by B. K. Boes
No, she thought. She gingerly rolled off her pallet of hay and blankets, careful not to disturb him. She sat on the floor, hugging her knees, staring at the baby. Imrah focused on the tattoo on the child’s forearm — the Dakkan Household emblem. As with Anakai, an old woman had come after his birth and — using the dark arts — imprinted the smooth, black symbol on his right forearm. The baby had slept through it. The strange mark would grow as the child did, never distorting or fading. It was a good reminder that he didn’t really belong to her. I can’t love him. I can care for him as a wet nurse. I can pity him. But I can’t love him.
The last several days taught her it was best to leave when she wanted to be his mother, so she pulled her gaze away.
I’ll take a walk, get fresh blankets, and then sleep on the other side of the room, she decided. Maybe I’ll get something to drink.
The sky was clear and the night air cool. The moons were crescents surrounded by twinkling lights. It was peaceful. The beauty of the night filled her, pushing out her troubles. Imrah lingered in the middle of the courtyard, just breathing, for a few moments. But the baby would wake and need to nurse. Imrah thanked the stars and moons for their distraction and entered the main household through one of two open arches.
The kitchen, sitting rooms, dining room, and Master Dakkan’s study were on the main floor, while the bedrooms, library, and cellar were all underground where it was cooler during the day. Imrah stepped lightly on her way to the kitchen, though the thick sandstone floor yielded little sound. It was common for her master-husband to fall asleep in his study, and the last thing Imrah wanted was to be questioned by him. She’d avoided him since having the child, counting it a blessing that he’d not called for her.
She was tiptoeing down the hall when she heard voices.
Who could be up at this hour? Imrah turned a corner and held her breath at the sight of light coming from under the door of her master’s study. At first, she had assumed her master-husband was having an argument with his true-wife, Lady Vega. She hated it when Dramede stayed up all night drinking.
But the voices became louder, and Imrah realized it wasn’t Lady Vega but another man arguing with Dramede.
I should leave.
The best she could hope for if caught eavesdropping was a good whipping, and her body was still aching from labor. But, she took another step closer as the conversation took an interesting turn.
“And what is this propaganda, Dramede?” It was Ambassador Bakmann. From what Imrah knew, his boldness had continued. The day before she had ventured out to do a few lighter chores with her newborn tied securely to her bosom in a sling. The ambassador had smiled at her again from across the room. It was strange to watch out of the corner of her eye as her master-husband held his tongue and showed restraint on multiple occasions.
Normally, Imrah didn’t pay much attention to guests. She was ever the invisible servant, head down, eyes averted, quiet and quick to return to her corner. But Ambassador Bakmann seemed to be evaluating them all. So when he had met her eye earlier, Imrah couldn’t help but notice the kindness there. She took note of him more carefully, without thinking of the impropriety.
Adikean warriors wore their hair in matted locks, those Pure Born of higher stations crisscrossing golden thread around each piece. Other Pure Borns shaved their hair off altogether. The Ambassador, who kept his black hair cut above the ears and layered, stood out because of this alone. He had large, brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a square jaw. There was a softness about him Imrah was sure her master-husband saw as weakness.
Curiosity begged an answer to the question of why the ambassador was really there. This late-night conversation could offer some answers. Imrah balled her trembling hands at her sides and slid silently along the wall until she was close enough to hear.
“The Adikean government is not responsible for these fliers,” her master said. His voice was calm, though Imrah recognized tones of annoyance.
The ambassador was confident and stern as he kept his volume low. “No? Well I should hope not. Because otherwise your Emperor is delusional!”
Imrah’s jaw dropped. No one talked of the Emperor that way. Not in Adikea, and certainly not in the capital city. At least, not without repercussions.
“Watch how you speak,” Master Dakkan said as through gritted teeth.
“Your Emperor invited us here for talks of peace! And then I find these lies are circulating among the population? Eikon will never surrender to Adikea. The very idea is preposterous, and it will not be tolerated! I want this seen to at once.”
Imrah heard footsteps close to the door and backed away, but she was too late. The door swung open. The ambassador slammed the door shut behind him, but stopped when he noticed Imrah there, frozen in place and wide-eyed. Imrah could barely make out his features from the orange glow of the candle he carried with him.
I’m in trouble. I’ll be whipped until I can’t move. Master Dakkan will…
The ambassador’s scowl softened. He held a finger to his lips for a moment, and then bowed his head slightly toward her, a sign of respect no slave-wife ever received. A sad look crossed his face, and she realized he pitied her. When he simply turned around and left, the light from his candle casting shadows on the walls, Imrah stood there, confused yet again.
He knew I shouldn’t be here, but he showed me mercy. Kindness. Why did he do that?
She watched him retreat into the darkness. The candlelight reflected off the brass candlestick onto the walls in flickering patterns until the ambassador turned a corner and was gone. He was a mystery to her.
A guttural growl and a great crash from inside the study brought the fear of discovery back tenfold. Imrah gasped at the sound of metal clanging and objects hitting the floor. The shock wore off quickly, and she was flying down the hall, no longer concerned about the sound of her feet padding against the floor. She turned the corner and raced through the arch and across the courtyard. Her heart beat wildly, and her body trembled as she threw open the thick curtain that served as a door to her room and shut it behind her. She sank to the ground, back against the wall, and prayed her master was still in his study cursing and throwing things. She waited, body tense, listening for someone to come punish her.
But no one did.
Eventually, Imrah’s breathing came easier. When the baby began to stir, she crawled across the floor and sat cross-legged on the edge of the pallet. “Shh, little one,” she said as he wrinkled his nose and let out a cry. She brought him to her breast and let him nurse. As she sat there, his tiny warm body snuggled against her, she thought of the ambassador.
The sincerity and compassion in his eyes, his acknowledgment of her as a woman, as a person, and the way he smiled a little whenever he saw her. For a moment, she felt like a little girl again, thinking sweet thoughts of some boy down the road. She chuckled to herself, amused at first and then saddened. Her smile faded. That was not her life.
But still, the ambassador was a different sort of man, and he did seem to carry influence. She let herself caress the infant’s cheek, a warm flicker of light coming to life in her heart when he reached up and grasped her finger.
That man stood up to Master Dakkan. This man from Eikon… he insulted the Emperor and barely received a reprimand.
She looked down at the baby. Sunlight spilled through the horizontal windows, long and thin, that ran along the top of one wall of her room. Imrah studied the boy in her arms, the boy she had tried so hard not to love, and a spark of hope settled inside.
What if the ambassador could help? What if he could save my son?
“Nasheer,” she said as she traced the curve of the baby’s nose. “I’ll name you Nasheer, after my grandfather.” Imrah smiled as she allowed her son to wrap his fingers around her thumb.
It took two days of arguing with herself to gather her courage. The thing that pushed her forward was the growing difficulty of holding her love for Nasheer at bay, and the ever-present memory of what it f
elt like to send Anakai to the canyons. When she decided she didn’t care what happened to her if Nasheer was safe, she found herself at the ambassador’s bedroom door in the middle of the night.
It was more than inappropriate. Being there — coming to the ambassador to ask for help — risked her life. But she allowed herself to hope. And she allowed herself to love. There was no going back.
Nasheer slept in his sling, and Imrah prayed he would stay quiet. Bringing him increased her risk. If he began to cry, she might be caught. However, she wanted the ambassador to see her son. To see the child who would one day be sent to the canyons if he refused to take him back to Eikon.
She knocked on the door, a soft tapping she hoped would be enough to wake only the ambassador. It was silent and dark, a bit of light coming from a lantern at the end of the hall, hung high, offering a faint glow. Her palms began to sweat, and her mouth ran dry. The baby stirred, and her heart skipped a beat. She bounced him gently, praying to the Sustainer he would stay quiet. She knocked one more time.
Her resolve was dwindling.
What am I doing? I’ll be killed. Or sent to a whore house.
Imrah was about to turn away when the ambassador opened his door.
“What is it?” he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he saw Imrah there, he straightened up and wrapped his robe more tightly around his body. “What? Who… the slave-wife… um… Imrah, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”
“You remember my name?” Imrah asked, surprised.
“Yes, but,” Ambassador Bakmann leaned his head out of the door and looked both ways down the hall. “Is this some kind of ploy? Try to seduce me and then have reason to execute me? Is that it?” He began to close the door. “Well, no thank you.”
“No!” Imrah said, a little too loudly, and she jumped at the sound of her own voice. “No,” she said in a whisper. “I came to ask for help.”
Nasheer stirred in his sling, and the ambassador seemed to notice the baby for the first time. He looked at her for a long time in silence, his eyes turning from hard to soft, his posture from defensive to calm.
“Look, Imrah, I don’t think I will be able to help you,” he said. “If I could, I would, but—”
“Not me. My son.” Imrah unwrapped Nasheer’s head with trembling hands. The ambassador looked away, but Imrah pleaded with him. “Look at him. Please. Look at my son.”
“I see him,” he said as he reluctantly looked down at the infant in her arms.
“He’s helpless. He has no choice in the matter, but he will be sent to the Kelda Canyons. And he will either die, or he’ll be turned into a monster.” It was strange to speak without restraint, but now was not the time to be a slave-wife. Now was the time to be a mother. “I’m risking my life to ask for help,” she added.
“I won’t tell anyone you were here,” he said. “I just can’t—”
“Please. Please,” Imrah cut him off, afraid he would talk himself out of whatever sympathy he was feeling. “I’ve already lost one son to those canyons.”
“Let me think about this.” He hesitated. “There may be something…” The ambassador trailed off and chewed his bottom lip. He looked at her again, and this time sighed heavily. “Get back to your rooms before you’re caught,” he said. “I don’t want to see you in trouble.”
Imrah nodded. “Thank you,” she said, her hope burning a little brighter.
“No guarantees.” Ambassador Bakmann closed the door, and she heard him lean against the door on the other side.
“I know,” Imrah whispered to the empty hallway. Hope warmed her, but it also left her more afraid than she ever imagined. She hugged Nasheer closer. There was so much to lose.
Chapter Eleven
Moloch
Palace Grounds
The City of Patriphos, Eikon
3rd Cycle of Chenack
986 Post Schism
The excitement died down around the city soon after the celebration. Prince Zuria and the Ergonian princess began their courtship. A walk through the gardens, breakfast, lunch, dinner — Zuria and Naova met often and seemed to get on well with each other, which worked out very well for Moloch. When Zuria met with Naova, he had a reason to meet with Junia.
And she fascinated him. Beyond her beauty, she was smart. Conversations with her were never dull. Unlike many women Moloch had met, Lady Junia Nondrum was straightforward with plenty of opinions of her own. He’d been to a few coming-of-age balls, where a pretty young woman of fifteen was presented to the world as ready to be courted. Polite, reserved, and well-versed in the arts, pretty youths made their debuts and hoped to catch the eye of a wealthy bachelor. Moloch and his brother had filled many dance cards, sometimes competing on who could garnish the best variety of young women to twirl around on the dance floor, maybe steal a few kisses in the shadows of the patio or balcony.
Junia wasn’t like them — always too polite — but she was poised, never vague or petty. Humble in the right circumstances, but unapologetically proud in others.
She’d brought out something in Moloch he didn’t know existed. One morning, when the dew still sparkled on the grass, Moloch ventured into the gardens to gather a small bouquet. The plan was to deliver them to Lady Junia before breakfast. He hadn’t been in such a good mood in ages.
Bram, however, didn’t know what to do with Moloch’s newfound infatuation. “You know you can get someone to pick those for you, right?”
Moloch knelt next to a bed of white flowers, soft as velvet. He plucked them one by one and laid them to the side with care. “It means more when you do it yourself,” he said.
“Who told you that?” Bram crossed his arms. “A flower is still a flower, no matter who picks it.”
“You know nothing of women,” Moloch quipped.
“And you do? Mind you, I’m fifteen years your senior.”
“Have you ever loved?”
Bram shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed. That’s sort of the same.”
“You’re crass.”
“You’re love-struck.”
Moloch turned with a smile on his face. “Maybe I am,” he said.
Bram sighed. “Just pick your flowers. I’m hungry.”
When he’d gathered enough, he tied them with a string he’d brought and dusted off his knees. “Let’s go get some of those purple ones. You know, the ones that look like little bells?”
“Why would I know that?” Bram followed Moloch through the gardens.
Moloch stopped short at the sight of Lady Junia sitting in front of the flowers he had planned to pick for her. An easel stood before her, and she was painting, perched on a high stool. Bram ran right into him due to his abrupt stop, making him trip forward and yelp.
Junia jumped at the sound, but quickly regained her composure. When she turned to see Moloch and Bram, she laughed lightly. “You frightened me,” she said.
“Bram, go away.” Moloch whispered over his shoulder.
“I can’t leave you alone. You know, the whole chaperone thing.”
Junia’s own lady-in-waiting stood off to the side. Moloch nodded reluctantly. “Fine,” he said to Bram. “Just… stand over there.” He waved Bram away and offered his best smile to Junia. “I didn’t expect to see you,” he said.
He came closer to examine her painting. Mountains in the background, rivers flowing through, and greenery everywhere. It was a strange color for grass, a brighter green, instead of the faded green or yellowed grasses of the North. Junia had painted the back of a woman up close, staring out over the land, and in the crook of her arm, the purple flowers lay.
Moloch took a step back. “This is quite good. Where is it?”
Junia settled back onto her stool. “The Valley of Elypkos,” she said. “I know, it’s just a myth. But can you imagine a place like that?”
“Not even the North is so lush. I used to love those stories when I was little.”
“Me, too.” Junia noticed the flowers. Her eyes narrowed, but a playful tug
at the corners of her lips told Moloch she was pleased. “And who are those for?”
“The princess.” Moloch shrugged. “Zuria asked me to gather them.”
Junia blushed and cleared her throat. “Oh. Well, they’re very nice.”
“I’m joking,” Moloch said. “They’re for you.” He held the bouquet out toward her. “I saw you kneeling at these purple bells the other day, and I thought you’d like a few mixed in with the others.”
A smile spread across her face. Junia took the flowers and called her lady-in-waiting to come and get them. “My rooms will be brighter with these,” she said. “Thank you.”
“So, the Valley has inspired you this morning, has it?” He turned back to the painting.
“The stories of the Sustainer’s first couple fascinate me. The Valley gifted to humanity, only to be lost due to our corruption.” She tilted her head to the side in a moment of thought. “I honestly can’t imagine a world like that. Without vanity and backbiting and power struggles. No war. No poverty. No unwanted unions.” She paused and tilted her head. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like?”
“Not really,” Moloch said. “My mother has a Holy Book, of course, but I’ve barely cracked it open since I was a child. When you describe it that way, it sounds like a nice place.” A memory of playing soldiers with his brother, Waen, surfaced — something he hadn’t thought about in years. He smiled at the thought, but the reality of his relationship with his brother wiped away the nostalgia. “Power struggles and war are what my family is all about,” he said.
“Mine, too,” Junia said. “The Adikean bands that ravage Ergon make it necessary.”
“The Sarrem family has no immediate burdens to excuse their behavior,” Moloch said. “It’s in our blood. Even when our nation is at a standstill with our enemy, there is war among the Sarrem brothers.”
“War?” Junia raised a brow. “You have a twin brother, do you not? You two aren’t close?”