense of maturity that, in turn, brought to her young
mind songs her father had forbidden her to learn, much less sing – but, how did
one ‘un-hear’ something?  When he and her brothers and their vassals returned
from a successful hunt, they would invariably drink ale and sing bawdy songs
most of the night; how was she supposed to not listen, much less sleep?  That
she did not fully understand all of the words mattered naught; her memory was
nigh impeccable.
 
                       “Ohhhh… she had a face that won the fair
                        If she only would’ve entered there
                        But she was found in the byre
                        Instead of with the maidens and squires
 
                        But it matters not, da
                        ’Cause her da has lost of money, ma
                        And she has a cunny, da
                        So I will be content, ya!
 
                        Ohhhhhh… her hair would look special good
                        If she would only don her hood
                        And mayhap she oughtta shave her chin
                        And while she’s at it pluck her quim
 
                        But it matters not, da
                        ’Cause her da has lost of money, ma
                        And she has a cunny, da
                        So I will be content, ya!
 
                        Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh… her teeth are really white and square –
                        My bad luck they ain’t all there –
                        But she has lots more down below
                        So ’ware her nasty bite, ya know
 
                        But it matters not, ya
                        ’Cause her ma has lost her money, ma
                        And I has a cunny, da
                        So she will be content, ya!
 
                        Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… her arse is the perfect size
                        To measure all my land hides
                        And paps jush like Áine’sh
                        If the goddesh had my grandma’sh! 
 
                        But it matters not, ma
                        ’Caush her da has a cunny, ma
                       <hic>
                        An’ my da ish rish, ya
                        Sho I’ll be content, ha!
 
                        Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
 
Ehlia, to her amazement, found she had forgotten the rest of the words.  She
paused, confused, sought another swallow from the jug; found it inexplicably
empty, the other… missing.  Swaying, she peered at the one she held, gazed
blearily at Tufter and – what was his name again?  Whelp… yes, Whelp.  Why were
they dancing like that?
“Shtay <hic> shtill,” she commanded in her most imperious tone.  “Wish one of
you drunk the resht of <hic>…?”  Suddenly, she forgot her accusation, too.  It
became difficult to concentrate, probably because the world seemed askew; she
wished it would stop moving too, or it would make her fall…
 
This time, Ehlia knew Tufter’s tongue, but if the hound did not stop using it
so damnably hard, her head would surely split in twain.  She managed, “Tuf—”
ere her skull sundered.  Yet, maybe it only felt that way, because, if it
really had riven, would she not be dead now?  Dead would be preferable, she
reasoned – then quickly resolved not to reason any further, as it only hurt her
head more.  Even so, resolving not to reason was reasoning, was it not, and
therefore likely to worsen her headache?  If only she could think about not
thinking without thinking about it…
Moaning, her stomach all at once preempted her attention; maybe if she could
just roll over…?  Achieved naught ere she heaved, spewing forth half her
innards, minimum.  It sounded like Tufter lapped at something – preferable not
to think of that, as well, although it was useless; she vomited again, vaguely
noting that she seemed to be in a grassy spot with wildflowers – spew-stained
wildflowers.  Tried to remain still, but the world kept spinning…  Another
moan; she tried not to think about moving again.
No, best just to lie here and die…
 
“Y’all right, laddie?”
The voice, though solicitous, shoved a dagger through one eye; she moaned
again, considered cracking open the other eye to…
Thought better of it.
“Nae, I think ’e may be feelin’ a wee bit poorly.  I found the jugs – ye were
layin’ aside one, t’other left down the road wee bit.  Ye nae did drink ’em
both entire, did ’e, lad?  Tch!  Mighty impressive.  Wee thing the likes of…”
Ehlia moaned.
“Sorry, laddie – gabh mo leithscéal.  I know I tends t’go on a wee bit…”
Once more, the stricken girl groaned.
“Tch.  Here, laddie – try this.”
A leathern spout pressed against her lips; she moaned, tried to move away.  “N-
Nooo…”  Head fragmented anew.
“It be all right, laddie – water is aught.”
Oh…  That was different.  She drank sloppily, just noticing her thirst.  The
liquid barely made it past her thickened tongue ere it insistently returned.
“Och!  Ye dinnae have ta—  Ach… never ’e mind.  I’ll take care of it.  Never ’e
mind, lad.  Just moan when ’e be thirsty again.”
Ehlia resolved not to moan again.  Or move.
Ever.
 
Despite her condition, Ehlia acknowledged her good fortune; had she not begun
her journey toward inebriation ere she ventured near the road, she would have
avoided it, its dangers by this time all too clear to the youngster.  Had she
been thinking clearly, she would have chosen to travel, as best she could, away
from the route, whilst keeping it close enow to guide her.  Who knew what might
have befallen her once full intoxication took hold?  She could have passed out
in the woods where, despite Tufter’s protection, all manner of creatures –
human and otherwise – could have taken advantage of her.
As it happened, an itinerant bard from the farthest reaches of Caledonia
discovered her.  (Caledonia being a region of ‘hills’ the girl had heard of,
although, having never seen actual hills, Ehlia only had a vague notion of what
they were; somewhat larger than the midden pile back home, she gathered.) 
Bards had a generally honourable reputation, another ‘fact’ this one
enthusiastically clarified for her.
“Cerridwen has smiled upon ye, lad—errr… lass.  Aye… worry not yer wretched
’ead – yer secret rests safe wi’ me.  I could nae help but notice, lassie,
’avin’ tae clean ’e up, y’see.  An’ what ’appened wi’ yer nose, lassie?  Tch… 
Ye certainly be a mess, aye.”
He was too kind…
Ehlia had recovered sufficiently to keep her eyes open for a short time; long
enow for an appraisal of the man who introduced himself as one “Donnal mac
Fili, as righteous a bard as ever ye’re sure t’ meet”.  He did not look much
like a bard to the youngster: nondescript leather jerkin, breeches, hooded
green cloak from which long curls of auburn hair obtruded – but then, that was
something else she had never seen.  Had her head felt any better, she would
have been much more enthused to listen to his regaling.  Perforce, she was
obliged to listen; she just could not observe him and listen simultaneously
without feeling ill (indeed, she had thrown up far more times than she could
count).  Thus, closed her eyes, having determined that her champion appeared
quite young – and beautiful, moreover...
Ehlia presumed they had encamped in the woods somewhat off the road to Altair
whence she had… become ill, albeit for how long she did not know.  Her headache
felt worse than after being punched during the attempted rape, a condition she
would not have thought possible.  Nor could she hold down any food – the very
thought of victuals threatening painful dry heaves – or even water, all the
more awful because she was so thirsty.
“Worry not aboot yer deartháir, neither, lass,” the bard continued.  “Apologies
– yer brother.  And yer cú.”
Brother?  Had Donnal found one of her brothers?  No… he must mean Whelp.  She
further guessed that ‘cú’ meant hound.  Ehlia had no concern regarding Tufter’s
ability to take care of himself, but the boy…  A flash of guilt nearly roused
her; however, she trusted this man.  After all, had he meant them harm, she
would either be dead else Tufter would have chewed him apart like Kammen and
the woman reaver, Sou (Ehlia would remember her name).
“The lad dinnae ’ave much t’ say, aye.  Seems a wee bit soft in the ’ead.  No
mind, though.  I ’ave travellin’ room for ’e all, and yer cú has nary a
hindrance keepin’ us in provender.  Though I be quite the hand wi’ the bow
meself...”
Although baffled by words like ‘hindrance’ and ‘provender’, and, ignoring his
boasts regarding his hunting prowess (maybe he would teach her?), he interlaced
his prattle with interesting morsels that kept the girl rapt – at least, when
not asleep.  For example, he had been all over Anonna, to the faraway lands of
Aquileia and Qatarrâ, as well as to Frisia and Stygia and Chow – supposedly. 
In spite of her youth and condition, Ehlia retained astuteness enow to
recognise probable braggadocio; he appeared much to young (and beautiful) to
have been to all those places, most of which she had never heard tell in any
case.
He currently travelled from Asterion, whence he had taken bardic lessons.  Now
betook himself to Altair, there hoping to ‘take ship’ (whatever that meant)
south up the River Danu for a place called Clofeshoh, continuing to the town of
Ellandon, located on the shore of Little Lake Danu.  A barge (whatever that
was) could take him to Greater Lake Danu, whence he would cross that body of
water – again via ship – and head up the River Rhu as far as Mogontia, an
ancient Aquileian fortress city (whatever that was).  Thence into the Vogesen
Mountains (whatever they were) to the River Sequanni, then perhaps take ship
again downstream (whatever that meant) for Lutetia, the Neustrian capital
(whatever that meant).  Next, on to the coast (whatever that was; same as the
shore, the girl surmised), and set sail again – this time upon the ocean
(bigger than a sea, she gathered) to his ultimate destination in a far-off land
called Denoçes.   From there came, so he declared, the best bards.  Else he
would go the overland route, west though the Kingdom of Franconia (whatever
that was), to Turnacum, Bibrax, and then Lutetia, ere turning south toward Gaul
(another ‘kingdom’, she figured).  He had not decided as yet.
 
Ehlia, feeling something – not a tongue on her face this time – awoke,
screeching, “Unhand me!”  Smacked Donnal’s hands away.  At least her head no
longer split with effort of talking, moving, thinking…  He had been fumbling
with her lower clothing, as if he wanted to—  “Leave me alone!”
“Och, peace, lassie.”  Squatting over her, he leaned back, smiling.
Hastily clambering out of several smelly furs, she backed away, threadbare
tunic-cum-shift clutched to flat chest, groin.  Looked at him.
Bareheaded, a shock of red hair dominated the young man’s fair complexion;
wide, disarming grey-green eyes; narrow, handsome face.  “I see ’e be feelin’
better.  I was only about to check if’n ’twere so – thought ’e mayhap need a
hand… cleaning up again.  I see ye be fine.  Be ye ’ungry?”
The girl peered at him suspiciously; relented.  After all, had he not taken
care of her for who-knew-how-long?  Felt suddenly famished, but had to piss. 
“Yes, but… I have to…”
Donnal waved a long-fingered hand toward the trees.  “Over there, lass. 
Suipéar when ye return.”
Behind the first bushes she came to, she pulled up her tunic; found she had no
smallclothes.
You mean he…?  Ah, well.  She supposed Donnal had cared for both her and Whelp
like babies for the last—  How long had it been, anyway?  She carefully wiped
with a handful of green leaves.
“How long have we been here?” she asked upon her return.
“Eh, lass…?  Two days, nae more.  Be ye feelin’ better, then?”  He ladled some
kind of stew from a pot over the fire into a wooden bowl; handed it to her with
matching spoon.
She gathered that ‘two’ was more than one, but did not want to admit not
knowing just how long that was.
Whelp, watching her with round blue eyes, sat beside the man on a log by the
fire, a fur of some kind over thin shoulders.  Though expressionless, he
appeared more alert than ever – even fed himself!  After a fashion; Donnal
assisted.
All at once, she caught a whiff of the food; mouth watered, stomach roared like
a rumble of thunder.  “I…”  Almost snatched proffered bowl.
“Och!  ’Ungry, to whit!”
Though his grin sparked a different kind of hunger in her belly, she dismissed
the confusing notion in favour of assuaging more present needs.  Tried slurping
the broth, but it was too hot.  Wanted to ask where they were, as well; focused
on trying to cool and eat the stew.  Delicious!  Shyly – a rather new emotion
for her – the girl handed the bowl back, face hopeful.
“Another, lass?”  He laughed, a sound harmonising the happy chatter of birds in
the surrounding trees.
She could only smile, nod in answer.  “What is it?” she asked after a bit, upon
consuming her third bowl; she had not felt so full since…
“Coney – ’e be naming it ‘rabbit’, methinks.  And iora.  Dinnae know how yer cú
catches them, but ’e does.  I added a grice.”  Passed her a wineskin; laughed
again when she looked askance.  “Aught but water, lassie, aught but water.”
She squeezed it empty down her parched throat.  “Yora?” she queried, wiping
mouth on grimy forearm; handed back the empty skin.
“Aye – ioranua…  Ehh… wiwer?”
“Eh?  Oh…”  The girl thought she recognised that word; peasants from
neighbouring Powys used it for ‘squirrel’.   Naming it, added, “A red tree rat
with a bushy tail?”
Laughter again.  “Aye, lassie – a tree rat.  With a bushy tail.”
“Tufter caught a grice once, too.”
“Yer cú is named ‘Tufter’?”
“Yes.  Where is he?”
“Catching another, I expect.”  As he rose, taking the empty waterskin, Whelp
immediately stood, shrugged out of the fur, took his hand.
Ehlia stared, astonished.
“What be yer brother’s name, then?”
“I…”  She could not believe the boy was actually standing – or doing aught
besides staring and cacking himself.  “I don’t know.  Whelp.  I call him
Whelp.  He’s not my brother.”
“Nae?  Who…  Och, never mind, lass.  What be yer name?”
“What?”
“Name, lass.  I ’ave given ’e mine.”
“Oh.”  How rude of her.  “Ehlia.”
Smiled.  “Ehlia.  We – Whelp an’ me – be off to yonder rill.  Mayhap ’e be
wishing to come, clean up – change trews?”
‘Rill’?  Change what?  Oh… he must mean a stream; change her clothes.  “I…”
“Hahaha!  ’E be a lass of few words.  Not to worry.  If’n ’e nae be needin’ me
’elp, I’ll be leavin’ ’e – but I’ll nae be too far off, aye?”
Beguiling, that grin.  “Where…?”
Indicating her bundles, hanging from a low branch of a large oak, answered,
“Yer pacáisti be there, lass.  Safe an’ soun’.”
She followed him a very short distance down a minor slope whence a rivulet
rippled betwixt the trees, forming a small pool that looked so inviting…
“’Ere, lass – try this.”  Donnal held out a small box, resembling her mother’s
jewellery case; its lid open, she could see inside not jewels but a porridge-
like substance, greyish and unappealing.
“What…?”
“Scoop a little out wi’ yer fingers.  Get yer ’air wet, work it in, then rinse
it out.  It’s called soap.  Ye’ll like it.”
‘Soap’?  What was this, now?  Yet, how could one resist that grin?  Even Whelp
smiled at her, holding Donnal’s hand (she felt jealous; the child never held
her hand unless she grasped his first…)  Dipped a finger, lifted out a glob;
sniffed.  Not too unpleasant; smelled like tallow candles and an old fireplace.
“Ye’ll need a little more – ’ere.”  Scooped out a similar gobbet, added it to
hers.  “An’ ’ere” —handed her what looked like a folded woollen cloak— “for a
towel.  Now I’ll leave ’e.  Care not t’get any soap in yer eyes, lass – it’ll
be stingin’.  Shout if’n ’e need yer back washed – or anything.”
Something in her vibrated at the teasing tone; shook the feeling away again.
When Ehlia determined that he had indeed taken himself out of sight – not hard,
since he began to sing – she left her towel, clean tunic, breeches, on a nearby
bush.  (Donnal must have washed them again, as they looked much nicer; perhaps
he used this ‘soap’?)  Still in her shift, stepped into the pool; water barely
met her knees.  Sitting upon a few slick rocks, too-large clothing immediately
soaked up the calm, chilly current.  Holding her glob of soap above the
surface, ducked back till her head went under, came up gasping at the delicious
shock; rubbed the soap into her hair, as instructed.  Wondrously, the substance
began to make bubbles, such as came out of fish or when Berne drowned those
kittens in the water bucket some winters ago.  As she worked it into her scalp,
the feeling became more sublime; dirt and care seemed to melt away.  She tried
keeping it out of her eyes; indeed, it stung.  Could not help it, though; had
to see what it did.  Anon, however, closed her eyes; finger-combed it through
tangled dark tresses, luxuriating in the slippery feeling.  Some got on
shoulders, arms; she smoothed it in, tried to spread it everywhere under her
shirt.  Even tasted it – decidedly unpleasant.  Though her shift got in the
way, its wet, oversize weight cumbersome, she did not remove it; instead kept
trying to smooth the soap all over her body beneath it.  Too soon, however, the
soap began to dissipate on its own, so she dunked herself entire, lying back in
the stream, eyes shut tight as her mouth; shivered at all the lovely sensations
coursing through her slight frame.  Came up feeling so much cleaner than she
could ever recall.
Ehlia really did not want to leave the pool, but her breath gave out withal,
even as the chill began to congeal.  Rising, clutching shift to thin body with
both hands, the girl stepped toward her clothes, bare feet slipping on mossy
stones.  She tried to determine how she would change without actually
undressing; for the nonce, used the towel beneath the wet shift, wrapping it
about her – though it did not cover her entire.  Hesitated, listening, ere she
donned breeches and tunic.
Accompanying himself on some kind of instrument she had never heard, Donnal
sang:
 
                     “Sweet lady, fair an’ noble
                     My love is deeper than the sea
                     I fain endure anything
                     To be again with thee
 
                    With thy gentle heart so pure
                    Thy graceful body so fair
                    Thy lovely face I long to see
 
                    But not long may I endure
                    For thou art so cruel to me
                    Thus, I lie dying
                    For your wont of love for me
 
                    Sweet lady, fair and tender
                    My love is plain to see
                    Though how will I endure
                    When thou art so unkind to me?
 
                    If I could only hope
                   That before I die
                   I may see thee once again
                   I may go willingly
 
                   But not long ere I go now
                   For thou art so cruel to me
                  Thus I lie dying
                  For thy wont of love for me
 
                   Arawn take me now –
                   I am ready –
                   For thy wont of love for me”
 
Ehlia found that she had stopped dressing, wet shift still over her head,
trousers half-up; lump in her throat… painful.  Seldom had she felt like crying
in her short life – certainly not about certain, confusing emotions fluttering
through her trembling young form like a flight of swallows.  She finished
changing, returned to the campsite.
Donnal, holding an odd, bow-shaped object in his lap, its several strings
running the wrong way, looked up at her.  Whelp, wrapped in a fur, appeared to
be asleep against the log and the bard’s thigh; Tufter likewise, lying near
opposite foot.  The man smiled at her, strummed the instrument.
She shivered, not entirely with chill.
“Ah, lassie – there ’e be.  Care for some tí?”
***** Akzir-4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Akzir awaits word of his parents and sister. It partially comes, the
     messenger and message both unexpected.
                     “The one who seeketh should not cease
                              until one findeth;
                             And when one findeth,
                            one will be astonished;
                             And when astonished,
                                 will wonder;
                              And reign over all"
--Gospel of Thomas. Translated by Stephen J. Patterson & James M. Robinson. Nag
                               Hammadi Library.
Fadir returned more than a month later, although Akzir’s parents had not, and
neither had Zeniah. Were he honest with himself, the boy would admit that he
did not know what to do, thus only waited for ummū and ābbi.
Late one night, a commotion woke the youngster. Rising, he donned a light thawb
over dhoti, emerged from his room on the second floor terrace, holding a candle
for light. Looking over the balcony, saw naught but lamplight flickering in the
entrance vestibule, from whence raised voices emerged. Heard their head slave,
Doban:
“…dare come here, at this time of night? Begone, or I shall summon the young
master—”
“Do so, fool! Be thankful I do not have your head!”
Fadir!
Trying not to extinguish the shem'a in his haste, Akzir ran barefoot down the
stairs, all at once thinking he should have a weapon; as he was not yet a man,
had none.
Whatever beneath Aljann had brought Fadir here? He felt like cursing the gods
for his enemy’s survival, but of course, there was only One True God, and one
did not curse Al'lah.
“Fadir! What are you doing here? Why are you not dead?”
Doban held the entry, lamp carried aloft in the slave’s other hand; the older
youth had pushed halfway into their house. Only a sandalled foot and bare shin
– Akzir noted rain-streaked blood – thrust through, other than Fadir’s hand
gripping the inside of the door. Plus his head, once-white emãmah bloodied and
also dripping rain.
“Akzir, you must flee! Get your sister and come – now!”
“What? What are you talking about? You should be dead with—”
“Do not argue with me, please! I am telling you, your father and mother are
dead – executed. You and your sister will—”
Akzir joined his slave attempting to push the door shut on his nemesis.
“Begone, unbeliever!”
Fadir lunged through, knocking boy and elderly abd aside, the latter crying
out. Akzir dropped his candle, which snuffed; fortunately, though it quailed,
threatening blackness upon all, Dobah held onto the lamp.
Solid youth stood, breathing heavily, drenched cloak over sleeveless, cotton
tunic and short breeches soaked and stained; belted curved dagger Fadir’s only
weapon. “Akzir – all of you – flee now! The Imladans come, and they have no
mercy. Did you not hear me? Your mother and father are dead! You must get
Zeniah and come with me now, before the rebels arrive.” Ineffectually used the
back of one hand to wipe at rain, mingled with blood from a cut on his
forehead, running into his eyes. Bare arms also bore bloody bandages.
“What? No! Get out, or I will call the guards!” A bluff, of course; all slaves
capable of fighting had gone with ummū and ābbi.
“Do so, Akzir! Bring all you have and flee!”
“I will not! My father is due back—”
“Akzir!” Fadir grabbed the younger boy by the shoulders, shook him; locked
gazes. “Your father is not coming home – he is dead! As is your mother. The
Imladans are executing all Quraysh they capture unless they swear allegiance to
the prophet and their one god. Including – alalihat watahmi lana! – your
grandparents, the malik and malika. And some of your aunts. Maybe all of them,
I do not know. And your uncle. Now, get your sister and order your slaves to
grab what they can. We must flee immediately – the enemy is upon us! Do you
understand, Akzir?”
Akzir all at once felt dizzy – too dizzy to note the invocation of false gods
for their safety. “But… Zeniah… is not here.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“She… She left.”
“What do you mean, ‘left’? Where did she go, Akzir? We must get her and—”
“I… I do not know. She went… with Tesil. Somewhere.”
“Where—? Never mind – we do not have time for this. We will find them.”
Dazed, unable to think clearly, much less give succinct instructions, the
youthful master hesitated. Fadir took over, commanding the household slaves to
pack necessities only: food,extra clothing, any weapons they might have, money.
Perforce, they would have to escape on foot; other than the horse Fadir rode
almost literally to death to get there, they had no more animals.
Anon, when Akzir’s confusion began to dissipate, and once he managed to explain
that Zeniah had not simply gone for a stroll – she had disappeared – he also
thought of visiting one or more farms outside the city belonging to related
tribes, whence they could requisition beasts of burden and other goods. Fadir
doubted they would find much, as Akzir’s mother would have very recently
collected everything. Moreover, since all remaining Qurayshi possessions would
undoubtedly be targets of the Imladans ere long, such a course would be
advisable only if those destinations aligned with their wisest path of flight.
Fadir, himself from the Najd tribe southwest of Bakkah, originally thought to
seek succour there; Fadir knew people and area, plus it lay in the direction
more or less opposite the Imladans’ advance. Then, the younger boy mentioned
that he thought Zeniah went with Tesil to Ta'if.
“Ta'if? Why—? Never mind – we will have time for questions later. While that
may be a good destination,” Fadir observed, “as it would take us through
Qurayshi lands, the enemy would expect us to do just that. I will have to think
on it. Meanwhile, you must finish packing, Akzir.”
The slaves had, but Akzir told them to take this-and-that, until they were
clearly overloaded with non-essentials. Fadir intervened, tossing much aside –
including most of the boy’s clothing, books, even his mum. And the soƫh.
“What are you doing?” Akzir demanded. “Those are mine!”
“Akzir, we have no use for these sorts of things, and no time to argue. You
must understand, we flee for our lives! Now, here – take this… and this.” Fadir
thrust a couple of sacks at him.
The boy protested, “I am not a slave!”
“AKZIR!” Fadir roared. “Must I strike and bind you? I am trying to save your
life – and your sister’s! Do you care at all, about either?”
Indignant, confused, Akzir unsuccessfully endeavoured to stare down the older
youth. Tried to think. Assuming he believed everything the young man told him,
which he did not, he still realised Fadir probably maintained his – mayhap more
so Zeniah’s – best interests. After all, debate aside about who outranked whom
and might be in charge, Fadir, as a man of the Quraysh, doubtless felt honour-
bound to protect the ruling family; and Akzir had to grudgingly admit that
Fadir had honour. Thus, even if the unwelcome visitor exaggerated the fates of
his relatives, Fadir had his duty. Moreover, Akzir could not think of a motive
his elder could possibly nurture for lying about such events. Maybe he would
later, but for now…
Somewhat shamefaced, he acquiesced, accepting one bundle of goods.
 
“B-Bakkah burns.” Unable to sleep, reasons including, for the first time in his
life, great discomfort spending the night walking on the road, muddy and soaked
to the bone with incessant drizzle, Akzir had turned to look behind the small
party. Not far southeast, sun rising off to his right – though hardly showing
through the overcast as yet – a small orange glow lit the grey horizon. The
road – a well-worn track northwest to Ta'if – resembled a quagmire. Since Fadir
decided this destination offered some hope of succour, he had opted for it
despite the danger of pursuit. Akzir once again suspected that his rationale
might have more to do with finding Zeniah, but, since that coincided with his
own interest – indubitably, for different reasons – he did not argue. Indeed,
he could not offer any tactical advice, hence, although it grated, let the
older boy lead without challenge. For the nonce.
“I think not, Akzir – it is but a small blaze.” The young man stood beside him
on a slight grassy rise. “I doubt the prophet would burn the city – he needs it
more than it needs him. Besides, it would make him more enemies that he does
not need. No, I think he merely burns the Ma'bad of Hubal.”
Though the notion caused a thrilling lurch in the junior youth’s stomach and
even loins, he said nothing.
“Of course, it may only be…” Fadir left the thought unfinished.
“What?” prompted the boy.
“Well, it may only be… the homes of his enemies.”
“You mean mine!” Akzir tried to gauge the other’s expression in the predawn
gloom.
Fadir, worried gaze on the horizon, shrugged slightly. “Not only your family’s,
Akzir. But then again, I doubt he would do that, either. They would be valuable
spoils of war, just as prisoners should be.” At this statement his demeanour
did harden; glanced at the boy next to him.
Akzir saw accusation. “He does Al'lah’s work!”
Fadir’s jaw clenched. “By murdering prisoners? Including your parents? Even
your father, supposedly a follower? It is against all tradition—! Never mind,
Akzir. We have no more time to argue now than we did a a while ago.” Quickly
changed the subject. “Where is the next farm of your relatives?”
Akzir looked as though he wanted to continue the quarrel; did not. “I think…
only a half day’s ride – but we are walking in the mud… I do not know…” Tone
betrayed frustration, uncertainty.
“It is all right, Akzir. Were it not for the weather and the road, we could
still make it in about a half day. As it is… Well, we shall do our best.
“Did you know that, usually, walking takes no longer than riding? Unless
everyone rides, at a pace the animals can maintain, then everyone travels only
as fast as the slowest…”
 
Come dawn, rain surrendered to normal, warm dry spring weather in the
shrublands surrounding Bakkah. Just before they got to Ta'if, Fadir told the
party they would encounter a changing landscape of gradually increasing
altitude, sparse forest – that which had not been cleared for cultivation –
followed by a hilly region covered in scrub trees ere they reached the sere,
grassy plains surrounding Ta'if.
Besides Fadir and Akzir, their small group consisted only of Doban, Kahlyl,
Rudab, and an elderly slave woman named Haāzi, their cook and head housekeeper.
The few remaining Mosdan slaves had accompanied ummū and ābbi, thus were likely
dead or captured. Haāzi, however, could not keep pace, and when Akzir wanted to
flog her for ‘encouragement’, Fadir intervened. Later, the old abd transgressed
once again, and so Akzir determined to correct her. Once more, Fadir meddled –
only this time, Azkir felt in the right.
They had reached the farm of Hakam Makkar without incident. Despite the relief
of relative sanctuary and being able to clean up and eat a good meal – Akmari
hospitality would have granted them such even had they not been Quraysh
relatives – Akzir still felt tired. Angry, moreover, at what he saw as the
usurpation of authority that ought to be his; anxious as to the fate of his
immediate family. Having just finished taġadda, whilst slaves cleaned up, the
youths betook themselves and their shay to the small household ryad. Haāzi
collapsed, breaking some crockery. As the Makkar family was not at home –
having all answered the call of Akzir’s mother, their emira, to war – the boy
technically became master of this house, as well; Fadir only a distant
relative, after all.
“These are not your slaves!” Akzir cried. “And not your family! I will
discipline my slaves and family as I see fit. For all you know, if what you say
about my relatives is true, I could be malik now. And I could have you executed
for laying a hand on me – twice now!”
Once more, Fadir gripped the smaller boy’s arm in mid-strike as he was about to
flog the old woman with the soƫh – despite Fadir having discarded if from
Akzir’s baggage, the boy had obviously stashed it along anyway.
“You beat helpless girls and old women,” the young man seethed, “to teach them
obedience? To motivate them? This is not how it is done, Akzir!”
“I told you not to tell me how to treat my family or my slaves! Now let me go,
or—”
“And I told you not to hit your little sister again. As I tell you now, you
will not whip the old, either. If I hear that you have done it when I told you
not to – aie, I already told you what I would do. Now, give me the soƫh, Akzir.
I will not let you go until you do.”
“Perhaps I will just use it on you…”
Fadir’s gaze narrowed, grip tightened. “I would like that if you tried.” Tone
became low, dangerous.
Akzir saw promise in the look, heard threat in the words; released the whip,
though yearning to use it.
“Thank you, Akzir.” Fadir assisted another slave to help the old woman up.
“Now, I suggest that you let Haāzi rest. We have had a long—”
“Do not tell me how to treat my slaves! I am master here!”
Fadir, tapping the soƫh against a leg, regarded the enraged youth with an
expression vacillating between ire and exasperation. “Akzir,” he began evenly,
“I am not telling you what to do. I am only suggesting. I was saying that we
have had a long journey. We are all tired, and there are enough slaves to help
– they do not need one more old woman. But, as you say, you are the master
here. I just wish…”
“I know what you wish – you wish to be master!” The boy stood, arms akimbo,
belligerence shining through sweat sheen as midday sun crested the country
house’s interior courtyard. “Well, you are not – I am!”
Fadir, sighing, sat cross-legged upon a straw mat and colourful cushions under
dwarf trees in the courtyard, sipped at a clay cup of shay as he set the whip
aside. “Akzir… How do I explain? Please, sit and relax, will you not?”
“Stop telling me what to do!”
“Akzir! You are testing my patience. I am trying to be reasonable – to talk to
you as a man. Do you wish me instead to treat with the boy? Now, sit.”
The lad, glaring from nemesis to the soƫh, finally did so. Unclenching fists to
accept the cup of shay held by a nervous slave, uncoiled stiffly onto a mat
opposite.
“Akzir,” Fadir continued,” first, until we know the fates of the rest of your
family – which, I remind you, I still feel duty-bound to assist you in finding
– I wish to acknowledge you as my liege: Sayyidī Akzir ibn Mosdan Ahl al-
Quraysh. And, at least until we know more, Emir al-Hejaz. As such, I offer my
protection and service, as I did to your mother… Emira Zalidda.” A guilty look
and tone briefly intruded upon the young man. “M-Maybe, as you suggest, you are
malik now. But you will need help in finding out, first, and then remaining so
against the rebels.”
Mollified by the titles, the boy replied less testily, “If I am malik, I will
cast out all the false gods and welcome the amin back into their homes. They
are not rebels, and they should never—!”
Fadir held up a hand. “Salaam, Akzir.” Dropped it to lift clay cup to lips;
sipped; squeezed the juice of another yellow wedge of laymun into it. “I have
no wish to argue. I have acknowledged you as my sayyidī, and I will do so
regardless of our differing views. Aside from cruelty to the weak or old, I
truly have no interest in resisting you. Quite the opposite: I want to help
you, Akzir. Having said that, you may have my counsel as you wish – or not. I
do not suggest that I am as learned as a mudarri. I am simply a little older
than you. And all great men – maliks included – need counsel. How does this
please you?”
Akzir, ire cooling even as the day’s warmth increased, scanned the pleasant
garden space; scrutinised the older youth. “I am master?”
“Unquestionably. As I said, at least until we determine what has happened to
all your aunts and uncle and their families. Though it may still take the
Ijtima Souria, the conclave, to decide… what happens after.
“Now, I wish to discuss plans to find your sister and other family…”
 
The two talked late into the evening, taking easha', the evening meal, there as
well; did not even notice slaves bringing an oil lamp and candles until they
began to sputter and leave them in near total darkness. Although Akzir wished
to punish them for ‘laxness’ in not promptly replenishing their light, the
older boy once more talked him out of it; it was late, after all, and everyone
had gone to sleep.
The next day, despite, as suspected, not obtaining any pack animals from the
Makkar household, they decided to press on to Ta'if regardless. Having
requisitioned adequate supplies, they left without Haāzi; Fadir also convinced
Akzir she would just slow them down, hence to leave the old slave behind. Even
so, their chances of catching the caravan were virtually nil regardless, since
it had gotten a long head start and the party could not travel fast enow to
overtake them. Thus, they were not likely to find Zeniah until they got to
Ta'if.
Fortuitously, using essentially the remaining money left to Akzir for household
expenses, they were able to purchase a few beasts of burden along the way – the
well-travelled route being littered with villages as well as farmsteads and
their fellaheen workers. Still and all, they did not catch up with Zeniah, and
although they found no sign or word of her or Tesil all the way to Ta'if, this
fact did not overly disturb them; Tesil had gone incognito, the better to avoid
interest from aforementioned bandits.
As it happened, the pair did not appear to have reached Ta'if.
The Kazhals were more than helpful, their child and heir having somehow
disappeared on the road betwixt here and Bakkah, on what was purported to have
been Tesil’s betrothal with an important Ta'ifan family, the Kindah. Although
Tesil’s mother made it safely to Ta'if, tragically, the small party learned
that Husayn Kazhal had been among the captives executed by the Imladans
following the Battle of Badira.
Nonetheless, the number of remaining Qurayshi and Ta'ifan allied tribes,
despite the recent call to war for some, should mean no shortage of assistance.
If they had time they could even appeal to other peoples of the Mamlaka of
Hejaz, including Fadir’s Najd. Realistically, however, besides the Kindah, only
the Khaybar, Fadak, Hadayl, Tihamah, Juheina, and Hawazin, all Quraysh
subjects, could be contacted without resources and time they simply did not
have. Approaching the myriad others across Akmari lands would require trips in
several directions that could last weeks, each. Still, the size of the Kazhal
family meant many contacts in important positions already throughout their
trading network, and therefore the means to pass word relatively quickly.
In the meantime, the small party waited in Ta'if, guests of Fawal Kindah,
whence the Kazhals were supposed to have met for the betrothal of Tesil to
their son, Harun. Tesil’s mother, Kahlyl, though grieving for her lost husband,
arrived a day later.
To everyone’s astonishment, they learned that Tesil and Zeniah must have
perpetrated a rather elaborate ploy to substitute a slave for Tesil in the
caravan to Ta'if.
“Not that difficult,” Fawal suggested on their first evening together as they
took shay in the ryad of his modest home.
Fadir and Kahlyl attended as adult guests, whilst Harun Kindah lounged on
cushions, seemingly bored with the proceedings other than with Akzir, seated
next to him, whom had been invited as presumed ranking Quraysh nobility,
despite being under nominal age.
“Beyond finding someone the same size,” Fawal went on, “all she had to do was
hide beneath full burqah and act the part of a merchant’s daughter. No one else
in the party would have known Tesil.” The tall trader, in casual white thawb
and emãmah, sipped his shay. “The slave has of course been punished.”
Akzir burned to know what their host meant; perhaps his corporal punishment of
slaves might be vindicated? Yet, since he was not adult – and still felt
insecure in his supposed rank – did not speak up.
All sat in the customary cross-legged position on rugs and cushions in the cool
evening of the garden courtyard – bigger than that of their previous host.
Akzir, as usual, found himself with mixed emotions; though excited to be there,
rank recognised, he resented Kahlyl’s presence. As a female, and in mourning,
she should be absent, let alone amongst menfolk dressed in men’s dhoti, chador
simply draped over shoulders and black hair, covering almost nothing. Barefoot
and bare-armed, the woman’s hands, feet, ankles not only bedecked in scandalous
jewellery, moreover appeared to have some kind of black writing on them the
youngster did not understand; it did not look like Akmari script. Eyes even
appeared to be made up with kohl, the darkening substance from Nabataea that
should be forbidden women, as the Prophet—
“…something to tell all of you,” Kahlyl was saying. “This is a carefully
safeguarded family matter that I am about to reveal.” The handsome, lithe woman
adjusted position on her cushions, causing wristbands and ankle bracelets to
jingle. Pulled scarf completely away from narrow face, as though to expose more
of herself, as well as her secret. “Although the Kindahs are aware, we Kazhals
have not… been at liberty to acknowledge this fact until we could… Aie, let me
simply say it: Tesil is what the khouri call ‘mukhannathun’ – neither male nor
female but both.”
Whilst the woman allowed her gaze to rove about the room, Akzir did not catch
any of the others’ looks; the buzzing had returned inside his head, and he all
at once felt hot. As Kahlyl educated the others on what he himself had only
recently learned regarding the intersex’s commonness elsewhere, whence the term
for them had come, and so on, it occurred to him that this startling fact may
explain some things. Yet, ere he could ponder further, the proud woman moved
into new territory.
“As you may or may not also know, unlike here in Akemar, elsewhere mukhannathun
are prized – revered, even, in some faraway places I do not remember the names
of – Thuban, I think was one. We sought for a long time to… understand what
Tesil was, and what kind of future we could determine for her. You will notice
that although I say ‘her’, the intersex are usually addressed as het instead of
‘him’, ‘her’, ‘she’. Unless they comport as male or female, as does Tesil. So,
we – at least, I – think of her as my daughter.
“Howbeit, we searched to find Tesil a… spouse who would accept who she is.”
Nodded toward Harun.
Akzir glanced at the young man beside him; startled to find Harun’s frank gaze
already upon him, expression unreadable to the boy. Uncomfortable, he looked
toward Kahlyl once more.
“However,” the recent widow resumed,” Tesil was never… content with things as
they are. She had many questions, and even resented our arrangements.
Therefore, I can only guess that Tesil has gone to seek answers – where, I… I
do not know.” Emotion shewed through the last few words; doubtless, she felt as
any mother would whose child went missing.
“But, Sayyidāt Kahlyl,” Fadir asked, “why would Tesil involve another girl – a
younger one? What could she be thinking to take Zeniah along?”
Kahlyl shrugged sadly, clinking again. “I have no answer, Sayyid Fadir – and
may I once more offer humble apologies to her family.” Nodded toward Akzir.
“Perhaps… Tesil simply wanted a friend – as you might understand, she has none.
With no siblings and n-no playmates…” The woman appeared to wrest control of
herself back from a precipice. “Tesil has b-been very lonely. I tried, but…
well, my husband – m-may Nergal show him mercy – was never accepting of Tesil.
He thought the gods were being cruel to him, not knowing if he had a son or
daughter, I mean. It… did things to his head, his confidence… as a m-man. He
could not see that he had both in one person – and yet, neither, as the the
khouri tell us.
“But the more we learned, the more confused, angry, he became. I think… I think
that he sought his death at Badira… P-Perhaps welcomed it…” Kahlyl wiped a
tear, smearing kohl. “Therefore, y-you can understand the difficulty Tesil has
had accepting herself.”
Slaves brought more shay and light – suddenly, Akzir noticed Rudab. Accosted
the slave as he accepted a refill – though he did not quite know why. “Rudab.
You are mukhannathun.”
“M-Madha, sayyidī?”
“You are mukhannathun,” Akzir repeated. Hesitated as he thought to instruct the
slave to ‘show’ everyone. Not being master of this house – Rudab his slave
withal – he sensed the impropriety of the directive.
“What?” Kahlyl interjected, echoing the intersex youth. “Madha? You… You are?”
Rudab began to tremble, clay cups on wooden tray rattling. Looked at the
ground.
The woman tried reassuring the youth. “No, no, do not be ashamed. Your n-name
is Rudab?”
Gaze down, slave nodded.
“I… I do not know wh-what to say.” Kahlyl’s tone evinced amazement – and
something else: annoyance? “All this time… We are— were almost neighbours… Why?
Why did you keep this a secret, Rudab?”
Indignant at the woman’s presumption to interrogate his slave, Akzir thought to
intervene, but wanted to know as well; commanded Rudab to answer.
“I… I kn-know not, sayyidī, sayyidāt. I w-was… I am ashamed…”
“No, no,” Kahlyl repeated. “You must not be ashamed. You are who you are. Come,
sit here and—”
“He—t has work to do,” Akzir interrupted. Feeling conflicted, he wanted Rudab
to answer, but did not want him – het? – to answer to anyone else.
“Please, Sayyidī Akzir,” the woman entreated, “let Rudab respond. “There may be
something het can tell us… about Tesil.”
“He—t does not know Tesil,” the boy snapped.
Fadir interceded. “How would you know, Akzir?”
Akzir’s glare softened as he looked about the room; saw so many questioning
looks… He began to feel uncomfortable. Acquiesced, “Very well. Answer, Rudab.”
“Sit, Rudab.” As Fadir tossed a couple of cushions together on a vacant mat,
Akzir’s annoyance returned.
“Do you know Tesil – my child?” Kahlyl enquired.
“N-No, sayyidāt.”
“Of course not. You would have no reason to have met. But…” The recent widow
appeared to be searching for words. “I… I cannot help but think how different
things may have been, had we known there was another mukhannathun amongst us.
Perhaps Tesil would not have felt so alone… My husb-band could have seen that…
as w-well. But no matter. Ma hu almadi hu almadi… What is past is past.”
“Hmmm,” Fadir muttered. All eyes turned to the young man, who appeared pensive,
as though pondering other than the current conversation. “My… my apologies to
all. I was just thinking of maqtab… the questions Tesil recently asked. She
enquired about Moghador – how far it was. I am now thinking it was not an idle
question, or asked out of simple curiosity.”
Kahlyl asked, “You… you think Tesil went to Moghador, Sayyid Fadir?” When the
youth confirmed, she wanted to know why.
“I know not, Sayyidāt Kahlyl. But I suddenly have the feeling that we have been
looking for the girls in the wrong direction.”
The widow’s expression vacillated between consternation and anguish. “But… but
why would they g-go to Moghador, of all places?”
             *                         *                         *
Hundreds of leagues away upon the roiling North Sea, a massive storm swept upon
the Kenaani bireme Ahumm. Typhoon-driven waves surged twice higher than the
galley’s mast and furled sail; peaked in a thunderous roar ere crashing down
once more, plunging the Brother of the Sea into a fathomless valley of seething
water. Fifteen oarsmen in two banks a side, plus several more sailors manning
each of paired rudder oars, had no chance contending with such elements.
Although seeking only to steer up the enormous swells and ride them down again,
it appeared inevitable that they would lose momentum as they crested wave after
colossal wave.
Into the surrounding cacophonous gloom, captain shouted unheard orders at crew,
interspersed with bellows of defiance to the storm god, Ba'al. Shrieked as salt
spume blasted over him, streamed from full black beard, drooping moustache,
bare brown skin, sopping loincloth. Roared into the contorted, water-streaked
dark face of his first mate, standing opposite as they and a third seaman
wrestled with a steering oar: “Fawa! Ba'al demands sacrifice! Throw the
infidels over the side!”
Suddenly their imperilled vessel crested the latest wave, teetered briefly as
though on a sword edge. A gust howled over them, spewing vast payload of salt
water across inundated deck. Fawa, though tied to the gunwale as were they all,
disappeared before master’s streaming eyes as the ship plunged down the other
side of the giant swell.
“Never mind, Fawa!” Shaking salt sting from madly shining brown eyes, master
sounded almost gleeful. “I will fetch them myself!”
 
In a crowded cabin below deck, the captain’s human merchandise cringed under
heavy canvas tarpaulins, trying to hold on to more than one another as the ship
tossed everything about; cried out as pieces of surrounding cargo came loose
and struck them. Abruptly the tarp whipped away; Tesil and Zeniah shrieked.
Crazed, bearded visage thrust at them, shouted something inaudible over the
wind. Though they recognised the master and knew he spoke passing Akmari, he
spent no time repeating his words; grabbed Zeniah’s arm, pulled at her.
“NO!” Tesil, for once not wearing full burqah, only niqāb covering lower face,
kept desperate hold of her companion’s other arm. “Zeniah, do not go with him!”
The captain, angry now, spitting guttural words, backhanded Tesil across the
face. Niqāb tore completely away just as the ship pitched, tossed, hurling
older youth backward into bales and barrels. Zeniah resisted, kicking and
slapping. Galley lurched violently the opposite way, sending girl head-first
into man’s near-nakedness; just as her head speared his sodden groin, a loose
barrel catapulted over her. Though it struck her back but a glancing blow, it
caught the man full in the chest, slamming him out through the door, goods
following master. Dazed, Zeniah noted the open portal yaw wide, bang shut,
cutting off lashing spray and wind, little noise.
Abruptly the girls’ world turned upside down.
***** Waryn-4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Waryn visits the city...
             “A horse not broken in becometh stubborn, and a child
                     left to himself becometh headstrong.”
                                --St. Augustine
In twilight, the forest rendered the smooth black spire of Corannus Watch nigh
invisible. Regardless, simply searching for it – even were it high nones and
cloudless – would not suffice; only someone who knew of its existence and
whence to look would find it. Nor could a passerby simply ‘bump into’ the
tower, for they would merely pass through it and notice nothing beyond a vague
chill or other sensation of discomfort. For, while located deep in the Forest
of Broceliande, Corannus Watch was not really there at all; it existed in
another dimension, on the ethereal plane, not quite in full contact with the
material world of Anonna.
Moreover, only those with special knowledge or abilities could move from one
plane to another; despite Waryn being one, like all Coranéid, he still needed
permission to enter the Watch; thus, concentrated on contacting the tower’s
Guardian. He did not know who or what controlled access to the tower – some
said an enslaved daemon, others, a solar or even a deity – but cared not to
challenge whatever it may be. Waiting till he felt approval, he mentally spoke
the Word that got him inside; confronted his tutor in the latter’s quarters.
Ultermentora! he blurted, too upset to remember the proper greetings. You must
give me the power of speech. That conceited old doxy who calls herself queen
dared to throw me out of my own castle!
Myrddin sighed. Emotionless, endured his pupil’s tirade, waiting on his semi-
illusory stone seat until Waryn finished.
Do you hear me, Ultermentora? My own castle! She denied me my rightful place as
heir to the throne of Franconia. She cannot be allowed to get away with it! You
know who I’m talking about – you were in the Nonagon together. Or so the trull
claims.
So what are you going to do about it? She cannot treat me like that. I’m your
lernanto! You must teach me more, and give me the power to use the magic I
have, so I can overthrow the usurping wench! The boy-wizard stood, inwardly
seething, pale hands clenched into fists by his sides, golden eyes flashing.
“Since I met you – no, since I learned of your existence,” his master began, “I
knew this moment would come. And I have known what my answer would ultimately
be.”
Meaning you won’t teach me anything else!
“Correct.”
Is it because you have nothing more to teach me?
Myrddin half-smiled, said only, “I shall teach you naught else. From this
moment you are mentora-menst; master-less, you must seek your own way in the
world. I shall no longer be respons—”
Waryn whined, childlike insecurity a brilliant glare through arrogant veneer:
You’ll turn me out into the world, mentora-menst? What sort of treatment is
that for a lernanto? You’re responsible for me, old man, whether you like it or
not. I’m whatever you have made me!
“True enough, to a degree, I suppose. I certainly seem to have in you one of
the most emotional Coranéid I have ever had the displeasure of tutoring.”
Myrddin offered no indication that the comment had been meant as humour. “Yet,
surely you shan’t now pretend reluctance to face the terrible, cruel world all
by yourself, Waryn la Gaiseric? Not after all—”
You’re afraid of me! I knew it. Everyone’s afraid of me. But I’ll show them!
I’ll show you all…!
Once more, Myrddin let the younger Coranéid rant. Rising, pointing a long, waxy
finger at erstwhile apprentice, bestowed a last kernel of advice. “Mentora-
menst you are, and mentora-menst you shall remain, Waryn la Gaiseric. This, in
itself, is not a bad thing, but you must learn, first, that you know naught
about aught – less than naught, even. Then, once you have learned this, you
might begin to accept the fact that you shall never learn everything – about
anything. When you have finally understood that, perhaps you may begin to see
that not everyone or everything is against you; that you can live in the world
and with it, instead of outside and in opposition to it. You shall learn that
the world does not owe you your life and your welfare; your welfare you must
earn, and, well, your life ought to be spent toward ensuring the harmony and
balance of this world.
“Go now, and come back when you understand who you are.”
Quite some time would pass until Waryn thought much at all about his mentora’s
lecture; much longer ere he began to understand; longer still for him to accept
its truth. For the nonce, he took one dragging step closer to his former
instructor, stared him in the eye. A moment passed, during which will struggled
versus will, but when it seemed neither would back down, the youngster
responded at last, I’ll go, Mentora, and I’ll come back when I’m ready for
another Transformation, if at all. You think you have the answers for
everything, yet you won’t give me one when I ask for it. If it’s all so easy
for you, then why don’t you show me just how easy it is? Thought twice about
possibly antagonising his elder, but, although he did not know why, felt
certain Myrddin would do nothing against him, no matter how relentlessly
provoked. He sidled closer.
You’re afraid of me, old man, though I’m not sure why. But I’ll find out some
day. I think you were forced into doing what pitiful little you did for me, and
now that you think you’ve fulfilled your obligation, you’ll not stir yourself a
fingersbreadth to do any more than you have to! Maybe it’s because you think
you can still prevent me from attaining my full powers – which you cannot. Are
you that afraid of me, old man?Waryn dared press a long white finger into the
purple-robed breast of his superior.Does my existence threaten your own fragile
little world? The world that speaks in awe of the deeds of the Nonagon and its
wizard?  Waryn stepped back, slashed one arm angrily through the dead air of
the extra-planar chamber.
Myrddin did not so much as blink.
FOOL! the youth exploded. You’re all fools! Soon they’ll be whisperingmyname,
the bards will be tellingmylegends in the courts of all the Lands. And you and
your puny friends will be as forgotten as Lands’ End, aeons over aeons ago!
Lowering his mental voice, Waryn pointed again at his mentor. I’ll go now, but
you’ve not heard the last of me. Look in your watercloset, listen to the wind,
consult your oracles; you’ll find only me and hear nothing but my name. And
some day you’ll be sorry you did not show me proper respect and give me what I
deserve!
The cocky young Coranéid shimmered, blinked emphatically out of the room. Ages-
wise archimage stretched, yawned, noting that he had not felt this fatigued
since his own First Transformation, so long ago…
                           *           *           *
Intrepidly, astride constant Vinrouge, whom had freely roamed the forest during
his young master’s apprenticeship but came readily at Waryn’s mental summons,
the boy approached the gates of Anvers. He had never seen a large town before,
let alone this, one of the most populated in all the Northern Lands. At first
he wondered if his new eyes with their night vision and lifewarmth sight were
misleading him.
Its ivy- and moss-covered stone walls rose three-and-a-half-rods, everywhere
crumbling from age, neglect. Yet, to the neophyte wizard, they seemed the
grandest examples of architecture in the world – and he had yet to see inside
them. Outside, a veritable metropolis crammed up against them: peasant shanties
and rough inns and taverns; common shops, mercantile pavilions, hawkers’
booths; shrines to more deities than he thought existed. A constant stream of
slow-moving foot and waggon traffic, with the occasional rapid passage of a
colourful noble’s or rich merchant’s procession, all flowed through the gates
non-stop in each direction.
Waryn had learned that Anvers was a Free City – a Friwic, in the ancient, not-
quite obsolete Sächsenais language – meaning it owed allegiance to no overlord.
Nor did it belong to the country within whose borders it might be ensconced –
which, in Anvers’ case, happened to be moot; the Seildom of Artois, as well as
the Domardés of Flandris and Suiamh, plus Henryc’s own Seildom of Payens, all
shared borders at the confluence of the Rivers Escaut and Suiamh, whence Anvers
had been founded aeons ago by Belgic tribes. Self-governed ever since winning
its charter from the Seil of Artois in a nearly forgotten era, Waryn also knew
not many such cities existed in all the Lands. Others, much more populous than
this one, existed far away, but the boy-wizard could not imagine them.
Amongst many things besides magic he had studied in his brief stay at the
Watch, he absorbed vast amounts of history, politics, and culture of the known
world of Anonna – such as was available in print, anyway – along with as much
as he could garner about more legendary lands and peoples. All quite
fascinating; the inexperienced mage could not wait to investigate for himself
some of the places and peoples he longed to glimpse. There was so much he
wanted to do!
Just now, however, he had other priorities. From all Waryn had read – and heard
from other lernantos at the Watch – the Mages Guild was the place to begin. One
of fourteen such organisations which constituted Anvers’ political
infrastructure, together they formed the city’s government, a syndicracy in
which the nine most powerful guilds – that is, the ones with the greatest
wealth and influence, and hence usually those with the richest and most members
– made up the ruling city council, or Tauropole. The Mages Guild did not number
amongst them, though; never had. Waryn intended to change that.
A mail-clad guard tried to stop him at the gate, grumbling about having to take
his animal around to another entrance because they were not allowed in here, as
well as something about a toll. When he caught sight of the rider’s hooded
face, he backed off briskly. Waryn barely noticed him as he dismounted and
temporarily abandoned his mount anew (Redwine had always taken care of
himself). The youth soon became too engrossed taking in all the sights, sounds,
and smells of the metropolis to pay attention to aught else in any event.
Marvelling, he bent to run his hands over the red cobbles of the road beneath
sandalled feet; stood to caress walls of high stone and wood buildings. Walking
on, recoiled from the gutters that, coated with odouriferous green and brown
slimes, centred the wheel-ruts of most streets, overflowing with garbage,
sewage, offal. Listening, tried to make sense of the noise; it seemed as if the
entire populace endeavoured to out-shout one another across the entire city,
over thumps, bangs, metallic rings; bawls, squawks, honks of animals; myriad
other unidentifiable sounds. He wondered at the strange dress of the
inhabitants: how their for the most part drab and lifeless colour appeared to
clash with the teeming, endless activity of the streets. The occasional,
brightly attired figure came briefly into view, only to be swallowed up by the
crowds. Waryn had to assume these examples of contrast were outlanders, not
natives. Or maybe they were the wealthy – or both.
He entered districts with unpaved streets – actually the most prevalent –
whence acrid odours of urine, faeces, rotting flesh assailed his nostrils.
Where, with curved knives, youths scraped the hair from raw animal skins
stretched on racks or thrown over narrow wooden rails. Clean hides soaked in
troughs into which passersby pissed; this, he knew, would turn them into soft
leather. Fascination overcoming nausea, he watched an old woman remove one,
chapped red hands feeling its texture, stiffness, even smelling it; she
returned it to soak, weighing it down with large stones.
Meat creatures met the butcher’s hammer and knives in the middle of the street
in another area, whence steaming patches of offal and pools of congealing blood
lurked for the inattentive. Mingled with animal dung, they assaulted the senses
enow to offend most, but to which Waryn seemed immune (essentially the case,
as, like all Coranéid, he did not breathe). Half-wild dogs and the odd,
impossibly large black rat fought one another and swarms of flies over the
prizes.
The youth became increasingly awed, enthralled, and not a little disgusted as
his self-guided tour continued. Often finding himself facing a cul-de-sac or
confusing maze of convoluted alleys, whence tenements leaned against one
another overhead, unnaturally darkening the passages beneath, he merely
retraced his steps. That most people seldom found their way out of such foreign
environments un-accosted or perhaps not even alive, did not occur to him; yet
whores, press-gangs, hawkers, cutpurses alike avoided him. Once, in a narrow
byway, reacting to a shout from a multi-storied building above, he looked up;
dodged just in time to avoid a perfuming from a voided chamber pot. Even so,
the contents splashed sandals and robe hem, thus Waryn’s attitude of wonderment
instantly turned to anger.
‘Garday-loo’ yourself! he shouted psionically at the unseen assailant. He
attuned his faculties, drew a selection of choice goodies from the gutter,
flung them telekinetically through the window from whence he assumed the
unwarranted attack to have originated; felt gratified by a female screech of
consternation followed by a series of outraged, imaginative curses (in Flemish,
he noted, as opposed to the more universal Brythonic spoken by the merchant-
and upper classes). He did not wait upon any further escalation of the
conflict. Silently invoking a cantrip, he cleansed his garments, continued.
Waryn knew not how long he wandered the city before he remembered his supposed
goal. Only then did he notice that, although the friwic’s people usually
crowded the streets like ants on a twig, he always seemed to have a goodly
perimeter of space around him. Strange, how everyone avoided him, going so far
as to step off the road, duck into nearby shops or side-streets, or simply turn
and head in a different direction upon espying him – some with most urgent-
seeming haste, often accompanied by a strangled cry or even a scream. Very
curious indeed. Absently wondering if this typified all city-folks’ reaction to
outsiders, Waryn decided that the only way he would find his destination was to
ask someone – the trick being to catch up with a retreating figure as soon as
he caught an eye.
The first, a nondescript young man carrying a bale of straw, dropped his burden
and fell to his knees, began to whimper and plead for mercy. Waryn got nothing
more from him – apparently he did not understand when the magician tried to
mindspeak him. Leaving the cowering fool in a blind alley, he sought another
target. Fared no better with a dumpy woman whom he surprised at a bread
merchant’s street-stall: she shrieked, keeling over onto the dirty pavement;
lay still with her eyes closed, evidently quite exhausted or something. Turning
to the merchant instead, he found he was alone. Disgusted, Waryn decided it was
simply the peasants being so unreasonable, thus looked for a better dressed
citizen. Espying an important-looking gentleman in rich garments of green and
yellow silk, also wearing, askew on his coiffured curly blonde head, a floppy
mauve cap adorned with an outrageous purple feather, Waryn approached. Attended
by several stout, well-armed lads, Waryn felt undaunted. Stepping as briskly up
to them as he could, a pathway magically widened for him. Before he was able to
form a word in his head, one of the dandies caught sight of him.
Choking, the guard’s eyes flew open; halting abruptly, laid a hand on ornate
fencing sword; apparently thought better of it, yelped, turned and ran. His
companions, realising what had caused their friend’s precipitous flight,
followed suit, along with their employer. Suddenly, the wide street erupted in
chaos; everyone shouting, running pell-mell, fleeing into alleys and diving
through doorways – which were quickly slammed shut and, judging by the muffled
sounds from behind them, locked and barred. All at once a dumbfounded minor
mage found himself alone in the dirty street.
Waryn stroked his chin with one pale finger. What could make all these cretins
run from him, screeching in fear? With a start, he all at once noticed his
hand. Of course! He stared at the translucent skin, watched the purple blood
course through his veins. His appearance! He had forgotten about his
Transformation. Even so, was his aspect so startlingly foreign? Then Waryn
remembered: He had read a few tales about wizards and such, how those dabbling
in magic were often said to be in league with demons and other forces of so-
called evil, not thinking at the time that people actually still believed that
drivel.
Apparently they did. He recalled now some of the servants’ talk at Quiérzy;
such superstition indeed ruled the masses.
If he intended to get anywhere with these superstitious peasants – for that
matter, the nobles as well – Waryn, grimacing, resigned himself to having to
hide his features until he met one of his own. Drew his grey hood so that it
draped low over forehead, folded arms inside capacious sleeves, headed down the
empty street. Soon he emerged onto a busier, cobbled intersection; entered the
first shop he came to – did not notice what type. Pulling a charcoal pencil
from his belt-pouch, he considered and immediately rejected the idea of tearing
a blank page from his priceless spellbook, began to write on the crude counter-
top – in Brythonic – right in front of the astonished proprietor. Made sure his
ample sleeve effectively covered most of his hand.
“Hey!” the portly, balding little man cried. “What ya be doing there, ya great,
long-leggedy oaf? This weren’t no writin’ tablet fer ya can be just going and
trying out yer pencils on, ya knows!”
Fortunately, Waryn had taken the time to learn a few languages during his stay
at Corannus Watch, or the man’s barbaric Flemish would have been
unintelligible. Of course: Flemish! Unfortunately, Flemish was not a written
language. Abruptly annoyed, Waryn carried on hopefully. Behind him, the buzz of
conversation attenuated down in pitch. The acolyte wizard finished, pointed to
the dusty black letters, to the man’s eyes, and back again.
“What? Ye wants me to be reading them squiggly little line? Cannot ya be
talking, man? No? Well, I cannot be reading, neither, and I’ll be thanking ya
not to get me places all grubby-like.” Erasing most of the charcoal words with
a few vigourous rubs of a grimy-sleeved forearm, he glanced up, peered into the
shadowed confines of his tall visitor’s hood. “Now, ya be having any proper
businesses here, or no? Drinks, womens, gameses… we be having it all, you
betcha!”
The room’s conversational murmur resumed, the interruption having apparently
been insignificant. Waryn’s exasperation nearly peaked. As he continued to
stare at the spot whence he had etched his query, the wood began to smoulder.
It quickly built to smoke, then combusted into tiny flames. The barkeep
shrieked, hopped about indecisively for a few grains, as if standing on the
burning bar himself. Attempted to beat the fire out with a stained leather
apron still tied about his generous middle. The area to the wizard’s rear
suddenly animated.
“Mad mage! Mad mage!” the stout man squealed.
“Help, help!” and, “Mad mage” echoed from behind Waryn.
“Fire!”
“Guarda!”
“Mad mage!”
“Help!”
“Guarda!”
Turning, Waryn observed the common room of a mid-sized tavern at about half
capacity, rapidly emptying as though someone had promised a free round next
door, leaving the recently graduated Coranéid again alone, except for the
bartender, still frantically trying to extinguish the small fire on the bar.
His efforts made not the slightest difference, however, for as soon as he
snuffed one patch, the last sprang up again. Yet, at the same time no doubt
much to his consternation as to his relief, the minor conflagration spread not
at all.
With a resigned afterthought, Waryn doused the flames. Relaxing his posture and
folding his arms, he glared at the barkeep.
Sweating, breathing raggedly, the fleshy man stood back, round, aqueous eyes
wide as he stared from his scorched bar to the hooded wizard, down, back again.
Swallowed, licked his lips; appeared as though he wished aught else but to
follow his customers out into the street, yet did not want to risk his back nor
his establishment to the caprices of a ‘mad mage’. “I-I ought,” he began
slowly, as if expecting at any moment to be roasted like a suckling pig for his
audacity. “I ought… t-to be t-turning ya into the M-Mages Guilds fer this. If’n
I be thinking anyb-body’s being there to b-be hearing me.” Swallowed hard.
Waryn pumped his cowled head, made an ushering gesture toward the door.
“Wh-What? I ain’t leaving… No? Ya b-be wanting me to be reporting ya?”
Waryn again lent impetus to the tavern keeper’s reasoning.
“Oh, oh, I b-be seeing now: ya b-be wanting to beknownst where it’s at the M-
Mages Guild.” Not nearly as obtuse as he appeared. “W-Well, why isn’t ya saying
so beforthwise? Oh, oh, sorry… I’m n-not meaning… I b-be meaning… sure, I’ll be
taking ya there. Though I’m not knowing if’n ya’ll be finding anyones to be
talking at. No one’s ever c-coming to Chambers from…” The man shrugged, glanced
ruefully about his empty place. “But no ’count. Seems I be having aught more to
be doing just now h’anyways.” Removed apron, made to toss it on the singed bar;
paused, studied the flame-gouged words for a moment. “I’m s’posing that be what
ya was trying to be asking me with yer writings, hey?”
They went outside, the tavern keeper locking up after them with a huge iron key
on a chain at his waist. Paused, gazing at Waryn as if considering something,
then, glancing up and down the empty street, made up his mind. “Well, let’s be
going, Long-leggy. Hey, whatcha be doing to yer leg, hey…?”
Waryn, forced to endure the garrulous tavern-keeper’s unanswerable questions
and prattling, followed. He did not know whether to be grateful he had finally
found someone not abjectly afraid of him, or fry the greasy man and start
again. Seeing that he finally appeared to be on his way to the Mages Guild, he
restrained himself. Besides, he picked up at least two pieces of useful
information from his guide’s barbaric ramblings.
Actually quite astute, Porthous happened to be actively involved in his own
trade organisation, the Services Guild. He informed Waryn about a movement
afoot to allow the absorption of the vast majority of this second most powerful
of Anvers’ guilds into the Provenders as well as the Vintner-Brewers Guild;
taverns such as Porthous’, the latter group claimed, more properly belonged to
them, as did inns and such to the former. Withal, this particular tavern-keeper
remained undecided. He pointed out that, whatever happened, the Vintner-Brewers
and Provenders were already on the Tauropole, and stood only to become second
or third in importance instead of about fifth and sixth, respectively, whereas
on the other hand the Services Guild would undoubtedly fall from Council should
so many members defect. Waryn ached to casually enquire what that might mean.
Miraculously, the loquacious aleman seemed to pick up his unvoiced query.
“An’ I’m s’posing that’d be meaning a catsqualls ’tween the Healer and Thiefses
Guild fer the ninth spots on Councils. It’s being sure there’s no compeetishuns
from the Sage and Scholar or the Nine Art – they not be liking poleeticking.
And the Mages don’t neither.” Glanced warily at the Coranéid limping along
beside him. “But I’m s’posing ya’ll be finding that out afore too long, hey,
Long-leggedy?”
Waryn allowed himself a mental grin.
Porthous hastily begged off as soon as he had shown the wizard to the grand
Hall of All Guilds located in the business-oriented Centrebaerg district of
Anvers; again distracted, the latter hardly noticed. A huge, rectangular stone
edifice taking up an entire city block just off the sprawling open marketplace
of Freetraders’ Square housed each individual guild’s offices, or ‘Lot’, as
well as Freetraders’ Hall and the Great Guildhall – where all guilds sat in
open debate – plus the Inner Chamber, whence the Tauropole deliberated. Waryn
knew the building had originally been designed Eras ago as a second donjon to
compliment the now-ruined Keep of Old Anvers, but had suffered many sackings
and renovations before it attained its current form of variegated, irregular-
sized stones roughly mortared together. It nonetheless retained a certain
puissant elegance; a functional beauty that Waryn thought personified the
entire Friwic in its eternal, solid presence.
Waryn was in love – although, at this precise instant, angry. Inside the
preternaturally darkened entrance to the Mages Lot, the wizard got no answer to
his voiceless demands for acknowledgement. This time, however, he channelled
his frustration. Intuitively suspecting the Hellishly-black interior of the Lot
and apparently deserted silence constituted a test, he directed his mental
powers toward defeating it. Sure enough, the darkness fizzled, revealing a
plain, small antechamber of featureless grey-white rock. No discernible light
source, of course, for Waryn had provided it himself, magically. A door faced
him directly; but no, the initiate realised, that would be too easy. Or would
it? Decided he could second-guess himself all day long and not get anywhere…
Waryn limped confidently toward the door – all at once began falling, again in
total darkness. Voicelessly cried out, milled his arms and legs; to no avail.
No! he reassured himself. This could not be happening! There had not been a
hole—
The boy’s vertigo ceased. Opening his eyes, he found himself standing before
the door. Glanced about. Nothing moved. Grasped the latch. Nothing happened.
Lifted; it moved easily, without noise.
Withal, sudden intuition told Waryn to duck. A head-sized ball of heat and
light burst on the lintel above, showering him with sparks. Waryn instantly
accelerated his heart-rate, began infrequent respiration; redirected the
majority of his blood supply to his brain. This served to turn off the pain
sensors throughout his body – an often useful, if unavoidable – side effect. He
leapt awkwardly backward, spun, flattened himself against the wall, ready for
the next attack.
A crackling blue-white bolt of arcane fire lanced toward him. Waryn
concentrated; deflected it into two separate forks which struck the wall a
handsbreadth from either side of his head; chips of hot stone sprayed his face.
Excited, he waited. Lifting one hand to his face, felt blood beading stung
cheeks. The air stank, an acrid odour similar to struck flint. Trying to
envision the darkened small room’s entirety at once, felt a nudge on one arm,
looked down. A snake coiled about him! It seemed to have crawled out from the
very wall at his back—!
No… only a rope. Nevertheless, it had him; squeezed tighter.
Now Waryn knew how Tamlyn must have felt just before….
The all at once frightened young mage tensed, struggled. No use. The coils
about him constricted, began to compress the needed breath from his lungs. He
tried to think: Did he have any useful magicks? Yes! Waryn slowed his
metabolism, tuned all faculties. To anyone watching, the wizard would have
appeared to have all but passed out. Waryn mentally intoned words; observers
might have sworn he shrank about three hands, including commensurate bulk. The
pain dulled, subsided. Room brightened.
Suddenly free, senses intact, hempen loops lifeless at his feet; three Coranéid
stood gaping.
Waryn reined his anger. I suppose, he gritted voicelessly, not quite disguising
all outrage, that you are the ones attacking me?
Two fools gawked whilst third essayed a response: “H-How…? B-But… You… H-How
can I h-hear you in my h-head?”
You mean you can understand me? Good. Returning to his normal size, Waryn asked
acidly, How did I do?
“N-No one has ever p-passed the firelance bef-fore…”
Waryn snorted. So do you kill all your recruits before they even get a chance
to get through the door? Must be pretty tough on the membership.
The speaker, unsuccessfully veiling shock, straightened. “W-We’ll take you t-to
the Grandm-master at once.”
Well, that’s more like it.
***** Imyryn-4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The courtesan makes a decision that changes her life -- again.
“When I sit at the door of the tavern
I am the karkid* who knows the penis;
friend of man, friend of woman
I am the milk of the god;
I am all-powerful in the land
I am the milk of the god Dumuzi;
I am all-powerful in the land"
--Inanna: A New English Version. ‘When I’. Kim Echlin. Penguin Canada Books.
2015.

Imyryn awoke parched. Head throbbed somewhat, stomach a little upset, but
otherwise felt mostly thirsty, as well as hungry – in addition to perturbed,
seeing that what she had hoped would happen last night did not; else she did
not remember, if it had. Found herself in her and Sefr’s tent, naked under
animal skins but for kaupinam—
Oh…  Moon-cycle.
Rising, she donned a less sheer robe than customary, sought the outdoors. Sefr,
at the fire preparing breakfast, greeted her, a strange look on his face as she
grabbed a handful of grass from the ox’s morning repast on her way to the
relative privacy of a bush behind which to squat, piss, change her padding. The
girl eschewed the chamberpot, now that she had to empty it herself and had no
water to rinse it.
All around them, at Utu’s rising, the extemporaneous camp began to bustle in
preparation for the day’s move. Imyryn, back at their fire reaching for the
wash water, stopped, stared. Almost as far as she could see, instead of drab
green bushes, stunted trees, and yellow grass, colourful tents massed on the
scrubland; in their midst a roped corral whence milled more ghōṛā than, surely,
the number of tents – neither of which the illiterate girl could begin to guess
anyway. Nearby another corral penned myriad, strange horses with humped—no, two
humps, on their backs. The youth intuited they were ūṇṭa, beasts vaguely
resembling ghōṛā, used mostly as pack animals, but purportedly foul-tempered
meat-eaters; she did not know if she wanted to see one up close.
The cataphract camp, too, evinced activity; she saw warrior women – even
without armour impossible to distinguish as feminine – feeding and watering the
animals, otherwise occupied with identical tasks as their itinerant band.
Imyryn felt a sudden longing; more than sexual, she yearned for… something she
could not identify, though it had to do with Princess Surya, she was certain.
Accepting breakfast of bread and fruit from Sefr after washing, announced, “I
have to go with them.”
Sefr, mouthful of flatbread, paused, blinking. “Eya…?” Chewed, swallowed. “What
do you mean, Liṭala Bōna?”
“I have to go… with the cataphracts.”
“But, Little Sister, you are not a soldier. What would you do, even if they
would have you? Do you mean to bring the Blessing of Inanna to the entire
camp?”
Once again, Imyryn could not tell if the aghat teased. Ate, chewing
thoughtfully; between bites sipped scalding, strong cā, a steeped brew using
certain dried plant leaves from someplace faraway named Thuban. Although
confident the Imperial Cataphracts did not travel with a mobile brothel of camp
followers, as she had heard most armies did, that was not her goal withal. “I…
I do not know. But I must go with them.”
The eunuch, shrugging, finished his meal, tossed the dregs of his cā, began to
dismantle camp. “If this is something you must do, Liṭala Bōna, then you should
go tell them so – they are leaving.”
Twisting to look, Imyryn saw the cataphracts begin to form ranks; tents and
most other signs of bivouac suddenly gone. “No!” Expectorated a mouthful of
bread; dropped the rest of it as she began to run, still barefoot, in the
hardscrabble toward them.
“Imyryn!” Sefr cried. “Stop!” Caught her, a hand on slim arm; having snatched
up the girl's sandals, thrust them at her. “Little Sister, I did not really
mean it. We cannot leave our goods—”
“I have to go!” Hanging half on to the eunuch whilst she pulled on her new
footwear, stumbled as she continued to run; frantic, knowing she had no hope of
catching them. “I do not care about our things!”
Just then several cataphract riders loomed, resounded to a dusty halt before
them, bringing the girl up short. One led a grunting ūṇṭa, from which she
recoiled, though it remained on the other side of the horses, slobbering and
looking about crossly – or hungrily.
“Mahilā Imyryn.” The courtesan thought she recognised Bījai’s voice through the
lead rider’s glinting veil, relaxed slightly. “You and your aghat are invited
to travel with the Rājakumārī Surya and the Sārbabhauma Cataphracts. I have
brought two Sainika and a camel to load your goods – you must leave the waggon,
the varzā we would butcher for food. I will have your answer immediately. What
say you?”
Needless to say, she went. Sefr, torn between duty to her and concern for their
possessions, finally accompanied her and the Second, entrusting their little
campsite and belongings to the delegated soldiers.
As it happened, they had not missed the entire column; several soldiers
remained to conclude final tasks in moving the army. However, the arrangements
their commander left meant guests would ride, on horses or camels; the army
travelled with no vehicles or pack animals besides ūṇṭa. Unfamiliarity with
both obliged Imyryn and Sefr to learn virtually on the spot, which, in turn,
doomed them to follow in the force’s dust for the two days it took them to
catch up to the main body. Taking advice from their escort that camels were
difficult – Imyryn still being chary of them regardless – they did so on
horseback, each riding double with a soldier till they arrived outside the
devastated city of Susa just prior to full dark, whence the main army had
already set up camp.
Weary and sore, the two were shown to the commander’s pavilion, but had to
await a conference of officers ere they would be admitted into Surya’s
presence. It dragged on through the night; Imyryn fell asleep in their allotted
partition, barely touching food and drink provided by an attentive, unarmoured
Sainika. (The army had no servants or slaves; the ‘servants’ Imyryn had
presumed waited on them at dinner two nights before had of course been
soldiers, an honourable duty actually coveted by rankers.)
Waking at predawn, Imyryn wandered outside; turned and practically fled back
within when she caught sight of the still-glowing ruins of her home city;
smelled the cloying smoke. Never having been outside the serai notwithstanding,
Susa had still been her home. Could not resist, though; had to emerge once more
and gaze, with loathing and, perversely, longing as the sun rose to reveal the
charred rubble; here and there, scavengers – human and other – pored. Both
sickened and excited, the girl presumed the contrary emotions juddering through
her petite body had something to do with having lost everything yet
simultaneously gaining once-inconceivable opportunities.
Full day saw them once again delayed as the general consulted with her staff.
Sefr went to check on their belongings, leaving the young courtesan to herself
for a time, the soldier attendant having departed. Unused to being alone,
without ability to bathe, do her hair – or someone else’s – listen to a story,
or fuck, bored Imyryn to frustration. Thus, raised voices from the main chamber
of the command tent caught her attention. She gathered that a debate raged
regarding the next deployment of the Imperial Cataphracts. Some officers wanted
to pursue the Dhenebans – whom, apparently, had decamped to Haŋgmatāna, to join
the besiegers there – whilst others urged a vindictive attack upon Ur, a
Dheneban city on the other side of Lake Kebai. Imyryn wanted to get a look at
Surya, so she left her ‘room’ to follow the maze of partitions toward the
voices. Ere she knew it, had walked round the corner of a partition almost
straight into two armoured, pointy-helmed and chain-veiled warriors.
“Halt!” one demanded. Both, much larger than she, stood, gauntleted hand on
mace haft, blocking Imyryn. “No one disturbs the Sepabhod.”
Past the sentries, Imyryn could see armoured figures in the pavilion in which
they had supped just a few nights before, although it looked very different:
Instead of couches and a low dining board, a higher table occupied its centre,
and several female officers, all un-helmed, stood around it, apparently looking
at papers. She saw Surya, who turned to look at her.
Absent ribbons and jewellery, the princess appeared every grain the general.
Smiled, catching something in the courtesan’s chest. “Mahilā Imyryn. Let her
in.”
Imyryn saw none of the surprised reactions, gaze focussed on the cataphract
commander as she languidly approached.
“For those of you who have not met, this is Mahilā Imyryn… of Hou—late of Susa.
She escaped, obviously. What do you think of all this, Mahilā Imyryn?”
“I… I beg your pardon, Sepabhod?”
“What do you think of our dispositions? Of the army? Should we attack Ur, or
relieve the siege at Haŋgmatāna?”
If anyone thought it odd to ask a supposed high-born lady regarding military
strategy, they did not say so. In fact, no one said anything as Imyryn glanced
over the documents, which of course she could not read. Though some had
drawings, these made even less sense to the girl than the ones covered with
words. Though unrecognisable as maps, Imyryn only knew the difference between
pictures and words from looking at scroll ‘books’ Os-emqua used to read to them
in the serai – albeit most of their stories were oral, and rarely illustrated.
“Is…” Imyryn began. “Is Ur not... across Lake Kebai?”
“Yes it is,” confirmed the general, smiling.
“Do we have boats?”
An innocent question, yet Surya’s look became thoughtful. Smile broadening to a
grin, she began to laugh.
At first, Imyryn felt embarrassed, as though she had said something foolish,
but immediately realised the mirth as genuine. Even though the other officers
looked puzzled, most joined their commander’s amusement.
“Eya, out of the mouths of the un-learned.” The general put a hand on Imyryn’s
shoulder, squeezed.
The courtesan all at once felt herself blushing, though it quickly ameliorated
as they took her into their confidence. Yet, since she had no comprehension of
directionality such as north and south, thus, although pleased at feeling she
had solved the army’s problem, had difficulty with the enthusiastic discussion
that followed.
An army could of course go around Lake Kebai in either direction, a journey of
no more than two or three days along the southern shore for the cataphracts.
However, the other, northern shore following the River Kebai all the way to the
Sea of Dheneb consisted of perpetually fog-bound desert, thus offered no fodder
or water for their animals. Carrying enough would slow them immeasurably, even
if they could gather enough to last a similar-length trip in that direction.
The main problem, however, was that most of Ur subsisted on the eastern,
opposite shore from Susa in the marshy delta of the Kebai whence it emptied the
lake into said sea, farther north. A complex web of canals provided drainage
and accessibility to the majority of the city – by boat. Although it had
bridges and walkways over the water as well, these were obviously restricted
paths, easily defended, especially from cavalry. Whilst some of the city
existed on the lake shore – docks and fishing wharves and the like – boats were
indispensable, for residents and would-be attackers alike.
The cataphract commanders did not know this, none having been there (not one
had ever been this far south, in fact, most officers having been recruited from
Persis, the Medaean heartland satrapy betwixt Pasargadae and Parsa, 100 leagues
or more northwest). Of course, Imyryn had not been to Ur either, but knew from
hearsay the city’s somewhat unique location: situated on a marsh, yet otherwise
bounded by desert or semi-desert on all sides save the lake. Thus, her innocent
question led to Surya’s perspicacious conclusion that boats were somehow
important to the city, and consequent amusement at how they had overlooked this
detail. A follow up question or two clarified their options.
 
Albeit in a less intimate setting than previously, that evening Imyryn dined
with Surya and all her Asvārān Sardār, the force’s ‘division commanders’ and
above. (Ranks and command structure were explained to their guest, but she did
not really understand.) No games this time; once sapara had been cleared,
business took over. Just when it looked to the girl as if it would again last
the night, and she began to drift off – fascinated as she was withal to be
included, though baffled and ignorant of the subject matter – the meeting broke
up. When all except the general and her Second had departed, two unarmoured
soldiers appeared to clear away the remaining mealtime furnishings. Sainika set
up a sleeping space as well as several lounge chairs, in which all three
occupants sat, followed by the largest ‘pot’ the courtesan had ever seen: an
oblong wooden object, polished and decorated with what looked like silver and
jewelled inlays, resembling a gigantic ouranē in which she could have climbed!
They left, returning with bucket after bucket of steaming water, until—
A bath! Imyryn shivered in anticipation, divided concentration between host and
tub.
Surya asked Bījai to leave them. Second’s eyes flashed as she glared briefly at
her commander and finally the courtesan, otherwise got up, obeyed. Imyryn would
have paid more heed to the older woman’s reaction, but the distractions…
“Imyryn,” the general addressed her. “You are still owed a boon, which you
claimed a few nights ago: Though you were not too clear, you wished some help
with your hair, yes?”
Girl could hardly sit still as she replied in the affirmative.
“Unfortunately, we do not have the time for this tonight, but instead of simply
offering to receive your prize later, I beg your indulgence by agreeing to a
bath here, in my quarters, tonight. We will wash it, of course, but otherwise
we will speak of your hair some other time. Perhaps we can add some other
benefit to make up for having to further postpone your boon. Agreed?”
‘We…’? Squirming in her seat, Imyryn’s sexual parts twitched. “What… what
‘other benefit’, Surya?”
That sweet laughter. “You are a delight, do you know that, Imyryn? Of course
you do – and yet do not. That is why you are precious.”
Imyryn wondered what the other woman meant.
“Will you stay the night here with me, and honour Inanna together, just us two?
What do you say?”
The young fahsh did not know, until some time later, exactly how much of a
privilege Surya bestowed upon her. Ordinarily, none of the the Imperial
Cataphract rankers or officers slept alone or in only a pair – or fucked just
one of their number exclusively – unless they were, essentially, a couple, and
recognised as such. If they so wished, after a simple ceremony they could
become Daivaurauma Sahaeādaraiyana, Sworn Sisters. It meant they could live as
a normal couple, if they chose (as much as soldiers could live ‘normally’,
especially on campaign), and have exclusive sexual relations only with one
another. Else they could honour Inanna with any number of other partners, of
any gender, either simultaneously or at different times, as virtually all free
Medaeans could. The choice had only to be mutually agreeable. At least, that
was the ideal.
Imyryn felt almost varjina, her first time all over again as the princess-
general helped her disrobe near the bathtub; she thought surely the other woman
would notice her trembling and say something. She did not, however, until they
revealed Imyryn’s petite frame but for what hid under straps and pads.
“Oh!” the princess exclaimed. “Ninhursag visits you, I see. Pay no heed – we
have a solution.”
Imyryn soon found out what she meant. Under similar circumstances as in the
serai during the moon goddess’ stay, the cataphracts adopted the custom –
begun, Surya knew not when – of using the tulāra paṭṭi, a device made of soft
moss or other absorbent plant such as certain ferns, twisted or mayhap tied
with another soft material into a finger-like apparatus. Inserted into the
gink, it would absorb blood and could later be removed and disposed, thus
dispensing with pads and straps entirely. Commonly, in Medaea anyway, kārpāsa
cloth could be thus employed. For sex, the advantage of course being that it
could be left in – at least, assuming that only tongues and fingers would be
applied externally; no insertions. However, it could be removed to allow such;
any seepage then generally being minimal.
Thus, Surya offered one to Imyryn, despite her cycle being, usually, quite
light, other than when two moons waxed together, which occurred every four
calendar months – now not being such a time. Indeed, when all three moons rose
it could be problematic for many women, especially those inclined to experience
a simultaneous visit from Nergal, the god responsible for disease and other
afflictions such as stomach pains. Imyryn was not old enough to have
experienced a triple coincidental moonrise as yet. Soon, however…
“After your bath, Bahumūlya.”
It meant ‘Precious’ or ‘Precious One’. Flattered, Imyryn also felt flustered.
“Eya, look… You are blaśa again,” the princess teased. Sounds of appreciation.
“Just look at you, little one. So small and yet perfectly formed… I cannot keep
my hands off you – therefore, I will not. Let me help you into the bath. Here,
step in, Bahumūlya. Is it not too hot? Too cold? Look, how your lovely bhurō
skin is all pimply… Oh!” she gasped, grinning, kneeling tubside. “Look at your
ḍīṇṭī – they are practically bigger than your dumu!” Giggled. “I must taste
them!” Had Imyryn not already been sitting in the bath, she would have fallen
in as the general flicked tongue over nipples, lapping almost an entire breast
at a time.
Surya could indeed not keep hands or lips off the younger girl; groped and
caressed and stroked everywhere. Finally the warrior leaned back, added
handfuls of flower petals and generous drizzles of scented oil to the steaming
bath. Courtesan laid back in the water, let it cover her entire. Too coiled to
relax as yet, she nonetheless began to feel bliss for the first time in what
felt like forever. Heart lurched when Surya began to undress, just as certain
other parts quivered.
Princess somehow looked even taller, standing unclad before the girl than she
had on the horse. Certainly, she was head-and-shoulders taller than Imyryn –
the youth being far from the lankiest amongst women notwithstanding. Slowly
revealed to Imyryn’s goggling eyes: Lightly tanned skin; lithe, well-muscled
limbs; square, broad shoulders; full breasts, slung low with ruddy, stiff caps
above rippled stomach; understated waist, followed by slender hips, muscular
thighs, calves; centred by a bare gink – she had not been seeing things the
other night, then! Imyryn felt even more of thrill when the rājakumārī stepped
into the bath with her. Indubitably not unheard of in the serai, but here, with
her…?
“Eya… Splendid, yes? Imyryn, you are staring.” Surya chuckled. “It is all
right, Bahumūlya – I stare at you too, hā?” Green-brown eyes sparkled.
Imyryn started as she felt a foot slither along her thigh under the water;
shivered as it travelled over knee, slid upward a little ere it skipped her
centre, followed a similar path down the other leg, toes teasing. Princess
regarded her innocently, both arms on the edges of the tub, otherwise unmoving.
Giggling, Surya bade her, “Turn around, Imyryn.”
Though uncertain why, the courtesan did so; another jolt as hands encircled
waist, drawing her into the other woman’s embrace; felt Surya’s large dumu
press against her back, nipples jabbing; everywhere, wonderful fleshy contact.
A hand withdrew to gently pull the girl’s hair from her neck; lips on the nape
elicited a gasp, stretching into a moan as they trailed along, pecked here and
there, tongue dabbling.
“Oh, kheili khosh geli, Bahumūlya.” Surya gently cupped the much smaller girl’s
forehead, drawing Imyryn’s head back fully into her chest, till courtesan’s
head rested on breasts jutting half out of the water, mass of blue-black hair
awash everywhere. “So young to have… to be…” Suddenly, the general returned,
displacing the woman momentarily. “Imyryn. Tell me who you really are. Fear
not, little one; I could never be angry with you. I just know you are not… who
you say you are, and I need to know why you feel you must pretend. I do not
want you to pretend with me – unless we— But never mind that, for now. Please
answer me, Bahumūlya.” Folded strong arms under Imyryn’s little breasts, kissed
the girl’s neck once more, which had all at once stiffened near as much as her
nipples.
“I…” Trembling, Imyryn considered; took not long at all for her to decide to be
forthright with the princess – having already wondered herself why she had
started this façade. Indeed, how could she be otherwise? “I do not really know,
Rājakumārī. Your… Bījai scared me when she confronted Sefr—my aghat. I thought
I would have to be a great lady to make sure… nothing happened to us.”
“Indeed? Do go on, Imyryn. Who are you?”
“I am f-fahsh, Surya. From the Serai of Inanna in S-Susa.”
“Indeed,” the general repeated. “I suspected as much. At least you were not
totally baeārau.” It meant lying, being false.
“How… how did you know?”
“Mmm…” Teeth raked the girl’s earlobe. “Near-royal ladies seldom travel in the
company of serai slaves, little one. Plus, you keep calling him ‘my aghat’ –
nobles do not own serai slaves. They belong only to the Temple of Inanna. But I
was willing to give you some benefit of doubt, since you said you had escaped
together, and ladies are accustomed to owning and travelling with slaves of one
type or another.” Kissed each shoulder.
“You are n-not… disappointed, Princess?” Imyryn fairly vibrated with nerves –
and anticipation.
“My… ‘Princess’ again, are we?” Surya snuggled, sloshing. “Of course not,
little one. Just as I could not be angry with you, you could not disappoint me
– at least, I hope not.” Teasing tone returned, along with kisses. “We shall
put that to the test shortly, hā? See how skilled you are?” Both hands cupped
small breasts, massaged; twisted and tweaked stiff ḍīṇṭī.
Imyryn moaned; this a relatively new experience for her. As fahsh she would
normally, if not take the initiative – depending on her partner – then at least
be more aggressive. Quite content to let Surya have her way with her, however.
The warrior did so. Hands travelled everywhere, stroking and exploring, fingers
pinching; teeth and lips nibbling shoulders, neck, ears; toes, feet caressing
hers, as well as legs and thighs. Hands, creeping to stomach and thigh creases,
one delved to Imyryn’s submerged centre, a finger or two tentatively probing,
not quite requesting entrance – though the girl yearned for it, spread her legs
as far as the tub allowed. She wriggled, trying to rub Surya’s bare gink with
her pōm̐da; hard nipples dug into her back.
“I know what you are trying to do, Bahumūlya,” the sepabhod scolded mockingly.
“You must keep still so I can wash you.” Nipped the younger girl’s neck,
shoulder.
Courtesan shivered.
“Duck your head, Imyryn, so your hair is all wet. There. Now we will wash it,
hā?”
Imyryn, wiping scented water streaming from eyes, relaxed totally, sinking
deeper into tub and companion as princess massaged fragrant soaps and oils into
hair, scalp.
“Oh, what beautiful long dark hair you have – with blue streaks as if the
nīlāma jewel melted in it!” Rubbed hanks between palms; took handfuls, tugged,
squeezed, wringing away days of sweat and terror. “Duck again, little one.”
Giggled. “Feeling better, are we?”
Only then Imyryn realised she had been mewling, sighing.
Surya announced, “Alas, the bath is getting cold, Bahumūlya.” Kisses. “What say
you to getting all clean? Then we can get out and get dry, and see what else we
can find to do.”
Imyryn whimpered.
“Eya! I will take it you are agreeable. Let me wash the rest of you, then…”
Not much later, the courtesan found herself on her back in Surya’s bed of rugs
and blankets and cushions, legs spread as far as they would, older woman
betwixt them, nuzzling at her inflamed gink whilst gently inserting a tulāra
paṭṭi. “Just relax, little one. Though you are small, this will not hurt – I
have made it especially for you. Here, let me help.” Took a healthy draught of
open cleft; Imyryn shuddered, fairly leapt as Surya nipped at her Key of
Inanna. “Mmmm… There, now. You are fully opened.”
 
Imyryn climaxed so many times she could not have counted even had she known
how. An extraordinary night for her, not having reciprocated once; even her
ardent curiosity about Surya’s hairless gink had to be thrust aside. At least
until morning.
Dawn, however, came too early; Imyryn rose, along with Surya, before Utu, else
the pavilion be dismantled around them, to accompany the army to Haŋgmatāna.
 
*esteemed tavern prostitute
***** Lianys-3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Very pregnant Lianys discusses her kingdom's situation with Lucius;
     deals with an act of war.
“Since God’s will is the cause of things, it is quite
impossible that He should fail in His projects.[St. Augustine]”
“You know I don’t want to do it, Sîan, but what choice do I have?” Lianys
drained the lees of a copper goblet, set it on the long table with a metallic
bang. Made a gesture of exasperation, causing three fat tapers on nearby
candelabrum to quail. Save for badly choreographed snores and other sleep-
sounds from numerous somnolent forms lying about the whispering hearth in
Courroi’s great hall, the queen and the healer-priest sat alone following the
compline supper hour.
Lianys wished she could move the court to Quiérzy, her and Henryc’s home in
Payens, if only because it was larger and more comfortable, but Lucius advised
against it. Courroi, he argued, for providence or misfortune, was the Frankish
royal seat; central to the realm, as well as closer to rival kingdoms Neustria
and Alemannia.
The cleric sat beside the woman, back against rough stone wall, nursing his own
cup of watered wine, a troubled expression further darkening his features.
Combined candle- and firelight – most wall cressets had been extinguished for
the night – cast the ageing archbishop’s aspect unkindly; engraved deeper lines
in his face, unfavourably highlighted rapidly greying, unkempt hair. In
contrast, the strands of silver appearing in Lianys’ own auburn tresses – which
she had allowed to grow out and settle over the shoulders of her fur mantle –
quite became her; thus, she betrayed even fewer summers than her half-elven
metabolism already admitted. Although she still disdained the wimple head-
covering, a feminine cotte – belted yet rather expanded at the middle –
bestowed upon the Queen of Franconia a bearing of mature, upper-class dignity.
Lucius, as always, dressed in heavy black robes, hood lowered whilst indoors.
“If that hedge magician insists on challenging me for this kingdom,” Lianys
continued, “what can I do? I don’t want to start anything, but I can’t risk
just hoping Waryn has turned to another occupation. I have a right to know, to
protect my people…” The woman refused to meet Lucius’ enquiring gaze; imagined
the unvoiced query: You see them as your people…?
Yet, they had become so. Although the former night-thief might have admitted to
sudden verve in taking responsibility for the weal of this poor kingdom, she
could not have said exactly why she felt thus. Several factors had influence,
among them the thrill she got from her position and the consequent power it
bestowed, however humbly Franconia may compare with other lands about which she
knew. As she smoothed the linen dress over her impossibly swollen belly, she
contemplated a much more valid and honourable reason, topmost on her list. Much
as she hated to concede even to herself, she knew her adventuring days were now
but memory, so there remained no alternative to provide for her imminent child.
Pining for more secure times long past would be useless; thus, she felt
justified in hanging on to what she had. For this reason alone, regardless of
any others – some of which she had not acknowledged even to herself – she would
not let her new position go without a fight, should it come to that.
Lucius seemed distracted; Lianys enquired what was on his mind.
Cleric, glancing up, smiled tiredly. “Nothing.” Contradicted himself, “I am
trying to determine how we can… avoid any confrontation.”
“Well I won’t be the one to start anything, if that’s what it comes to. It’s
Waryn who has to back off.”
“But, do you not think…? That is…?”
Lianys directed a narrow study at the man. “What is it, Sîan?”
Lucius lifted a hand, let it flutter, allowed gaze to wander. “Nothing.”
The queen shifted her posture on the low bench. “Blood and damnation!” she
swore. “I just can’t get comfortable any more.”
Rising halfway, the healer-priest suggested, “Lia, will you not go lie down?”
“No, Sîan. I’m all right.”
The archbishop displayed a resigned frown, hesitantly resumed his seat.
“Let’s decide what we’re going to do about Waryn,” the woman countered. “He
seems to be rising to the top of the guild hierarchy rather fast. Isn’t that
unusual?”
“It is,” Lucius agreed, warming to the subject. “The politics of Anvers are
quite confusing, being as unorthodox as they are. They—”
“Sîan,” the woman cut in, easily. “You forget that I was born and grew up
there, and that my father was Grandmaster of the Freeholders’ Guild.” She
smiled wryly.
Lucius grinned back. “No, Lia, I did not forget. I was coming to that in a
breath or two.” He sighed, leaned back against the wall, lifted cup to lips.
Though clutched awkwardly in one twisted hand, Lianys knew he had no trouble
holding it as he sipped; lowered it again to the scarred tabletop, began to
fidget. Went on: “Well, Lia, as you know, it is a very different form of
government than what country people are accustomed to – the feudum. But I
believe that is what gives us an advantage; you must still have connections
there through your father, and we – the Band, that is – have many friends too.
Perhaps we could—”
“But, Sîan, my father died three ages ago. How do you expect me to have
‘connections’ with the Tauropole any longer? I hardly paid the least attention
to what he did – I doubt I’d even be able to remember the names of anyone he
knew. And anyway, you know they hold elections every age, and people retire…
die… There’s a more than good chance that not a soul my father worked with
lives any more – on council or off.”
“Granted that things change, Lia. But I think you overestimate the transience
of the Anvers city council – and especially the Tauropole itself. You admit
yourself that you were never much interested in your father’s activities.”
Lianys sighed, confessed, “All right. I suppose I really don’t know enough to
put to a leaf of parchment.” Having nothing to do with her admission, she made
a face, squirmed. “Why don’t you tell me the basics?”
Lucius smiled – the queen knew that, if religion could be transmuted to bread,
then politics would be the patriarch’s water.
Leaning in, lined face brightening, gnarled hands hooked together before him
around his all but forgotten goblet on the table, the prelate repeated: “As you
know, Lianys, the nine guilds which make up the ruling council of Anvers are
the most powerful in the city, and they use all the might they can wield to
make sure the other five do not supplant them every nine summers. The Healers
have always been pretty weak, but with the admittance of the healer-priests of
the True Faith and the spreading of the Word, they should become much
stronger...” Momentarily, the cleric’s dark eyes appeared to glow with hope;
regained their somewhat faraway look as he reacquired the gaze of his table
mate.
“Yes, well, as you also know, the Thieves Guild has always been the most
contentious for the last seat on the Tauropole. The Sages and Scholars, as well
as the Guild of the Nine Arts, have never presented much of a threat – and
neither have the Mages, until now.” The cleric’s manner grew uneasy for a
moment. “Indeed, the very existence of the Mages Guild has been a matter for
debate in Council; no one has ever shown up to represent it since it was
supposed to have been established more than an era ago, until Waryn did just
two seasons back in mid-Solmonath.” Suddenly, Lucius grinned, chuckled. “I can
imagine their faces when a Coranéid walked in and took a seat in the gallery.
To be sure, Myrddin went with me once, but he was just curious and never
revealed himself.” As abruptly, returned to rumination.
Lianys again repositioned her ballasted body. “So what are you leading up to,
Sîan?”
The holy man brightened. “Just this: The Festival of Three Moons begins in
three ninedays, and therefore, elections for next term will be held on the last
day. I think I should first go have a talk with Waryn and find out what he
intends, and then, and only if necessary, see what kind of friends we still
have in the city. I do not think we will have too much trouble in any case.
Although Waryn has vaulted to the top of his guild quickly, one has to take a
realistic look at his chances. How will an unknown minor mage, in whom everyone
will doubtless see Lucifuge himself, possibly be able to drag his organisation
out of oblivion to win a seat on council? It… it seems too unlikely even to
consider.”
“I have to agree with you on everything, except that the fear the ignorant
rubes hold the Coranéid in may just give him the edge he needs. And who knows
what else he might have under his cowl? But just what did you mean by ‘I should
go…’? I’m the one who has to talk to him.”
“Lia,” Lucius growled, “do not be ridiculous. In your condition—”
“Don’t you be ridiculous, Sîan. And my ‘condition’, nothing. We women have been
having babies for quite some time now, and we don’t need advice from men. I
know what I’m capable of, in this condition or not, and I happen to feel fine—
Except I cannot get comfortable on this double-damned wooden bench only four
hands off the thrice-cursed floor!” Ignoring the cleric’s proffered arm of
assistance, Lianys struggled to her feet.
“Lianys, what in the Nine Names of the One True God do you know about it?
Babies, I mean. It is not as if you have experience. Whereas, I am in a
position as healer-priest to tell you what you should and should not try to do,
just as Ollya—”
Scowling, Lianys turned on him. “I’ve told you before, Lucius, that you’re not
my priest! I don’t need a saviour. And I don’t need a healer, either. What I
have cannot be ‘cured’. Come to that, I might not even need a midwife. Ollya
almost sounds like she’s your apprentice, the way you both say the same
damnable things all the time. So don’t presume to know what’s good for me – I
can take care of myself!”
“Priests do not have apprentices the way mages—” Lucius stopped himself,
certain that his table mate had meant ‘acolyte’; like as not only baited him.
The incongruous pair stood glowering at one another for wordless moments. Then,
as Lucius opened his mouth, they were interrupted by a burst of noise from the
stairwell to the floor below. Both turned to see a dishevelled man emerge,
hastily approach in a clink of battered armour, blue-and-white surcoat of the
realm ragged and bloodied. Within mail coif, pale stubbled face exhibited
wounds, blue eyes wide.
“Captain LeMaie!” Lucius exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “What happened?”
Strode around the table.
Out of breath, the trooper genuflected before each of his superiors in turn,
“Your Highness… Your Grace.” Swayed, may have collapsed but for Lucius’
intervention.
The prelate looked him over anxiously. “Are you all right? What happened, man?”
Although the fridegn protested his fitness, Lucius advised him to sit at the
bench whilst he inspected the soldier’s injuries.
“Tell us what happened,” Lianys commanded.
The soldier related his story in rapid Neustrian. “I have… very bad news to
report, Highness… Your Grace. My company was patrolling the western marches, on
our way for a respite at Souçis, and… and…”
Lianys interrupted, also in Neustrian, “Slow up. I can barely understand you.”
“We… we were ambushed, Highness.” The captain fell to both knees, clutching at
his queen’s hand. His eyes filled with tears, head dipped in shame. “My men
were slaughtered; we had no chance. I am unworthy, and I beg you—”
“Sacre Coeur, Capitaine,” Lianys cursed mildly in the vernacular. “Get hold of
yourself. And tell me, que s’est-il passé?”
LeMaie related that, as he and his small border patrol had approached Souçis,
they’d discovered it in flames. They rode hard the short remaining distance to
the village, and were surprised by a band of men – no doubt those whom had
sacked the tiny hamlet. Yet the commander felt certain they were Norman
knights, and not simply brigands.
“Blood and Hellfire!” Lianys exploded. She paced – waddled, rather – whilst
Lucius, having crossed himself at the queen’s continued profanity, continued to
attend the captain’s injuries. “How dare they take out their dispute with me…
That stupid domard’s claims that I owe him for killing his so-called soldier
there last summer are ridiculous, but… but… Damnation!” She stopped before the
cleric and the officer, both of whom now sat on a bench near the hearth.
The household had been awakened; the court, in sleepy confusion, stirred in the
great hall and gallery above.
“It becomes obvious,” their sovereign observed angrily, raising her voice and
her glare to address all, “that the good Domard Cléton underestimates our
ability and willingness to defend our borders. Captain LeMaie, are you still
able to ride?”
The Frankish Fridegn snapped to attention, bowed over one knee, avowed, “I am
at your service, Ma Reine.”
Lucius began to protest. “Li—ah, Highness, I do not recommend—”
“Rouse the garrison and prepare to march immediately on Normandie!” The very
pregnant queen turned toward the stairwell, intending to head upstairs to
change.
LeMaie hesitated. “But… Highness, we have no knights ready to ride. And it
would take days to call out the levies and take the roll—”
Lianys whirled on him. “To the Nine with the roll, to the Nine with the levies,
and to the Nine Hells with your damnable delay! Have we not a garrison in this
thrice-cursed castle? Rouse them out, man!”
Having never quite gotten used to hearing a woman – or most men – curse like
Lianys Tursa, Lucius’ colour, beneath even naturally dark complexion, deepened.
Making the sign of the cross upon each invective, managed to cut in
diplomatically, “Queen Lianys… what the captain is trying to tell you is that
we cannot strip the keep of its defences. And… ah, and the garrison is… are
foreigners…”
“So what?” Sidling closer to the healer-priest, lowered her voice. “You forget,
Sîan, that we’re all foreigners here. We’ll just have to make do with what we
have. The men may be told that I’ll ride in the van, but Captain LeMaie is in
charge. That should satisfy—”
“What?” Lucius spluttered. “You’ll be what? May the One True God preserve me,
Your Highness, but you will leave this castle only with my blood on your hands,
I assure you. Whatever you are thinking, there is no way in heaven that you can
sit a horse.” A few gasps, mutters of astonishment burst at the cleric’s
effrontery; he ignored them. “And I think you are astute enough to realise that
you are in no condition to oppose me. I shall have you tied into your bed, if
need be.” The expressions of shock intensified.
Lianys purpled. Swollen little body stiffened, small fists clenched at her
sides. Yet, she knew the prelate was right; she could not put up much of a
fight if he was determined to prevent her from leaving; tumbling out of his –
physical or arcane – reach, or climbing out a window, all quite out of the
question. Incensed, mostly due to her helplessness, vowed to herself, Never
again…
“Lucius,” she hissed, “if you stand against me on this I’ll never forgive you.”
Kept voice low. “I may be hampered now, but someday I’ll see this insult
addressed unless you let me do as I please.”
Evenly, the archbishop replied, “It is not a matter of your pleasure, My Lady.
The question is of your health and of the child you carry. I shall not allow
you to endanger either by your recklessness and— Well, I shall not allow you,
that is all.”
The castle became quiet enow to hear the winter wind soughing against the high,
shuttered windows over the soft crackle of the central hearth. No one moved;
all waited, breath suspended. Even the dogs, normally concentrating on gnawing
a bone – or finding one – appeared rapt. A single babe fussed.
The queen managed a smile; though not entirely warm, neither did it further
chill the room. “All right, Sîan. You win this time. But please, cannot you
have a litter prepared for me or something? I must go to Souçis… For my own
reasons…”
The cleric regarded her suspiciously ere his gaze unfocused as he stroked
hawkish nose with a bent finger. Lianys knew he used the gesture when his
compassion battled wisdom.
“You realise that a litter will slow us down considerably.”
Lianys understood, thought it a necessary trade-off. “But it’s not far, after
all.”
“Very well. But you shall go nowhere near any fighting, should there be any –
which there shall not.”
The queen made no reply.
During the night-long, monotonous journey, they had no relief from a cold, mid-
spring sleet as they arrived just past the dawn hour of lauds. With Ollya’s
aid, Lianys emerged stiffly onto the sloppy road from the makeshift carriage
borne by four bedraggled bearers. Pulling closer the fur-lined hood of her
cloak, the queen awkwardly approached the still-smoking ruins. She did not see
Lucius hold up a hand when the midwife and Captain LeMaie made to accompany
her, barely took notice as the priest himself dismounted his mule, followed.
The captain gave an order; responding, a soldier alit, began to study the
squelching mire about the dead thorp. The rest of the mercenary troop remained
motionless in saddles, uncomplaining.
The road and surrounding recently sown fields, as well as the nearby river,
resembled a pinkish swamp strewn with bodies; some of them – females – only
half-clad. Most of those lay splay-legged, eyes wide and pleading; no mercy had
been shown: throats and torsos bore gaping wounds, even limbs and heads had
been hacked off. Lianys searched, pausing at each muddied corpse, rolling it
face up if need be. Before long she discovered what she dreaded.
Léanore had managed to crawl to the threshold of her devastated home and
business; supine, the child hugged its half-charred, barely legible sign to
naked, immature breasts. There she had died, staring in horror at the
suppurating sky. Not long ago, for her body yet held warmth as Lianys knelt to
lift it from icy mud; embraced burnt sign and all against swollen belly.
Léanore’s throat had been slashed – inexpertly; the wound ragged, sickly
leeched pink marring the girl’s pale skin. Diluted patch of redness spread from
groin, as well. The girl had been a long time dying, maidenhead taken from her
most cruelly, left to bleed to death in the ruddy slush. Lianys further noted,
dully, that her long hair, now plastered in filth, had once been golden.
Oblivious to her own discomfort, the woman stayed in the mud, cradling the dead
girl. Whether or not tears mixed with half-frozen rain on the face she raised
to weeping grey heavens, no one could have said, not even Lucius, who bent
near, crossing himself.
Futilely, the prelate checked the body for signs of life; closed her eyes,
etched cruciform on pale forehead with a bent thumb dipped in a vial of holy
water. Laying a gentle hand on the queen’s shoulder, enquired needlessly, “You
knew her?”
The woman made no reply.
“Come, Lia… Let her go.” Turning, gestured for two men to dismount and
approach. “We can do n-nothing but lay her and the others” —he swallowed— “to a
decent rest. Come now, and get up.” He tried lifting the woman to her feet.
Allowing body and signage to fall from her lap, the ex-adventuress pulled
herself up. All at once animated, gloved icy pink mud, sleet from thick
clothing. Ordered, “All of you, mount up!” Headed for her litter. “Captain,”
she addressed the fridegn in terse Neustrian, “have you found out which way
they went?”
Following, Lucius protested, “Lianys…”
“Yes, Highness.” LeMaie pointed across the broad ford through the River Suiamh
– a Belgic word pronounced ‘soym’, perversely meaning ‘tranquil’ – and light
woods beyond. “Like the caitiffs they are, they fled into Normandie.”
“No matter.” Allowing Ollya and a bearer to assist, the queen clambered into
her canopied litter. Reverting to Brythonic, snapped, “If they think we’ll dare
not enter their domardé, we’ll teach them different. This was an act of war!
On!”
“Lia… Your Highness,” pleaded Lucius, holding the curtain open as bearers began
to slog through the muddy street. “Please… can we not wait to at least bury the
dead?”
“Stay to see to them if it will make you feel better! There’s nothing more you
nor anyone else can do that will help them. But I intend to do something!”
“Oh? What good will that do? So you kill whoever did this – what will you have
accomplished? What then?”
“Don’t preach to me, Lucius,” she growled, dark eyes glittering. “I’m not about
to let anyone think they can get away with this sort of thing in my kingdom.”
Lianys snatched the buckram curtain from his gnarled hand, closing it.
“Go! Allons-y!”
The troop crossed the shallow ford, despite the slickness quickly disappearing
up and over the far bank into a thin copse of trees. Lucius remained, torn
between sense of duty to the souls of the innocent dead as well as very
pregnant friend.
Upon single-handedly (with the aid of a little miracle-magic) burying and
performing last rites for the victims of Souçis, Lucius made all possible haste
upon his mule, tracking the company by their plain trail until dusk.
At a spot in the scant tree cover whence – owing to scarred bloody snow and
mud, not to mention more corpses – battle had obviously been engaged, a rider
thundered toward him, wheezed in Neustrian, “Your Grace!” Did not appear in bad
shape. “Praise be to the One True God! I was sent to fetch you. The queen… Her
child… it comes!”
Lucius, heeling his mule frantically, raced as fast as it would saunter to
Lianys’ side. Found the queen lying wounded – not badly – inside her litter,
wracked in the throes of labour.
“Your Grace, I must ask you to go,” Ollya protested. “This is no place for—”
“Madame, may I remind you for the ninety-ninth time that I am a healer-priest
of the True Faith, and only secondly an adult male. I mean no disrespect, but
your ways are outmoded; I have knowledge which you have not, and can help. I
shall brook no further argument, not when my fr—our, uh, queen is in danger.”
“There is…” Lianys managed, “no ‘danger’. I’m having… a baby, Lucius. That’s
all. I… don’t need… your help. Ollya… will do… fine. Leave us… Ohhhhhh…!”
Lucius, cursorily examining her sweating, heaving form, swallowed a retort. He
wanted to check her pelvic region under the blankets as well, to ascertain her
entire condition, but both women appeared determined to block him. Feelings
wounded, a magical probe told him Lianys had no serious injuries. Curse her to
the Ninth; she had gotten herself into the mêlée. Turning away, he attended
other wounded. There were not many; as usual, Lianys had done her butchery
well. No, that’s not fair…
One of the injured, a handsome, Denoçean-looking woman, had been taken prisoner
by the Normans; obviously abused, but not badly hurt. Perhaps they had meant to
ransom her? To whom? Lucius, curious at the proud, stately bearing he discerned
beneath the grime and maltreatment, did what he could for the unconscious
woman, leaving her in the care of a surgeon.
Ollya came to him, said in Neustrian that it was over. His breath caught. “Wh
What… do you m mean?” Dread welled up inside him; the old nurse’s aspect did
not appear to be the usual mask of pleasure having just helped to welcome a new
life into the world.
“Non, non, Your Grace,” she quickly reassured him, accent thick. “Is nothing… I
mean, Milady has no deliver – was false. Perhaps soon, quoique. Mais… ah… Boot…
should get home… immédiatement. She bleed a little.”
“Bleed?”
“Not bad – normal. Mais, should go home.”
“You are certain? She is all right?”
The old woman’s half-smile, nod, answered. “You will come?”
Relief flooded the cleric’s soul. Scratched his nose, venturing, “She… will see
me?”
“Oui, oui, Your Grace. Milady ask for you should come…”
“Yes… yes, of course. Right away.” Lucius, thanking the midwife, attended the
queen. Found Lianys dozing, face flushed, glossy with sweat, long, silver-shot
dark hair lying damp about fur-encased pillows. Beneath heavy coverlets,
swollen belly rose, fell in time to deep breathing. For a few grains, the
archbishop regarded her.
Woman’s eyes fluttered; angled her head to meet solicitous gaze. One corner
lifting weakly, opened mouth to speak.
Priest shook his head, crooked finger to her shiny lips. “Lianys,” he wondered
aloud, “why will you not give up this foolishness?”
The ex-thief’s mouth quirked further as she feebly pushed his hand away.
“Believe me… I’d give… almost anything… to have this… over with.”
Lucius did not respond to the attempt at levity. As he inspected her bandaged
wound – a single nick on a forearm and a few bruises – he restrained himself
from haranguing her about how she had gotten them. Taking the midwife at her
word, forbore to check under the covers. “You know what I mean.”
Sighing, she closed her eyes. “What… is it now, Lucius?” Opened them.
“This,” the patriarch replied, a gesture collecting the cold, white-grey world
outside the litter. “The pressures, the problems, the uncertainty, the… Why do
you not simply walk away from it? Let Waryn have the headaches if he so badly—”
“What?” Lianys coughed, tried to rise, managed only to lift her head for a
breath or two ere it fell back. Lucius proffered a waterskin; she accepted,
allowing him to support her head; drank. “You mean… give up my throne?”
“That is what I mean, and more.” Left unvoiced the thought, It is not yours!
“Despite the title, you know that you do not really enjoy this business of
rulership. If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that. So, why are
you going through all this? Certainly not out of some sense of loyalty, or in
hopes of repaying some kind of debt to Henryc’s mem—”
“Leave Henryc out of this!” Lianys’ head remained off the pillows a little
longer. “He has nothing to do with… any of it. And my reasons… are none of your
thrice-damned business anyway!” Fell back. “Who… Who do you think you are, to
stand there and preach to all the world… as if it were made up of nothing but
poor, misguided souls? We’ve known each other… for a long time, Lucius. And you
should’ve learned by now… you cannot convert me, priest.”
“You should have learned by now, Lianys Tursa, that I am not trying to
‘convert’ you.”
Woman’s breath came raggedly, puffy eyes closing, reopening once more. “Then
what… are you trying to do?” Appeared to have difficulty keeping them focused
as fatigue engulfed her.
Having muttered all the necessary supplications interspersed with his queries
in order to heal Lianys’ cuts and bruises, as well as hopefully stanch any
internal bleeding, Lucius withdrew his hands. “I had hoped I could help you
see… what you are doing to yourself.”
“Lucius, I don’t need… another saviour. I had… enough of that with…” The queen
turned her head away. “Go save… someone else.”
 
Unbeknownst to Lianys, the cleric did so. The party had almost reached Courroi
when her labour commenced in earnest, and when, in her travail, she called for
the healer-priest and was told he had gone, she demanded, “G-Gone? What… do you
m-mean, gone?”
“I’m very sorry, Highness,” Captain LeMaie apologised.
Ollya dismissed him. “Va t’en, va t’en. Leave us now. Nothing more to be done
by you – much more by us.” Closed the semi-waterproof partition around the
litter.
“Wh-Where… is he?” complained Lianys. “I w-want him… here. I need…”
A contraction seized her, cutting off whatever other sentiment she had been
about to confess.
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