“You are clearly waiting to see me, Jae’nt.”
“Is that for me? What is it?”
“It’s from my mother. She would like to invite you to tea.”
“Oh.” I said flatly, “I was not aware that she had arrived. When did this occur? And more to the point why was I not informed?”
Typical, I thought typical of the scheming harpy. I dismissed the rising foreboding with a shrug. “And when would she like me to attend for tea?” I asked, resignation to the inevitably echoing in every word.
“A quarter secta ago, Ez’n” Jae’nt answered, flinching slightly.
“Just when I thought the morning could not become any more challenging,” I said more to myself than to Jae’nt.
The prince chortled. “Should I accompany you, Ez’n?”
I shook my head. “I think you have been punished enough, Jae’nt. I would not want to subject you to this. Will you please ask Myrna to make my excuses to the petitioners and tell her to re-schedule the appointments?”
“It will be done, Ez’n.”
The Queen was so overtly charming and gracious concerning my tardiness that I began to feel incredibly uncomfortable and almost thought to have the tea tested for poison. Eilen was not known for her forbearance and neither was she renowned for having a forgiving nature. Nonetheless, I apologised once again and waited to be invited before joining her at the table by the window.
“I had forgotten how much I love this view of the city, Meriq—oh—I mean Ez’n.”
“It is a singularly lovely vista, Majesty.” I agreed, “but I am certain that you did not invite me here to admire the view.”
Eilen gave me a smile that could have poisoned a man with just the sweetness of it. “No, Ez’n,” she agreed, “I thought I should at least offer you the hospitality my husband has seen fit to eschew, and I thought you might like to meet Gor. He has been expressing an interest in meeting you since news of your elevation from Anubis’,” the Queen paused as if trying to avoid saying something indiscreet, “Anubis’—apprentice—,” (she might just as well have said ‘catamite’), “to being his replacement.”
“My Queen, you honour me. But I gravely doubt that anyone could replace Anubis, least of all I. And if I may make so bold, highness, I am certain that the King would not deliberately snub an invitation. You may not be aware that the Crown Prince of Morla arrived with a vanguard early this morning, quite unexpectedly in point of fact—as did you.”
The queen made a brief, dismissive gesture. She had heard something of the sort, but was neither sufficiently interested in nor concerned with a bunch of barbarians whose only quality of note, it seemed, was their complete lack of modesty.
“Your majesty seems quite well informed concerning our guests,” I observed.
The queen gave me a disarming smile that was disturbing in its apparent lack of guile. “Well, Ez’n,” she said confidingly, “the women of the house have scarcely drawn breath to talk of anything else.”
“The soldiers are certainly well-constructed,” I agreed cagily, “I do not doubt they will turn many a maiden’s head before the march north.”
Whatever the queen may have been preparing to say next was lost as the door from the adjoining room crashed open and two youths came rolling through it wrestling and yelling to such a degree that Eilen had to shout to make herself heard.
“Boys! Gor! Petros! Be still! We have a guest!”
The boys scrambled to their feet looking quite shamefaced. I recognised Gor at once for he was every bit as beautiful as the rumours purported. His hair, golden like summer corn, hung to his shoulders in a rough, tousled mane. His face was oval, with honey-tan skin that stretched over bones that could have been carved from ivory. His eyes were deep blue like an evening sky veiled by impossibly long white lashes and regarded me with a penetrating candour from beneath straight, silver-white brows that gave his visage an overly serious and intense aspect that was, at the same time curiously open and entirely without guile. It was as if every thought that went through this boy’s head would be instantly drawn on every line in his face. This was a face of great beauty, but it was not a statesman’s face.
Gor was slim, almost rangy but not skinny or weak looking, quite the reverse. There was an air of a runner about him for he seemed lean and light as a gazelle
The young prince shuffled slightly, tucking himself back in his breech cloth and straightening his tunic so that he was once again decently covered. Gor’s companion, a youth roughly the same age, raked his fingers through his dark, chestnut hair and adjusted his clothing bowing once he had composed himself. I returned the bow.
“This is Petros,” Gor told me, putting his arm around the young boy’s shoulder “he is my best friend.”
“Petros.” I made a short bow which the boy returned once he had extricated himself from Gor’s enthusiastic embrace.
“Petros is the son of a lord,” Gor informed me. He threw himself on to the couch beside the oriel pulling Petros with him. The prince looked me up and down. “You’re not anyone’s son are you?” He gave me another disquietingly frank look, “And you are very small for an Ez’n, Ez’n.”
The queen made to chide the boy but I put up my hand silencing her. “I have no living relatives, no, your highness. And as you observe, I am very small.”
“Mother says it’s because you were sick when you were younger.”
“Gor, it isn’t proper to discuss such things,” Petros said quietly.
The prince looked bewildered. Obviously he had no clear understanding of why such personal discourse would not be proper. But he dutifully changed the subject, talking about the journey from the south and his arrival in the Palace. “I wanted to meet you because you have a Kendirith horse. I like horses.”
“Then it will be my pleasure to introduce you to Vyrnath when the time is more suitable.”
“So, Prince Gor, what is it that you do when you are not wrestling?”
“Gor is a painter. He’s very good.” Petros said, falling silent almost at once under a very stony look from the Queen. “Your pardon, Ez’n. Sometimes I forget myself.”
I smiled. “I can see how Prince Gor’s refreshing lack of formality might be contagious, Petros. Do not concern yourself.”
“You are most gracious, Ez’n,” the Queen said silkily.
“Would you like to see my paintings, Ez’n?” Gor rose and came over taking my hand as if to lead me.
“I think perhaps another time, your highness. I should continue my visit with the Queen.”
“Oh! She won’t mind.” Gor answered dismissively, “Come along.”
He tugged me to my feet. I looked at the Queen who merely smiled graciously and waved her hand. “My youngest son is like a Force of Nature, Ez’n. I know when to yield.”
As Petros had said, the Prince was indeed a skilled artist. He had curious, geometric style and a strange brush style similar to the stencilling technique used by temple painters. The colours were vibrant and blended so skilfully where shapes overlapped that one could scarcely detect where one colour became the next. Gor rummaged around in a pile of canvasses for a moment before pulling one out.
It was a forest scene, a clearing, it appeared, but it was not until I had been looking at it for a while that I realised there were two figures walking out of the trees towards each other. And even as I looked for longer the two original figures seemed to melt back into the back ground even as they appeared to move towards each other.
“This is how I met Petros.” Gor said. He turned away and produced another canvas which Petros immediately stepped in front of.
“I am sure the Ez’n does not wish to see that one, Gor.”
“It’s my favourite,” Gor said, lifting it over Petros’ head so that the youth was sandwiched between prince and canvass.
It was a portrait of Petros standing in a sunlit clearing swathed in a blue cloak, his hands stretched up towards the sun. It was not until I had been looking at the pictu
re for a while that I realised the cloak was sliding away to reveal the nakedness beneath. There was a brief tussle behind the portrait and the spell was broken. “Really, Gor,” Petros said relieving the prince of the canvass, “The Ez’n does not want to be looking at me.”
“But you are beautiful,” Gor said bluntly. “I like to look at you.”
“I think that is a little different, your highness. Friends share certain intimacies that outsiders like myself do not.”
Gor shrugged. “And this is another of my favourites. I painted it because even if the God hates me, I do not hate Him.”
The picture was a swirling sky half in darkness half in daylight. In the top left hand corner the all-seeing eye that was the symbol of Zoar gazed down on a strange angular landscape. As I watched it seemed that land merged with the clouds which in turn seemed to be drawn upwards towards the centre of the eye where they passed into the darkness before re-emerging from the darkness at the bottom of the canvass to reform the night time part of the landscape.
There were several other pictures of Petros and one or two of the prince and his companion together none of which left the deeper nature of their companionship to supposition.
“Your work is amazing, your highness.” I said as I examined the various works dotted around the room, and indeed it was. I had never seen anything close to the nature of this work. I had heard of artists who could create the illusion of life in their work, but this was in a league apart. “I am curious, however,” I said as I paused by the final work, “What will you paint on the black canvass?”
Gor looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “I have already painted it.” He said simply, his tone making it abundantly clear that he was certain I should know what it was. “An artist can only paint what is. He cannot paint what is not. Traemar, my teacher, told me that. I paint only what I see.”
“Oh.”
We returned to the reception area then where Queen Eilen was seated by the window seemingly absorbed in her tapestry work. She made great play of being surprised by our arrival and immediately went to order more refreshment. I respectfully declined the offer, excusing myself as I had to catch up on work and ready myself for my dinner engagement with Prince Markos.
“I shall walk back with you, “Gor announced.”
“That will not be necessary, highness. I am sure that one of my guards will be waiting outside to escort me.”
“I will come too,” Gor insisted.
Eilen rose from her chair. “Really, my dear, the Ez’n has said he will be escorted by his guard,” The queen placed a solicitous hand on her son’s shoulder. “You really should be thinking of getting some rest now.” The Queen turned a disturbingly charming smile on me, “Gor is quite a delicate boy, despite his high spirits, Ez’n.”
“But I’m not tired, mother!”
The queen sighed. “Oh, stubborn, stubborn boy. Just like your father.”
The prince’s eyes clouded and his face suddenly lost all expression. His eyes rolled back and his hands began to twitch. Petros and I ran forward, catching the boy even as his legs buckled. He began to foam at the mouth.
Anubis had told me of such conditions, seizures he called them. In some cultures they were believed to be the result of possession by either a vengeful spirit or a god wishing to make his will known through his priest. Indeed, I had seen Zhartal in such states one more than one occasion, but this seemed altogether different. In his dealings with the victims of this strange malady Anubis had discovered that applying pressure to a point just at the base of the skull and humming a particular note could be used to stop the attack. Well, I thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I placed my hand as the old sorcerer had taught me and leaned close to Gor’s ear, humming gently. The twitching began to subside and gradually the prince’s eyes cleared and he sat up. “I am sorry, Ez’n. Perhaps my mother is right and I should rest.”
“Of course, my prince.” I watched as Petros escorted the prince back to the private chambers and then turned to the queen. “I hope my visit did not overtax the young prince, majesty.”
Eilen was effuse in her dismissal. “No. No, Ez’n. He just does not understand his limitations. Petros takes wonderful care of him and is devoted to him. It is just when he get over-excited . . .”
“I see. Well, please give Gor my regards when he is rested. I will see myself out.”
†
CHAPTER 13
ALLIANCE
JAE’NT LOOKED uncomfortable in his formal wear, and kept fidgeting at the high collar of his tunic. “Quite why you should be making me accompany you I do not know, Ez’n,” he complained sticking his finger once more in the collar of his tunic as if trying to stretch the material into a less restrictive contour. “After all,” he added, “I am only a page. Perhaps it would be better if the handsome Captain Dthor-Aid’n or your pretty corporal—what’s his name—escorted you?”
“Faedron.” I answered. “It is more appropriate that you escort me. You are the Prince Royal.”
“Gor is Prince Royal,” Jae’nt corrected. “I am a scullion.”
“Crown Prince Markos does not know that.”
“Oh I expect he does by now. Balten and that ogre Korlaq seem to have bonded quite quickly. I hear they have been inseparable since the arrival of the vanguard. Joined in perfidy if not perversion, no doubt.”
“Sentiments I expect you to keep to yourself, Jae’nt.” I cautioned. “Now come along. It would not do to be late.”
“I cannot believe you agreed to a formal dinner with him in the barracks, Meriq.”
“Morlans are not strong on standing on ceremony. It is a diplomatic decision. Now shut up and get the door.”
I had left us plenty of time between our arrival at the barracks and the time appointed for the dinner. I was almost certain the meal would be an ordeal and I wanted to spend some time with my friends beforehand. When we arrived the barracks was alive with chatter and some of the Morlan vanguard had already made some attempt to get to know their Zetan comrades. There was some tension in the air, which was only to be expected considering the reputation of Zetan soldiers for their barrack-room pursuits and the Morlans’ known prejudice against male intimacy. But things seemed to be relatively easy between the men, though I did remark that most of the vanguard had kept their cloaks on. Whether this was from some sense of forced modesty or out of feelings of vulnerability it was not clear.
I caught sight of Aenar standing at the ingle talking to a young, uncloaked Morlan archer. The couple were engaged in quite avid conversation—Aenar seemed to be inspecting the gold fletched, red-shafted arrows in the ornately tooled quiver that hung low on the young man’s hip from an equally well-tooled leather shoulder strap while the Morlan seemed interested, as Morlans were, in Aenar’s battle scars.
“. . . and if you put your hand just here,” Aenar was saying as he turned his leg and began raising the hem of his tunic, “you will find . . .”
“A good deal more than a battle-scar if you are not careful.” I said startling the pair somewhat.
The young Morlan flushed, every inch of his exposed tanned skin darkening briefly to the colour of teak.
“Ez’n-Kyr Meriq,” Aenar said, with a bow, “Allow me to introduce Kylos.”
The archer made a formal salute that I returned with a bow, offering the soldier my hand. The soldier looked confused. Aenar stepped up. “You do this, Kylos.” The Provost bent his knee, touching my hand to his forehead.
“Or simply shake it in friendship,” I said giving Aenar a mischievous grin.
“Thank you for making me a fool, Ez’n.”
“Oh, I think you did that perfectly well for yourself, Aenar.” I laughed at the man
The young man followed Aenar’s example almost jumping to his feet at the sound of Markos’ voice behind me. “Good evening, Ez’n.” The Prince gave me a warm smile acknowledging Kylos with a nod. The young man saluted. “Should I bring you ale, Markos?”
“That would be most thoughtful, Kylos, thank you.”
Jae’nt stared after the young archer as he made his way to the barrel grabbing an empty pitcher as he went. “I thought the cavaliers’ battle-wear to be meagre,” Jae’nt muttered, “but that is next to nothing!”
“I would say it’s next to plenty,” Aenar said smiling as Kylos made his way back to us. “By which I mean he is a credit to his fighter class.” the Provost added quickly suddenly remembering the Morlan reputation.
Markos laughed. “I am sure that is not at all what you meant Provost—at least not entirely.”
Kylos handed the pitcher of ale to Markos. “I hope this is not a sign that you are subverting my men, Ez’n,” Markos said lightly as Kylos bent his knee once more to me before rejoining Aenar at the hearth.
I took a quick look back as Markos guided me to a nearby table. “I do not think that subversion needs to be your main concern in that case.”
Markos glanced to where the couple were standing. “To bear marks like those of the Provost a man must be both honourable and a great warrior.” The prince said pausing as Jae’nt pulled out my seat for me. Markos watched me sit before joining me. “It would a suitable match for qum-shoq—joining as War-Brothers,” Markos explained noting my bewilderment.
Jae’nt smirked. “I don’t think that’s the kind of joining Aenar has in mind.”
I shot him a warning look. Markos dismissed my attempted apology by passing me a tankard “He is quite unusual for a Morlan,” I observed.
“Kylos is an oddity,” Markos admitted, “our men are rarely born blond like Kylos, even where wives are Cassandrian. But his skills with bow, dart and dagger are widely coveted in his Guild which is why he is a member of my personal guard.” The prince looked again at the couple, his dark eyes darting from one to the other. A light, something like recognition or understanding seemed to flash across them momentarily and was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. The prince turned his attention fully back to me. “It would be foolish and quite pointless to deny the fact that Kylos is a comely young man or that his corporeal endowments are not as greatly admired by his peers and superiors alike as are his skills on the battlefield.”
A Rising Darkness Page 17