“Faedron,” I growled, half-laughing, “let go. I have to get home.”
“Alas, I cannot release you,” Faedron announced melodramatically. “You shall remain locked in my arms as a prisoner of love for eternity.”
“That is a very long time, Faedron,” I counselled as the corporal struggled with the barracks door.
“That it is,” he responded, rolling his eyes crazily. “You think I would tire.”
“Undoubtedly.” I replied as he kicked the door open and lugged me over the threshold.
Raucous cheers from the soldiers within greeted us. Faedron gave a bow and nearly toppled us into a weapons rack. The laughter and cheering continued even as he carried me through the throng towards the fire.
“And what, pray tell, have you captured tonight, corporal?” It was Maegor the barracks sergeant who spoke. The man was powerfully built, a good head taller than Faedron, almost twice his width and densely muscled. A warhorse of a man he was, much scarred around the arms and chest from his many battles, Maegor was one of the veterans aged just over forty cycles. He had a square, chiselled face—very handsome in the coarse manner of the hillsmen. His dark eyes sparkled mischievously.
“Ah, this fair genie ensnared me with a spell and forced me to carry him from Dhar-Kyr-Sini.”
“Rot,” I asserted. “You kidnapped me. Put me down you idiot or you’ll strain something.”
“Only your back if you are not careful, lad.” It was a young blond soldier who spoke, a Captain if his hair braid and retaining pin was anything to go by. He was not known to me and so I concluded he was relatively new arrival.
“Peasant!” Faedron retorted as he set me on my feet. “You, Captain Dthor-Aid’n ibid-Barin, have no romance in your soul,” he added.
The tall, blond captain gave a cynical grin. “I believe you have enough of that for all of us, Faedron.”
The corporal shrugged and wandered off to get me some mulled wine.
I settled myself by the fire next to Aenar, another veteran of almost fifty. He regarded me stoically. “Small wonder you are chilled to the bone, Meriq,” he said flicking the hem of my flimsy summer weight chiton.
“It was much warmer earlier.” I answered.
“You should be in full robes by now, Meriq, not traipsing around half dressed.” Aenar growled and leaned across the hearth to pull a small soldier’s tunic of thick purple homespun wool from the drying rails. He folded it carefully and handed it to me. I changed quickly and carefully under my cloak, aware all the time of eyes on me. Under normal circumstances, no sensible boy would be doing as I was in a Zetan barracks. Zetan soldiers were renowned for their barrack-room pursuit of boy-bedding and it had to be said that I was not really a sensible boy. Anubis worried long and hard about my mixing so freely and frequently with the soldiers, but the men welcomed me to their quarters in a way that they did with no other member of the Royal House—and they confided in me. Thus far they had treated me with the utmost respect—despite the high jinks that I often had to endure and I had no real fear for my virginity. This was due in part to the fact that my sponsor was one of the most revered sorcerers of the known world and in part due to the very harsh laws pertaining to virgins.
It had always seemed vaguely ridiculous to me that a man convicted of raping a virgin would be taken to the highest tower in the fortress and defenestrated. Throwing him through a window to die on the northern rocks would not restore the lost virginity and neither would it put right the wrong—nothing could.
Faedron returned with the wine, distracting me from my dour musing. “Your health, Meriq.”
I turned to take the cup and stopped in mid movement as I realised that my friend was holding a smaller version of the soldiers’ grail made of solid silver and bearing my crest in gold.
“With our best wishes for your forthcoming birthdate.” Faedron said and kissed my hands as tradition demanded when I accepted the chalice.
I stood up, taken aback by the gesture. “My friends,” I said, “you could do me no greater honour than to think of me as one of you.” I raised the cup to toast them all.
“One with us, Meriq,” Maegor said raising his cup to me amidst cheers and whistles from the men.
Suddenly tables were covered with bread, meat and fruit and, of course, flacons of wine and barrels of ale, and for the next hour we ate, drank and sang watched by a nervous bunch of youths from the far corner.
“Are they new companions?” I asked through a mouthful of cheese.
Faedron’s eyes followed mine. He shook his head. “New recruits,” he answered through a mouthful of smoked meat.
“Aye,” Aenar said giving the youths a bawdy smile. “And who know what joys may come once the tables are cleared and the weaponry is stacked . . .”
“Your weaponry is always stacked,” a companion observed as she poured the veteran another cup of wine.
Aenar fetched the girl a hearty slap on the rump and laughed. “With my wife so far away in Polis, what else is a man to do if he cannot seek such delights as we see by yon hearth?” He gave the youths a broad smile that was disturbing in its sheer lubricity. I gave the recruits what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
Over by the ingle nook a couple of the soldiers began to play long-flutes and were joined by another with a lute and then a fourth with a bodran. After a couple of sedate Zetan tunes the drummer began to sound out the pulsing, syncopated rhythm of a Cassandrian qoriol. One of the companions made a heroic effort at the dance, but clearly did not possess the necessary athletic prowess to manage the more demanding moves.
“Come, Meriq,” Maegor shouted over the music, “Show us how it should be done.”
The older boy bowed to me and offered me the floor. I took it somewhat reluctantly because I was a little light-headed from the wine and I was not at all sure my co-ordination was up to it.
The musicians struck up the tune from the beginning and I began to dance, slowly at first using the steps and moves designed to emphasise the strength and discipline of the dancer and as the music grew faster and wilder, the steps increased in complexity before leading me into a series of whip turns—forty to be precise. The pace of the music picked up as I kicked into the first pirouette and as I gathered speed I began to wonder if I would be able to counter my momentum in effectively enough to execute the final flying spin which required me to reverse the direction of my turn as I jumped, turn three times in the air and land stock still in time with the music. When I landed it was to a total silence and then pandemonium as the men whistled and shouted and rapped their tankards on the tabletops.
Faedron came bounding up and took my hand. “That was awesome, Meriq, awesome.”
I smiled happily at him and followed him back to the table acutely aware of the eyes that followed the pair of us. I shrugged the looks aside along with the barely audible muttering. Barrack-room gossip was not something that greatly concerned me. A few of the men were always trying to read more into our mutual affection than was either proper or accurate, and rumour abounded concerning our “romance”. Had they known anything at all about Faedron they would have known that he only had eyes for older men; Maegor to be precise, but the fool sergeant could not see it.
As I settled between Aenar and Maegor I noticed Captain Dthor-Aid’n watching me. I turned to Maegor. “The captain does not seem too eager to join us.”
“He’s new, “Maegor replied, “He transferred in from the garrison at Kos about a settan ago. I suppose he is still finding his feet.”
“He’s very pretty.” Faedron said offhandedly.
“Looks too young to be out without his mother,” Aenar commented somewhat cruelly, “let alone old enough to hold the rank of Royal Captain.”
“Perhaps his father bought him the rank.” Maegor suggested.
“And perhaps he does not join you because he feels your resentment,” I stated. “He is staring at me.”
“He’s from the provinces, “Aenar offered,” He has probably never
seen a Medran before.”
“Of course he has,” Faedron scoffed, “we still have couple in the lower barracks; he just hasn’t seen one so beautiful.”
“Your tongue will be the death of you, Corporal,” I observed with stony humour. I climbed to my feet. “My friends this has been a wonderful night, but I must go home.”
I clambered somewhat unsteadily to my feet and, with a hail and farewell I left the barracks and headed out into the square.
“Kyr-Meriq!” The sound of an unfamiliar voice from the barrack door brought me up short. I turned. Standing in the doorway, was the blond captain. He crossed the concourse quickly. “You seem to have forgotten something,” he said as he drew level with me. He held out my chiton and the chalice.
“Thank you, Captain.” I took the garment and the cup from his outstretched hands and, clipping the chalice to my belt, turned back to the wynd that would take me up to the castle.
I had gone but a few paces when I became aware that the soldier was following me. I stopped and turned. “You seem to be following me, Captain.”
“I will see you to your quarters. These streets are sometimes—inhospitable,” craned his neck to get a better view of the alley. “And this alley is not a place a boy should walk alone.”
“I am aware of that, Captain, but you need have no fear for my safety. I am more than able to take care of myself.”
The soldier drew close, so close that I could feel the heat of him. “Is that so, lad?”
“That is so.” I affirmed, squaring up to the man and staring him squarely in the chest. “Do not be misled by my height—or my build.”
The soldier smiled broadly showing perfectly white, even teeth. “I would never underestimate you, lad.”
I bristled slightly, beginning to feel that the man was mocking me. I looked up at him. “And neither should you.” I turned on my heel and began to march up the wynd, stopping once again when I realised that the man was still shadowing me.
“Captain . . .”
“I am captain of the Royal Guard, Kyr-Meriq,” the soldier asserted, cutting me off mid sentence. “You are a member of the Royal House. I would be derelict in my duty if I did not escort you.”
“As a member of the Royal House, I am ordering back to your quarters,” I retorted hotly. I was growing irked now. I was accustomed to walking where and how I wished.
The soldier moved up beside me, offering his shield arm as formality dictated when escorting a member of The House. “I must respectfully disobey you,” he answered coolly. He stepped across my path slightly, the action making it quite clear that he expected me to take his arm as protocol demanded.
“If you think for one moment . . .”
“Under the Law I must insist, Kyr-Meriq.”
The captain left me with the guard at the palace door. He wished me a courteous goodnight which I completely ignored as I stamped past the Palace Guard with the merest muttered greeting. As I reached the door I could hear the men talking. I paused, affecting to have trouble with the lock—I found that eavesdropping often revealed things that mixing with the men did not and I was, after all, a teenage boy with an insatiable curiosity.
“You escorted him from the Squad House?” the guard was saying, “You actually escorted him?”
“Of course,” the captain responded.
“How in Zoar’s Name did you get away with it? No-one presumes to escort The Stone Virgin.”
I bristled slightly. I disliked that particular soubriquet, coined as it had been by a soldier who had attempted to court me but whom I had rebuffed. At twelve, I did not consider it proper for a man to be showing that kind of interest in me. Neither had Anubis—but then Anubis disapproved of any man showing interest in me—much as he did with the young women who sought to catch my eye at the various balls and banquets. “When the time comes, Meriq, your path in Love will be made clear by the Gods,” he would say. Not that he particularly believed in Gods but, to his logical mind, when all else might fail it could not hurt to place a little trust in Divinity.
“I was escorting Kyr-Meriq,” the captain said with careful, clipped formality, “you would do well you watch your tongue.”
I went inside then and closed the door, smiling to myself as I climbed the stairs of the atrium. As I reached the upper ambulatory I noticed a light shining from under the study door. Anubis was still up and working. I tutted crossly, making my way to the lounge. At the hearth Iannos, the houseboy, was stoking the fire. He jumped to his feet as I greeted him, bowing low.
“My Lord, forgive me, I did not hear you come in.”
“You need not call me ‘Lord’, Iannos. Meriq will do. I have told you this before.”
The youth looked as if he might be struck dead just for hearing the words. “My lord, it is not seemly.”
I shrugged. I cared little for what was “seemly”, and never wasted many words in saying so. And I did not like the idea of servants even though having them was a great advantage at times. “Is the Master still working?”
“He is, Kyr-Meriq, and has been since sundown.” The young man gave me a dark look. Clearly he disapproved of the old man being so late to bed.
“Would you please get some hot water and towels, Iannos? Oh! And ask Alna to bring some tea and sweet bread. I don’t suppose he has eaten, has he?”
“I did try, Kyr-Meriq, but he was very, well, testy.”
I grunted. Being irritable was all very well, but the old man needed to eat and, by Zoar, he would have supper before I settled for the night if I had to force feed it to him.
I entered Anubis’ study quietly and set the towel and water bowl on the side table by his large chair near the ingle. Scant heartbeats later Alna, the maid, brought in rubyspike tea and some koraa cakes still warm from the oven. I nodded a dismissal, poured some tea and placed one of the spicy, aromatic oatcakes on the saucer. I walked silently to where the old man sat hunched over his tracts. His long white hair hung down, obscuring his face and forming a puddle that glowed like moonlit milk in the light of his enchanted globe. I placed the saucer and teacup down before him with a clearly audible ‘clack’, putting my hand over his when he reached out to take the cake without looking up.
The angry look on his face faded almost at once when he realised it was I and not Iannos or Alna who had presumed to interrupt him. “I have only a little more to do,” the old man smiled at me.
“Then it will not hurt to stop for refreshment will it, father?” I lifted my hand from his.
He peered at me, suddenly frowning. “You are very late in,” he observed stonily. “Very late.” He flicked the hem of the purple and white tunic, “And you have been with the soldiers—again.”
“I am not always with the soldiers, father.”
Anubis rose and scowled as he leaned down putting his old, craggy face next to mine. “And you have been drinking—soldier’s porter, no doubt.”
“They made me a gift of a quaich; it would have been niggardly not to drink with them.”
Anubis frowned again as he glanced at the cup where it hung from the belt clip. “Honestly, Meriq, sometimes you behave like a bath boy.”
“I never behave like a whore!” I retorted, outraged, “and neither do they treat me as one. No-one has ever laid more than a cloak upon me!”
“That does not mean they will not.” Anubis was as stern as I had ever seen him. “A man in heat has no conscience, Meriq,” the old sorcerer admonished.
“And neither does a well-placed kick,” I responded with a slight smile.
Anubis sighed. “You impossible boy!” He laughed despite himself. “Have it as you will,” he said, as if resigning the argument.
I took his hand, then, and led him over to his large chair by the fireside, unfastening his sandals as he settled with the teacup cradled in his hands.
When I had washed and anointed his feet I set the bowl in the hearth and perched on the arm of his chair, sliding my arm around his neck and resting my head on his shoul
der. “You are working too hard, father. I worry for you.” I took a sip of rubyspike from the cup he held up to me. The brew was spicy and tart, refreshing.
“There is much to be done, little dragon,” Anubis answered shifting over in the chair so that I slid down beside him. “So much to do,” he said again, glancing out of the window at the two moons, “and so little time to do it.”
“Well, that is as may be, father, but you need to rest—you look like the walking dead.”
“I only have a little more to do.” Anubis rose and stretched again. I caught his hand.
“I think I had a vision tonight.”
Anubis’ head snapped round as if someone had slapped him in the face. “A vision? What vision? When did you start having visions?” He sounded almost afraid.
I fidgeted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable. “Just tonight as I was walking home from the tower,” I answered quietly, “At least, I think it was a vision.”
Anubis twisted his hand free very gently and settled himself on a small footstool on the other side of the ingle. “Tell me,” he said softly.
The old man sat very still, staring silently into fire. I poured more tea and handed it to him. He took it, absently turning the cup around in his hands. He took a sip and set the cup down on the hearthstone. He rose slowly, with a heavy sigh and looked down at me, suddenly looking as if, all at once, his ninety cycles had become too much for him.
He stood abruptly and paced, muttering as if he was he was arguing with himself or an unseen companion. “No, no, no, I should not.” Silence, “But the boy has seen it.” Silence. “Then he must be told to know it.” He stopped pacing and turned to face me with a suddenness that made me jump back in the chair.
“What I am about to tell you is not to go beyond these walls, Meriq. Is that clear?”
I nodded, too shocked by my mentor’s demeanour to speak.
“Janir is going to invade Mederlana.”
“What?! Why?!” I almost shrieked. “We have been at peace with the Medrans for over eight cycles.”
A Rising Darkness Page 2