Tolioro remained behind. He raised the lid of the basket. Fascinated, he slowly fished out the contents, one after the other. Several leather masks. Two sets of pincers. A pair of pointed wooden stakes. A good dozen knives of varying sizes. An idea began to form in his mind. Tolioro slowly undressed with relish. His member pulsated as it greedily grew erect. He put on the mask and, after thinking for a moment, he took a small, pointed knife and a pair of pincers. Then, he unlocked the door.
The room was dark. Tolioro raised the oil lamp. Soft sand covered the floor. A girl was squatting against the wall opposite the entrance. She was also naked. Her hands were bound behind her back. A strap connected the ring around her neck to the hook above her on the wall. Her face was streaked with tears. When she saw him, her face froze in a terrified mask. Tolioro stepped closer. The girl began to whimper.
When he left the room, the sand was red and heavy.
Fitor looked up into the cold night sky. The straw behind him couldn’t completely muffle the screams. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long. This Karapakian was completely insane. It was a good thing Madam Kala catered to such customers. His thoughts briefly wandered to the Karapakian’s bride. If Princess Sirit only knew of her future husband’s predilections...
*
Dacas looked up at the amiable young man sitting before him in a wide armchair, talking. He looked good, had enjoyed an excellent upbringing, and was polite, intelligent and courteous. He was also the heir to a kingdom. All in all, exactly what every father wanted for his daughter. If only he could forget what his spies had told him. The gambling, cursing, drinking, even the visit to those detestable death games; he would have gladly chalked all of that up to youthful exuberance and accepted it with a bit of unease. But there were rumors abound in the city. Even his palace servants were gossiping. The Karapakian crown prince was a gruesome sexual deviant. He beat the women he took to his bed. None of the servants were willing to go to his bed, not even in return for gold. Should he really surrender his beloved daughter to this monster?
He sighed.
Tolioro stopped speaking. “Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Dacas quickly deflected. “I’m in pain, that’s all. My old leg wound plagues me. A remnant of the last battle against the desert riders.”
Those battles had been a full-blown war that Tolor had nearly lost. He knew that, as did the Karapakian prince. Tolor had won, but at what price? The bloom of Toloran youth had been slaughtered in that war, among them, his eldest son, Jarok, the crown prince. It was still painful to think of. He had held his dying son in his arms and watched as the life drained from him in a thick, red torrent. Never before had he felt so helpless.
Now, Pino was his heir. The boy was a second son, only nine winters old. Dacas felt the age in his bones. He wouldn’t be able to rule much longer. Pino was still far too young. Without an alliance with Karapak, there would be a war the instant he closed his eyes for the final time. Pino would lose that war. No, the alliance had to happen. Only Sirit’s marriage would ensure Pino and Tolor’s safety.
Dacas smiled at his visitor. “Have I already told you how delighted my daughter was by your gift? Such an adorable puppy! What a wonderful idea!”
Tolioro was enjoying himself immensely. But the old man didn’t notice a thing. He allowed himself to be snowed and probably thought Tolioro was the perfect nobleman. Well, he was. When he wanted to be. Now Dacas was praising that stupid dog! If only he knew he had brought the dog as food! The animals were easy to fatten and were considered a delicacy back home. Whatever. The Tolorans had strange relationships with their dogs anyway. Almost as strange as their relationships with their women.
The old man went to the window, dragging his leg behind him. There was no way he was capable of fighting in battle anymore. His son was even less capable. He could break the little would-be king’s neck with a twist of his hand. However, Tolor had capable generals and a well-trained army. As long as Dacas was alive, that army would fight. It was better to wait. When he married, Karapak would gain a foothold in Tolor. When the opportunity arose, he would gain another. Apparently, no one in Tolor had thought about his name. The irony made him smile even wider. Ioro meant “the victor” and Tolioro meant “victor over Tolor”. His name was destiny. Kanata had planned this day long ago.
In the Old Dungeon
Ioro stretched. Paperwork was the part of his duties he hated most. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be avoided. He heard steps approaching outside. Whoever it was, he welcomed any distraction. He yelled, “Come in!” before the visitor even had a chance to knock.
A burly man in a palace guard uniform entered and saluted. “Soldier Skid, Sire! I bring news!”
Ioro searched his memory before he could place the man. He was one of the older soldiers who were no longer deployed on active duty, but instead earned their pensions as guards inside the palace.
“What is it?”
“We found bones in the old dungeon while we were down there cleaning.”
Ioro leaned back. “To my knowledge, there are many bones in the dungeon. They haven’t bothered anyone so far.”
“Yes, Sire, quite right, Sire, but the bones we found are new.”
That was not good at all. There shouldn’t be anything like that down there. What was going on in the palace that he, the commander of the guard, knew nothing about? The old dungeon hadn’t been used for almost two generations. Kanata’s grandfather had built the summer harem over it. The underground rooms and corridors had since fallen into disuse.
“I will come with you and take a look.” Ioro pushed his papers together, stood up and followed the soldier.
Skid led him into the depths of the palace, where Ioro had never been before. Two more soldiers were waiting with lanterns before a large iron door. One took the lead of the small procession, the other took up the rear. The old dungeon smelled musty, unused and of rat feces. Here and there, a rustling came from a corner. The locks on the heavy cell doors were rusted and the wood was rotten. Ioro glanced through an open door and saw a dark chain still connected to a skeleton. The bones looked old and gray and were already half disintegrated.
Skid followed his gaze. “That’s not it. It’s just a bit further.”
After five more bends in the corridor, the smell changed and grew sweetly putrid. Ioro pursed his lips. Someone must, in fact, have died here recently. The soldiers headed toward a cell at the end of the corridor. The first soldier shone his light inside the cell. A pile of bones lay on the floor against the far wall. The skull had rolled three paces away, its shattered teeth grinning at Ioro. The bones showed traces of rodent bites. A partially decayed hand still hung in one of the handcuffs attached to the wall above. Ioro squatted down. The skeleton was slender. The person couldn’t have been much taller than his chest. A few long hairs and a scrap of cloth lay on the floor. A girl’s hair ribbon. He raised the cloth and felt it. Cheap cloth. The dead girl was low born. Probably a servant or a slave. But who would put a girl in this dungeon? And why?
“Who has access to the dungeon?”
“The sentries, of course, and the steward with his skeleton key.”
Ioro snorted disdainfully. The steward couldn’t be convinced to step one foot in this filthy dungeon even if his life depended on it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine the man down here.
“We will question the guards,” he decided. “All of them. I will personally supervise the interrogations.” He stood up. “When that’s done, burn the bones and scatter the ashes in the servant’s courtyard.”
“The others too?”
“What others?”
“We have found the fairly fresh remains of eight people in the cells.”
Ioro nodded silently. The whole think stank to high heaven.
Ioro was able to limit the number of people who knew what was going on to a fairly small group. He conducted the interrogations of the guards himself. Soldier Skid, the two guards who had be
en with him in the dungeon and their first superior, Captain Urnatko, were the only people who heard their statements. He systematically questioned all the guards. It quickly became apparent who was involved. Ioro was barely able to hide his increasing disgust during the interrogations. His brother had been the root of it all. Apparently, Tolioro had developed a taste for torturing and abusing his bedmates. The first dead girl had been an accident. Those who had followed had not. Several of his personal servants were involved in the matter and had helped dispose of the girls. He had to make sure this didn’t become public. Ioro had the guards and servants involved executed immediately.
He had to mitigate the damage. Ioro consulted with Jok. Should he tell his father what he had learned about Tolioro? If he knew the king, that would be a death sentence for the girls who had survived. Kanata would protect the honor of the House of Mehme at all costs. In fact, shouldn’t he assume his father’s spies already knew what was going on?
Jok offered his help. The next night, an owl brought a package to the palace garden. A fist-sized mirror. Ioro secretly placed the mirror in Tolioro’s chambers. That night and the following, Jok searched the memories of all the palace servants with the help of the mirror. Wherever he found traces of Tolioro’s activities, he laid a shroud of forgetting over them. Ioro stood guard both nights. On the third night, he looked in Tolioro’s chambers. The mirror had dissolved. Only a pile of dust remained.
Kanata followed how his eldest handled the embarrassing affair with great interest. Of course, Tolioro’s recreational activities hadn’t escaped him. Once the boy was wed, it would have to end. Tolioro would at least have to learn to be discreet when pursuing his desires. At the moment, however, Kanata was quite happy to let Ioro handle the matter. The young man was prudent and got rid of any obvious traces. A bit too soft, perhaps. Ioro let the guards who had helped him live, as well as the girls who had been abused by Tolioro. His spies assured him, however, that they no longer posed a threat. Somehow, Ioro had found a way to erase the memories of Tolioro’s indiscretions. It reeked of sorcery. Well, he himself had made use of magic on occasion. He could only hope that Ioro hadn’t gotten too close to the servants of the Crystal Chamber.
For the moment, however, it was more important that Tolioro successfully court a wife.
The Oracle
Sirit simply couldn’t warm up to her future husband. Even his name was an insult to her. Tolioro. Victor over Tolor. Did the Karapakian actually believe Tolor had failed to notice this insult? However, she had to admit, Tolioro hadn’t chosen his own name. He tried his best to be nice to her. She found Tolioro much more affable since he had been spending time with Count Chilikit’s youngest son the past few days. Sirit had no idea which god she had to thank for this change, but it pleased her. It was slowly starting to seem like it might be possible to form a basis for marriage with the Karapakian. A few days ago, he had even smiled when he gave her a puppy as a gift. Sirit had immediately fallen in love with the little guy with his round belly and short snout. Maybe she had been too pessimistic in the beginning.
Tolioro had gone to see her father three days ago and had officially asked his permission to ask for her hand in marriage. Tonight, at the banquet, in front of everyone, he would ask her if she would marry him. Any official answer other than, “Yes!” would mean war. That much, Sirit knew. A “No” would offend Tolioro’s honor... and Kanata’s. The Karapakians valued honor above everything.
Sirit sighed. Despite all her attempts to convince herself, she still wasn’t certain. Reason and logic were practically forcing her to wed, but all her instincts screamed, “No”. She would have to make a decision tonight, either way. She didn’t feel capable of deciding what was right. The gods were her last hope. Who, if not they, could give her the right advice in this predicament?
“Order a sedan,” she instructed Prea, her eldest lady-in-waiting. “I want to go the Temple of Aulias.”
Prea didn’t hide her surprise. Aulias was known far and wide as an oracle that had never been wrong. But everyone knew that the god demanded a high price for his counsel. There had been times throughout the history of Tolor that the price had been worse than whatever his counsel was meant to prevent. One had to be very desperate to ask Aulias.
Prea did as she was told. Half an hourglass later, Sirit was on her way to the temple. Four sedan-bearers carried the dove-gray litter with the red-embroidered curtains. The little bells on the four corners rang out in time with their steps. They even drowned out the sound of the guards marching.
The sedan was placed down at the base of the temple steps. Sirit got out and wrapped a thin scarf around her face. None of the men dared follow her into the temple.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. It was as though the hustle and bustle of the city behind her was but a distant dream. The roof of the temple jutted into the dim light. A small flame flickered far in the back; otherwise, the entire room appeared empty. Sirit hesitantly walked toward the flame. It turned out to be a small altar upon which stood an oil lamp. Directly behind that lay a small bundle of cloth in a dark cavity. Sirit’s eyes wandered higher. The cavity turned out to be the mouth of a large, chiseled mask. Sightless, empty eyes as big as her entire body dominated the wall. Beneath that, the mouth cavity opened behind long fangs. Everything had been artistically chiseled into the rock, but the details were hard to make out in the light of the tiny, flickering flame.
“What are you seeking, daughter?”
A raspy voice came from the bundle of cloth. The bundle moved. A small piece lifted up to reveal a face. The face was empty. Dark cavities gaped where the eyes should have been. The bundle waved a short stump.
“Come closer, daughter!”
Sirit realized, terrified, that the figure before her had neither arms nor legs. She gulped.
“Are you the oracle?”
The raspy voice laughed. It sounded awful. “Am I the oracle? Am I anyone at all? I am just a voice, daughter, a voice that wishes to speak to you. Come, sit with me.”
Sirit obeyed, her knees wobbling. The voice spoke again. “What are you seeking, daughter?”
“I am seeking an answer,” Sirit whispered.
“They all want an answer.” The voice chortled and fell silent for a moment. Then, it continued. “They receive an answer. Everyone receives an answer to the questions they ask and to questions they don’t ask. Be careful which questions you ask, daughter.”
“What price do you demand for your answers?” Sirit asked, timidly.
“What price? Have I demanded a price? Have I ever demanded a price?” The voice broke out in that terrible laugh again. “The price is the answers to the questions you don’t ask, daughter. You see, you determine the price yourself. You have four questions, daughter. Consider wisely what you ask. What are you seeking, daughter?”
Sirit thought for a moment. Questions formed from the swirling chaos of her thoughts. “Do I have to marry Tolioro?”
“What a foolish question, daughter. Can’t you answer that yourself? Who has to marry? Who has to marry at all?”
Sirit reformulated her question. “Is it in Tolor’s best interest for me to marry Tolioro?”
The voice responded with only a “Yes”.
She gulped. That solved her greatest issue, but there was more she wanted to know. “Will I be happy in my marriage?”
This time, the voice hesitated before responding. “Happiness, unhappiness, people are given both and you shall have your share of each, daughter, a good amount of both.”
Sirit thought of what her mother had taught her. “Things want to remain in balance, child,” she had always said. “Happiness and unhappiness balance each other out.” It seemed the oracle shared her mother’s opinion. Somehow, that made the oracle seem even more terrifying. Sirit looked at him again. The oracle was just a poor, blind man without limbs who had found a way to live out his life in the temple. She impulsively asked, “Will my future husband, Tolioro, be happy and successf
ul?”
The oracle laughed again. “Yes, daughter, he will be successful, everything he strives for, all his dreams, will come true. Luck shall be granted him in all he does.”
Sirit’s heart grew warm. At least she had a worthwhile future.
“But,” the oracle continued, “he will never be happy.”
Sirit froze. The blood drained from her cheeks.
The oracle’s monotonous voice continued. “Tolor will live, yes, but not the Toloran king. The wind of souls will blow the ashes of your family away. Nothing you do, nothing you say, can change that.”
Sirit felt an iron ring tighten around her heart. The oracle showed no mercy.
“The path to happiness, the path to Tolor’s future, is paved with the blood of your children.”
Sirit slumped down and plugged her ears. She couldn’t and didn’t want to hear any more, but the oracle’s voice penetrated her mind like a knife.
“If you do not accept this fate, a whole city will fall in blood and fire.”
Sirit jumped up with a suffocated gasp. Terrified, she backed away from the oracle. Good Goddess! She had received her answers, but she would give anything to go back to blissful ignorance! Blinded by her tears, she staggered out of the temple. She had to get away from here!
She curled up into a ball in the sedan and cried into the pillows.
*
Tolioro spent his last afternoon in Tolor in the city. Fitor wanted to meet him one last time. They had agreed to meet at the racetrack. There weren’t any races now, but watching the horses train and placing a few bets on the side was one of the young nobles’ favorite pastimes. Fitor sat down with him in the shade of a large sycamore. Tolioro’s bodyguards inconspicuously spread out at a distance. Fitor was whittling a small piece of wood with a bored expression on his face.
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