by B. K. Boes
Bram scoffed. “You inspire so much confidence.”
Den narrowed his eyes, his fists balling up at his sides. “Have sweet dreams, my lord,” he said as he sat roughly on the ground and pressed his lips into a thin line.
Moloch tried to relax. He was too exhausted to be angry about the blatant disrespect toward his family’s name. “At least we’re here. And in the morning, I can speak with Lord Nondrum.”
Bram helped Moloch with his mat. He then situated himself as he had before, dagger at the ready.
Morning came too soon, and at the same time, not soon enough. The ground was hard, nothing but rock. Moloch was exhausted enough to sleep, but it wasn’t restful. Over and over, he dreamed all the different ways his meeting with Lord Nondrum could go wrong. When Bram woke him, he had to force himself out of a half-dreaming state. A small breakfast of dried fruit and bread was provided, but Moloch’s head was still foggy when Kole came to get them.
“Lord Nondrum is waiting at the Western Pass. He wants to meet with you at the Ancient Bridge.” Kole wasted no time. He expected Moloch and Bram to follow, and they did. Down the side of the mountain, back to the road, and then to a long, wide-open cliff, at the center of which began the Western Pass.
Lord Nondrum was dressed in leather armor, his two Ergonian axes on either hip. A layer of metal chainmail clinked as he paced at the mouth of the bridge. Bright colors painted the sky. Behind him, the bridge of stone, ancient, origin unknown, stretched into the open air. The first plateau was visible from here, but fog obscured any further.
Not fog. Steam.
As they neared the edge of the cliff, Moloch watched the steam curl upward. The valley below was hidden, except for a few breaks in the warm, churning white where a yellow as bright as the finches in Patriphos peeked through. Moloch had heard the Mavyem Valley was beautiful, the colors unlike anything else in all of Leyumin. Another break showed bright green in the distance. The steam danced, dissipating under the bridge. It was a captivating sight.
Kole grasped Bram’s arm. “You go no further. Only Lord Sarrem is permitted to approach.”
Bram’s face began to turn red, and he opened his mouth, no doubt to give Kole a piece of his mind. Moloch made eye contact, shook his head once, firmly, and Bram deflated.
“I’ll watch from here,” he said to Moloch. “If you need me, call, and I’ll come.”
“I’ll be fine,” Moloch said, trying to assure his friend and bodyguard. Kole escorted him to Lord Nondrum a few yards further.
The Duke of Pytar stopped his pacing, locked his hands behind his back, and faced Moloch. An average height did little to lessen the duke’s hardened demeanor. His bushy black hair was accompanied by a long black beard. Black eyes full of disdain pierced the air, pricking at Moloch’s confidence. Square shoulders, stocky and muscled, Lord Nondrum was a mountain man through and through. He signaled Kole with a look and he backed away, allowing them to speak unheard.
“I’m surprised,” Lord Nondrum said, his voice low, rumbling, strong. “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Lord Nondrum—”
“I know why you’re here. The answer is no,” he growled.
Moloch was unaccustomed to being talked to this way. He was starting to lose his patience, after all he’d gone through to speak to the man. “How can you—”
“Do you even know who your father is?” Lord Nondrum asked, stepping too close. “He has no dignity. No honor. He fought like a madman in the last war. You Eikonians don’t care how many villages burned. How many civilians died. How many Ergonian soldiers were used like bait. All you care about is that your own borders were secured. Nibal Sarrem is no hero.”
Moloch blinked several times, shocked. “My father and King Shamylle won that war. If they hadn’t fought, Adikea might have strongholds in the North. As it is, your king still holds power in Ergon.”
Lord Nondrum laughed, but it had an edge to it that made Moloch squirm. “You know nothing. King Shamylle is a noble man. I’ll admit that much. His son seems to be following in his stead. It is the only reason I didn’t resist my niece’s betrothal,” he said. “But your father is not noble. And his transgressions go deeper to a more personal level.”
Moloch’s mind raced with a way to make peace, to undo whatever grudge this man had against his father and the Sarrem family. “Lord Nondrum, whatever my father has done to you, I’m certain—”
Again, the duke cut Moloch off, this time with gritted teeth. “He took my sister to bed,” he said. “She was young. Foolish. She didn’t know your father was betrothed to another. He refused to take her as a wife, though she was pregnant. It was all buried for the sake of politics.” He jabbed his finger into Moloch’s shoulder, hard, so close Moloch felt his hot breath on his face. “But I never forgot.”
Moloch took a step backwards. “You mean my father has a bastard?” That didn’t really surprise Moloch. There was probably more than one.
“He would have.” Lord Nondrum’s face twisted into a knot, and he turned quickly away. He said over his shoulder, “My sister, my sweet Igless, threw herself into an abyss much like this one.” The duke gestured toward the open air beyond the cliff, the steam still churning, curling, dissipating. His voice softened. “People blamed it on an illness. My mother, my grandmother… they had… a twisting of the mind, and they said Igless had it, too. It’s why I’ve kept it from Junia. She shouldn’t have to worry about such an illness coming on her.”
Moloch swallowed. “I… I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. Even his worst nightmare the night before had been better than this.
Lord Nondrum whipped around quickly and went toe-to-toe with Moloch. He was shorter, but Moloch couldn’t have been more frightened. “Stay away from my daughter,” he said.
Moloch took a step back. “I’m not my father,” he said, as calmly as he could.
“No? Am I to simply take your word for it?”
“Let me prove myself. I’ll do anything. No matter what my father has done, if you allow me to marry your daughter, she will be well cared for. Her position will dwarf most women.”
“If you are named your father’s successor?” Lord Nondrum laughed again. “I know all about that, boy. A father pitting his sons against one another,” he spat. “The decision of inheritance should fall on a father’s shoulders. Instead, Lord Sarrem plays a game with his own offspring, weighing them down. Fostering hate among his own blood. And my daughter would give you an upper hand. Is that it? Connections to my brother, King of Ergon? Is that why she smells so sweet?”
“You’re not wrong,” Moloch said, holding up his hands in front of him, urging the duke to calm down. “But that isn’t why I want to marry her. Junia is different. Special. I love her.”
“Love.” Lord Nondrum rolled the word off his tongue like he was tasting it for meaning. “Does your kind even understand how to love?”
Moloch licked his dry lips. His throat felt raw. His hands sweaty. “I barely saw my father growing up. I barely cared for him at all, actually. I was closer to my mother. Say what you want about my father, but Lady Sarrem, my mother — she’s a good woman. Through and through. A healer. A mother. A faithful wife. I learned my virtues from her.”
Lord Nondrum raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“I am not my father,” Moloch said again. “I love your daughter. And I believe she loves me.”
“She’s told me as much. She never met her aunt. Never understood why I loathe the Eikonian highborns.” Lord Nondrum looked away.
“Junia is a good judge of character, sir. Trust her, and you will not regret it.” Moloch went to one knee, a sign of extreme respect, a sign of swearing loyalty. It was an act of humility Moloch knew his father would never give to anyone except the King of Eikon himself.
Lord Nondrum stared at Moloch for a long time, and then he raised his chin. “There is no way for you to undo what’s been done.”
Moloch’s chest felt tight. “I’ll do anythin
g to prove my worth to you.”
“No,” Lord Nondrum said. “My daughter might be infatuated with you, but I am not. Once her cousin is married, she will be free to marry as well. Her husband will be a man of my choosing.” He narrowed his eyes at Moloch. “I have eyes on you, boy. My brother’s men answer to me as well, and we have men everywhere.”
“I can’t accept that.” Moloch stood. “I’ll prove to you that I’m nothing like my father. When the time is right for Junia to marry, you’ll see me again. Watch me all you want. Have your men report back to you on my movements, on my achievements. I’ll change your mind.”
Lord Nondrum turned to face the bridge again, his back to Moloch. “Go from here. I do not wish to see your face any longer.”
It didn’t seem right to say anything more, and so he walked back toward the mountains on trembling legs. He walked past Bram, nausea making him lightheaded. His friend and bodyguard followed close behind. Kole let them go and went to his lord’s side, for what, Moloch didn’t care.
“Moloch? What did he say? Are you all right?” Bram kept asking questions, though Moloch hurried away from Lord Nondrum. As soon as they were back on the main road and out of sight of the wide-open cliff, Moloch dropped to his knees and lost his meager breakfast. He kept heaving, even when there was nothing left.
Chapter Seventeen
Imrah
The City of Sydor, Adikea
2nd Cycle of Chenack
987 Post Schism
The Lower Sector was a harsh place. This was only the third time Imrah had ventured into the city’s poorest section, and the first time she had done so at night.
Sydor was divided into three sectors, each one walled off from the others. Those in the Central Sector, even the slave-wives, possessed the freedom to enter any sector. Middle Sector residents could only freely enter the Lower, and those unfortunate enough to live in the Lower Sector were confined there for most of their lives.
Imrah, with Nasheer secured to her left side in a sling, approached the small iron gate set into the wall of the Inner Road. She had a small orb lantern that she held waist-high by a chain. Such a luxury was technically forbidden to her, but she didn’t want to navigate the streets of an unfamiliar part of the city with just a candle. It swung lazily, matching the rhythm of her step, casting a dull yellow light in front of her. A single guard watched this gate. He was an older slave-son, bored and resigned.
“State your purpose for entering the Lower Sector.” He leaned against the wall, tapping his spear lightly on the ground.
“I’m visiting a friend who is very ill,” Imrah said. It was a common excuse for a slave-wife from the Central or Middle sectors, one she had used truthfully in the past. Slave-wives often found themselves cast out of sight of their master-husbands once they became barren or unable to efficiently carry out their duties.
The guard nodded and opened the gate. “Your emblem?”
Imrah raised her fist to her chest, revealing the Dakkan Household emblem — a vertical rectangle, enclosing a pattern of three circles with two dots between them. The raised, white scar stood in contrast against her tanned olive skin. The symbol was a pass throughout the city, except to the innermost depths of the Central Sector, but it also marked her as property. The guard glanced at the emblem, yawned, and let her through the gate.
This section of the city was appropriately named The Forgotten Vale. The roads here were more like passages that twisted and turned, leaving no room for carriages. Imrah took one that went decidedly east, into the Forgotten Vale and away from Quandesh Quarter to the west. There, brothels lined the streets, and men lost their reason as they drained bottles of liquor.
As she navigated the narrow, cobbled passages, Imrah was strangely grateful for her own living arrangements. At least for now, she had the benefits of being a slave in the wealthiest sector, and thereby enjoyed having her basic needs met. Sydor’s most heinous atrocities weren’t a part of her day-to-day existence simply because she was a slave-wife to a wealthy man.
She also enjoyed relative safety.
Imrah held the glowing orb with her right hand so that the emblem on her forearm was illuminated. The orb itself was a sign she was from a wealthy household. Hurting her would mean damaging the property of the formidable Dramede Dakkan. No man in his right mind would do so, as it could very well end in his execution. Perhaps even the execution of family members. She should be safe.
And besides that, most of the Lower Sector citizens were laborers and slave-sons too old for service. There were forgotten slave-wives. Orphans. It was true that the less savory specimens of society also hid in the over-crowded sector. But most of the people here were just trying to live their lives and didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.
Imrah wrinkled her nose at the smell of the place as she shifted Nasheer. He sat comfortably, his head resting on her left shoulder, his legs dangling against her stomach and back. The smell of human waste, sweat, and a myriad of other unpleasant odors didn’t seem to bother the boy.
The Lower Sector’s residential areas weren’t easy to navigate. Imrah stepped with care, avoiding divots and keeping her balance when the passage turned to shallow, uneven steps. Each home was thin and tall and crammed between two more. They were made of reddish sandstone marbled with swirls of browns and cream. The buildings in all three sectors were mostly the same — they curved in and away, made to mimic Adikea’s beloved Kelda Canyons. It made for crooked streets and pathways that were much more pronounced in the more crowded sectors.
Where is that symbol? Her eyes searched the homes on either side of her. It’s a good thing the moons are out in full. It must be around here somewhere…
She squinted in the twilight, her steps unsure as she searched the faces of each sandstone building. Finally, she spotted it — two overlapping circles carved overhead, in the right-hand corner of the doorframe. Most homes in the Lower Sector had no door, only a heavy curtain. Cloth was cheaper than wood in Adikea, and the likes of the Lower Sector didn’t enjoy that luxury often.
That’s it. She traced the symbol with her finger. Imrah lifted her hand, reaching for the chain that would ring a small bell on the other side of the curtain. But as her finger touched the warm metal, she paused. I’m dead if anyone finds out. And then her worst fear surfaced. What if the Ambassador can’t really help? What if this is a mistake, if the message was meant for someone else? It was vague.
Imrah had tried to forget about the ambassador a hundred times in the year since he’d left Adikea. She hated false hope. But then, six days ago, an old woman on the Inner Road slipped her a note while she browsed for fresh vegetables. As it was written in an old Ergonian dialect, she’d had to strain her memory, reaching back to her childhood education. After two days, she’d confidently translated the message.
On that piece of paper was real hope. It read: I have news. A way to safety. Meet me at the X. This symbol will be on the doorpost. Ask for Lapuro. It was signed by a simple P. and came with a map of the Lower Sector. The symbol, two overlapping circles, was drawn on the corner of the map. She didn’t know how the ambassador’s messenger had found her while she was running errands. She didn’t care.
At her first opportunity, Imrah made her way to the Lower Sector. Nasheer’s freedom could be so close. She couldn’t risk letting the opportunity go.
So she rang the bell. The clinking of metal on metal echoed down the narrow path, bouncing between the close-set buildings.
A woman bent with age slid the curtain back so it folded into itself.
“Are you Lapuro?” Imrah asked as she hugged her sleeping child closer.
“Imrah, I guess?” Lapuro’s voice was slow and tired.
“Yes,” Imrah said as she studied the woman before her. Her grandmother used to say every wrinkle was a lesson learned. If that was true, Lapuro had much to teach.
“Mmm-hmm,” Lapuro hummed as she waved Imrah inside. Her every move was gradual and deliberate as she backed away
to make room for Imrah to enter.
“I think I’m here to meet the Eikonian Ambassador?” Imrah’s hands trembled as Lapuro latched the heavy curtain behind her. If this was the wrong place, or if she wasn’t the one they meant to bring here, there was nothing she could do about it now.
“It’s good to see you, Imrah.” The ambassador stepped from a doorway down the hall, a lantern in hand.
He looked mostly the same as Imrah remembered, besides the tunic that replaced the robes of his office. A pronounced jawline and his serious, brown-eyed gaze still held authority. He still addressed her with a kindness she wasn’t used to. A sense of trust relaxed her tensed shoulders.
“Please, join me,” he said as he receded back into the room from which he’d come.
Imrah followed, nodding to the old woman as she scooted past her. Around the corner, the ambassador sat on a stool which was no more than a big rock with a flat surface. He rested an arm on the stone slab meant as a table.
“Ambassador Bakmann—” Imrah began, but he held up a hand.
“Please,” he said. “Call me Prestis.”
“Prestis… what news do you have?” She sat and adjusted Nasheer in the sling so that he sat on her lap. His head rested in the crook of her neck, and his soft, warm breath upon her skin gave her courage. “Will you take my son with you?” she asked with both hope and fear.
“Not exactly. It will be a bit more complicated than that. And we hope to save more than only your son,” Prestis said as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“What do you mean ‘complicated’?” Imrah asked.
Prestis let his hand fall back to the table. “Officially, Eikon can have nothing to do with this. We have only the slightest advantage over Adikea at this moment. We’re not ready for another war. Not yet.”
“War? I don’t understand.” Imrah’s breath caught in her throat. What have I done? What have I gotten myself into?