by Viviene Noel
‘They can’t have complete sex in the halls, that’s what the rooms are for. But no one will leave this early.’ Emmerentia encompassed the room with a sweep of her hand. ‘This is just the beginning. If you can’t handle it, then you should go back to the room.’
Mahena turned to face Emmerentia, the flirtatious veil lifted and genuine confusion flickered in her eyes as she asked, ‘Why have you shut me out so much since we left? You used to almost brush my hair when I had night terrors, and now it’s practically as though I have the plague. Except for today, but I put it on the account of alcohol.’
Whether it was the drugs seeping slowly into her system, or the sudden emotion trapped in her throat, Emmerentia swallowed before replying, ‘You lied. I offered you food, shelter, safety. And you lied.’ Emmerentia was glad it came out cold and harsh, not a pathetic rasp.
That thread inside of her tugged sharply as a wave of hurt flashed in Mahena’s eyes.
Emmerentia continued, ‘I understand why. But it doesn’t change the fact that you lied.’
‘I… I—’
A dark-skinned female dancer landed on the lap of the woman next to them while the man released heavy circles of smoke. Their eyes met, and he winked at her. She debated joining them, but she didn’t particularly feel like that big of a party—even though the more smoke she absorbed, the more frustration and confusion she wanted to wash away, the more the idea of debauchery sounded like the only efficient release she would find tonight.
‘I don’t care.’ But she did, and she could tell Mahena understood it too.
Emmerentia turned her head to the large table in front of them, where a beautiful blonde dancer she’d noticed earlier was now entertaining a drunk, repulsive man. His fat hand caressed the woman’s inner thigh. The dancer only smiled, leaning against the edge of the table.
That was all Emmerentia needed to get rid of the building anger.
The moment, she was sliding her hand around the girl’s waist and pulling her towards her. She lusciously brushed her lips. The man’s hand slid higher on the girl’s leg, his eyes bulging at the spectacle. Emmerentia’s knee removed the hand, and she leaned into his ear, whispering a threat just for him.
He leapt out of his seat and disappeared.
The music spun harder, then plunged into darker, overtly sexual notes.
Emmerentia sat at the table and pressed the dancer against her.
B
Hellion reined in a thunderous growl as he surveyed the underdressed, unceremoniously entangled crowd of inhibited and drugged masked revellers dancing around him. The power of lust, of the opiates, of the bodies pressed and touching annihilated his chances of finding the scent he had finally pinpointed earlier in the day.
He swept his gaze over every person that crossed his sight, braced himself for any sort of flicker of anything.
But there was only the smell of sex thickening around him as the festivities meandered into the early hours of the morning.
26
Mahena watched wild-eyed as Emmerentia discarded their conversation and evaded it in the hands of some other girl. How was it so easy for the twin to forget the existence of the world around her—her existence? And wasn’t she meant to keep an eye on her?
Mahena shook her head, confused by their discussion, Emmerentia’s reaction, and the building heat within her own body. She had smoked Nargile before—she’d taken a couple of inhales and the pipes on the tables were indeed the same, or at least a very similar substance to what they had back on Earth.
The more she observed her surroundings—the decor and the people—the more she believed herself to be attending a party in Agrabah if Jafar had felt like letting out some heavy tension. A crowd of beauty and freedom and exhibition had gathered in the centre of the room. They celebrated life, whilst allowing for privacy in the darker corners of the vast space. The promise of untamed fun was a song she had deeply missed. Her vision had blurred a while ago, but the music kept spinning, changing rhythms, always upbeat, with a lingering touch of sensuality. People spun and laughed, flutes of bubbly alcohol in hand, switching from one partner to the other or dancing alone, carefree.
Fàaran had disappeared ages ago and she hadn’t sought him out at all. She figured if Emmerentia deemed it reasonable to fit in with the crowd, then to hell with her own worries. So Mahena grabbed another drink off a tray, feet light as she entered the mass of bodies, and lost herself to the music.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours, or maybe days. Time didn’t exist as her body collided with others, as dance after dance spun her around, her mind completely blank save for the pulse of the music. There was she, and the hands, and the laughs, and the mouths, and the beautiful. Everything around her spun so vividly, so fast, every second an explosion of happiness. Nothing mattered because nothing existed in this instant.
But then, the music transitioned to a slow, sensual step. The smoke cleared slightly, and the music shifted into an ethereal melody. A door groaned opened in the distance and as though by a silent signal, the centre of the room was cleared. She saw guards discreetly creeping to each door in the room and in a blur, a line of new dancers flowed in.
And then all sound died out as the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen entered the room. Maybe it was the fumes or the heavy consumption of booze, but Mahena’s jaw dropped open, her hands automatically rubbing to clear her eyes, to erase the illusion.
But it was no illusion, and everyone around her seemed to feel the same way.
She didn’t really know where to look. At her face, her body, her clothes. The girl was from a foreign land, Mahena guessed that much. The shape of her face was a perfect oval, delicate in every way, with almond-shaped eyes of shimmering gold heightened by the deep brown complexion of her skin, and the even darker flowing mass of her curls falling all the way down to her lower back. Her lips were full and pink. She glided across the floor with feline grace, her body a temple of femininity; slim, yet toned, with hips and breasts to turn heads.
Perfect, wicked—these were the only words Mahena could muster.
The dancer started singing in another language, her body moving along with the words. It seemed as though it was from another time, where words were mere sounds, rolling off the tongue like silk beneath fingers. Weren’t all words mere sounds? Mahena couldn’t remember anymore.
The dancer’s eyes wandered from one guest to the other, infinity in the golden river of her gaze. A promise and a curse, she seemed to offer something out of time that should not be permitted, that should not be tested.
The dress she wore covered just enough, golden and blue lattices running along her smooth skin, connecting with paint of the same colour from her shoulder blades.
The dancers around her complimented her movement, and it was pure admiration that fuelled Mahena’s eyes as she followed her through the room, gulping for air when she remembered to breathe.
It lasted a moment, maybe hours. Was the woman that beautiful, or were the fumes playing with her mind? As she surveyed the space, she noticed the same stare on all faces.
The girl moved closer to the wide-eyed cluster of people where Mahena stood, her hips powering those perfect legs. She was young, Mahena realised as she approached. The twins had mentioned the royal siblings’ parties were a contest amongst each other to see who would throw the most alluring one. Had she been a hard-won prize to be exhibited?
Their eyes met as that thought slipped through her mind, and settled for an instant. Mahena angled her head, fighting her foggy mind to make sense of the minute that passed. Her head spun, lines blurring as the lights of the chandeliers played with the guests’ shadows, casting strange forms everywhere. Did she even look at her? Or did she want her to meet her gaze and imagined she had?
Mahena blinked, looking before her once more. The girl had continued on, moving and twirling, following the rhythm of that damned lute which appea
red the perfect companion to her grace.
But then she looked again, and Mahena knew she didn’t imagine it. As the mysterious girl entered a series of spins, she kept her confused stare as a point of pivot and focus, their eyes clashing again and again as she whirled. And Mahena drowned in it.
It wasn’t sexual, she concluded, but something beyond the ridiculous beauty and the environment, a thread that pulled at another part of her she couldn’t describe.
Mahena clenched her fists, bracing herself for the flashback to come.
‘One, two, three.’
Nothing. Was the opium blocking it, or was it unrelated?
The music rose higher as the girl kept spinning, her hair like a dark tempest around her body, the dancers in the background mere reflections of her, as though the two of them stood alone in a hall of mirrors. As the melody reached its peak, it shattered the illusion, and the girl stopped.
Mahena might have been drooling, or crying, or burning, she would have not noticed.
All kept their ravenous stares fixed on the young woman now pinning down her audience with that golden gaze, as though determining who was to be tonight’s prey.
Was she even a courtesan? Was she a dancer for hire? Given the number of guards that entered the room with her, she must have been special in this strange court.
And then, as the music lulled and all held their breaths in expectation of what would happen next, she settled her eyes on Mahena’s once more. The world spun brighter for a moment, all evaporating around her, as if the gold from her eyes melted everything around them.
Mahena couldn’t blink, could barely breathe.
The girl angled her head elegantly, studying her curiously.
She was looking for something, Mahena realised. What, she could not tell. Then the girl blinked, as though realising something, and drifted to the rest of the crowd.
It was a moment out of time, the world stopping its race, as that young woman dictated the future with nothing but the perfection of her.
Who would she choose?
Would she choose someone?
Was it of her own choosing, or was she a slave?
The girl twirled one last time and curtsied as she exited, followed by the guards and the stares of the party guests.Where she went, Mahena did not know.
The fumes poured in the room again, and she had to fight and focus not to let them completely destroy her mind, her senses. She blinked, again and again and again, chasing away the thoughts creeping inside her mind, fueled by the opiates.
The crowd dispersed—to the couches, a table or the dancefloor.
As she fought to see clearly, weaving between the guests, she realised she wanted to let herself lose control completely for once. It wasn’t in her character, yet as she watched all those people indulge themselves without caring in the slightest about others’ opinions, she thought it would be nice, just once, to let your body decide.
In a minute of clarity, she searched the room for Emmerentia but failed to find her. The twin was gone, and so was her brother. She would not in a million years have believed they would lose sight of her or trust her to be on her own in that crowd. Yet somehow, here she was.
No doubt Fàaran was talking business, or something along those lines, in a private room somewhere, perfectly sober—they would not have come otherwise. Emmerentia, on the other hand... Was she that eager to lose herself in the flesh? She certainly did not come across that way. Yet, who would blame her? It was the primary goal of this party, and sex seemed anything but taboo around here.
Refreshing, she supposed, as she found herself staring at a man across the room. Holding a glass in his hand, his eyes as hungry as any others, he looked right back.
He wasn’t beautiful. Not in the common sense. Yet something in his posture, in his harsh face, screamed promises of the wild, of the unchecked pleasures one could find when given to abandonment.
The fire that had caught in her guts burned brighter as she hesitated, saw him push away from the table he was leaning against and prowl toward her.
Mahena swallowed hard.
The fumes had definitely gotten to her head.
Where is she where is she where is she
She suddenly felt like a child in the wrong playground, intimidated by the adults discussing grown-up stuff around her.
The man loomed closer, and she made to turn, to run away from the approaching challenge. But his hand grabbed hers, calloused and rugged, spinning her around, avoiding the bodies encircling them. She was pressed against his chest a heartbeat later, the second-hand firm on her waist.
The eyes that met hers were of stormy winters, a wild tempest arising. He said nothing as he bored into her, stripping her of all self-control. No one bothered to keep any, why should she?
No. The little voice whispered against the back of her head.
No. It said again.
No. Louder, fighting against the borders of her brain.
He pressed her tighter against his hard body, his feet following the music perfectly as his gaze continued to strip her bare, to pierce deep inside of her.
The fire erupted completely; her mind lost for eternity in this room of inhibition.
27
Kingdom of Valàander, The Royal Castle of Vassalis.
Nepherym hissed through her teeth. ‘It is not what I asked of you.’
Now that she had spent several days with the High-Scholar, she came to remember the reasons for her refusal to ascend. Regardless of her age, she had seen the darkness of the power and refused its calling. Watching the old woman brush through scroll after scroll, shedding the layer of respectable quiet she appeared with in public in exchange for the twisted darkness they all embraced made her skin crawl.
Sar looked up from the page she was deciphering. She didn’t even bother to hide her disgust anymore. ‘It is what I am allowed to tell you.’
‘And who, pray tell, whispers those rules in your ears?’
The crone ignored her.
Nepherym went back to her own considerably smaller stack of writings. She eyed the woman beneath lowered lashes. The old tongue seemed to be a struggle even for the one who had sacrificed her individuality for its learning. The Princess let her get reacquainted with the symbols, the letters, the paraphrasing, and the riddles that composed the parchments whilst she focused on others. But she could tell the snake was stalling.
After a moment, she stood from her chair and left the room, careful to tuck the one book she did not want Sar to lay her eyes on in the pocket of her dress.
She turned right after closing the door, only to bump face first into Idan. ‘Guarding me, I see?’
‘I don’t want to leave you alone with anyone.’
‘Is it fear for me, or for them?’
‘You haven’t been yourself lately.’
‘Why do you think I isolate myself so intensely?’
Nepherym walked ahead of the general as was customary, but his step was quicker than usual.
The heir smiled at a passing courtier, then reported her attention to the man at her side. ‘Walk with me in the gardens, why don’t you? We need to discuss that shrew you brought to my study.’
They strolled through the alabaster corridors that linked the Royal chambers and the High Study rooms in silence, Idan’s sword banging against his leg the only sound besides the echo of their steps. They reached the private gardens shortly after, the statues of the gods greeting them in the rising daylight.
Idan stopped and muttered the morning prayers as any good servant of the Fifteen would.
Nepherym averted her eyes before her internal disgust came to the light.
‘Were you offered a vote?’
Idan stilled and, slowly, as though his body had half frozen, turned to her. In this instant, the height and bulk he had on her made her feel t
he size of an ant.
Nepherym crossed her arms under her chest. She’d been pondering what the High-Scholar had revealed about her prolonged fate. Despite the shock and pain it had triggered, she hadn’t yet come to question the general about it. Although she wondered whether it was true pain or simply the ache of hearing the truth she had suspected aloud.
‘What vote?’
‘Maybe you should have found a Scholar that would appreciate my enslaving myself to save the kingdom, as opposed to being blinded by hatred of me for my refusal of the cloak.’
‘They have gone to ground and are unwilling to be found.’ The words were cut, barely uttered.
‘Answer me.’
Idan placed his hands on both of her shoulders, a rare breach of protocol. He breathed in, locking his pain ghosted eyes with the liquid amber of hers. ‘I voted for the ceremony to be postponed to your sixteenth birthday, after you received the adequate training and education.’ Nepherym felt the general searching for an answer in her eyes. ‘I am afraid you do not fully grasp the power bestowed upon you which you disdainfully discarded.’
Nepherym stiffened at the gentle rebuke.
Idan continued, ‘You were too young then. That is the only reason your father let you live. Because there was a plan for you to take it later on.’
‘He publicly disowned me at the age of eleven, to then force me into it when I grew into my woman’s body?’
‘Power such as the Fifteen bestow upon us does not come without a price. As a Princess of the Scholar Kingdom, it is your duty.’
She forced herself to remain upright as her stomach clenched at the thought of what he implied. ‘And what would have been your reaction, General, if it had been your flesh and blood, if it had been Evia, who was destined to such a great…honour?’ Something twisted caused her to stretch her lips into something she knew looked cruel. ‘Do you know what the ritual entails?’
At his silence, she pressed, ‘Answer me.’
The most honourable man Nepherym had ever known, that tower of pure strength, seemed to curve inward. His face shadowed. ‘I do. But that charge is gods-given. No man has the authority to question it.’