by B. K. Boes
“After you spoke with me, I decided I wanted to help you but knew the resources would only be available if assisting you had other benefits. I began to consider the system of Adikea’s military. The slave-sons, forced to train and become experts in the art of killing — they are the biggest threat to Eikon. Their fierceness and skill… it’s why we are only at a slight advantage. If Adikea’s supply of slave-sons dwindled, their army would either dwindle along with it, or for the sake of numbers, the Adikean Army would have to ease up on their training so that weaker men survived the Canyons. Either way, their army would suffer. Eikon would have the upper hand.” Prestis spoke with a calculated and precise cadence. When he finished, he narrowed his eyes slightly and bit the corner of his lip. He looked as though he expected her to give some sort of specific reaction, but she only felt confused.
“What does that have to do with Nasheer?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably.
“More than you might think.” Prestis sighed and continued. “I took this to some very powerful men. It could never be openly sanctioned, of course. If anything goes wrong, there can be no strings leading back to anyone in Eikon. But I’ve been given the resources I need. And our patron believes, as do I and a lot of very influential people, that it would be advantageous to curb the growth of the Adikean Army in any way we can. We can use the Adikean dependence on slave-sons to carry out a sabotage of sorts.”
“Are you saying you want to involve my son in some kind of political agenda?”
“I suppose in a way, but if this works, it could leave a few open doors for Eikon to finally have a clear upper hand. We could finally unite Leyumin into one empire again. It would take many years, of course, but the long-term potential to disable Adikea from continuing their aggressive behavior is worth the risk,” Prestis said.
“I understand your goals. I don’t understand how you could possibly plan to carry them out.” Imrah paused for a moment.
Nasheer stretched and yawned. His dark brown eyes peeked out from under his eyelids, and he sat up, looking around at the strange surroundings.
“It’s all right.” Imrah gently guided Nasheer’s head to her shoulder. He smacked his lips in a near-toothless smile, nuzzled his face into Imrah’s neck, and fell back asleep.
“A sweet child.” Prestis didn’t look at her when he said it.
“Yes, he is.” Imrah caressed her son’s cheek with her finger. She looked up at the ambassador. “I will do anything to save my son from this wretched place. I can’t send him off to the Canyons to die or become one of them.” Her lips formed a tight line and her eyes stung from her efforts to keep sudden tears at bay.
Prestis reached across the table and took Imrah’s hand in his own. “I can’t imagine having to face this choice, Imrah.”
His gentle touch was a strange feeling, warm and comforting. She pulled her hand away. “Just tell me what I can do to save my son.”
Prestis sat up a little straighter. “A physician from the Medical Center in Okleria has agreed to help us.” Prestis’ sad smile faded, and he shifted nervously. He cleared his throat and continued with eyes downcast. “We believe the only way to save boys like your son is if Adikea counts them as dead.”
“What?!” Imrah clutched Nasheer closer and stood so quickly she nearly lost her balance. “Dead? Are you insane?”
“Calm down,” Prestis moved toward her, hands outstretched. “I said Adikea would count them as dead, not that they would be dead. Please, hear me out.”
Imrah hugged Nasheer closer. He had startled awake when she stood. Now he looked up at her curiously, tugging at the sling with his tiny hands. She nodded reluctantly at the Ambassador and tried to still her heart as he spoke.
“We have a substance called umro,” he said. “It’s made from a berry that grows in the north, in the Sahn Woodlands. When crushed and mixed with a certain type of moss, if ingested, it renders one lifeless for a little more than two days. Because Adikean tradition dictates that the dead be sent out to sea, as long as we are coordinated, we can have someone waiting to rescue them and bring them back to Eikon.”
“Lifeless for two days? Is it dangerous?” A million questions floated around in Imrah’s head, but these had to be answered before she would go any further.
Prestis was calm and gentle as he spoke, but there was a hesitancy in his voice. “Umro has been tested on the prisoners of Thanytos, but never on a child. There have been a few who suffered more serious side effects, but we are confident most of the children would be fine. After testing, our chemists believe they now have the safest dosage to weight ratio for the drug. There are many risks to every stage of this scenario, but it is our best option.”
“Who would be ferrying the death barges to your people?” Imrah asked. “The retired slave-son warriors who work them surely wouldn’t betray the nation they’ve spent a lifetime serving.”
“Actually, I have a contact now, an old warrior working the barges, who wishes to atone for his past,” Prestis said. “Not all of them are as hardened as they pretend to be.”
That didn’t sit well. “How can you trust him? He might be working with the Adikeans.”
Prestis took a deep breath. “He’s done things for me, Imrah. He’s worked with me for years, and our own spies here will continue to keep an eye on him. We have… certain measures in place if we think he might betray us.”
The hair on Imrah’s arms stood on end. Measures… is he willing to kill people for this? She searched Prestis’ eyes, looking for a sign of who he was, what he was capable of. Even if he could kill a man, isn’t that who I need? Someone willing to take risks and do whatever needs to be done? She let herself drink in Nasheer’s warmth, his smell, the way his chest rose and fell against hers as he breathed. The thought of letting him go to the canyons pressed her into asking more questions.
“You mentioned side effects. What kind? Would Nasheer be safe?” Imrah was growing more uncomfortable with each word the ambassador uttered. She imagined her baby boy, lifeless, floating on open waters in a death barge. The thought was not comforting.
“A few of the prisoners never woke up.” He averted his eyes and winced as he said it.
Imrah stared at Prestis for a few moments in shock. How could he expect me to go along with this? What kind of woman does he think I am? The thought of Nasheer’s little body stiff with death made Imrah shake her head.
“No, I can’t. I’m done here. I can’t risk Nasheer’s life. I can’t be responsible for putting him in harm’s way.” She turned to leave, but Prestis took ahold of her arm, forcing her to stop and look at him.
“Harm’s way? Such as sending him off to the Kelda Canyons? Nasheer has a better chance of survival with this than he does with the training program of the Adikean Army. Half of the children that go into those canyons are eaten by therbaks or die from thirst or hunger or fall to their deaths while being forced to climb cliffs taller than any building in Sydor.”
Imrah couldn’t tell if he was passionate or desperate as he kept her from leaving. Her body started to shake. She pictured Anakai in each of those scenarios and imagined his terrifying death. She remembered what it felt like to let go of his hand for the last time. Those beautiful brown eyes, flecked with gold, passed before her mind’s eye.
But no, she shut her eyes tightly and shook her head, Anakai is lost to me. Nasheer. I must protect Nasheer.
“Let go of my arm!” She jerked away, angry Prestis had brought memories of Anakai, and she clung to Nasheer, who started to whimper. Will Nasheer die, too? She began to cry, the anger and sorrow and fear too much for her to bear.
Lapuro came into the room at the sound of Imrah’s shout. Prestis bowed his head in respect as she entered. Eikonians had a deep respect for the wisdom that comes with age, as her own people did.
“Ambassador,” the old woman said, her voice trembling and cracking, “Give this woman some room, a moment to think.” She laid a hand on Imrah’s shoulder and led her gently back to the fla
ttened stone seat. “Calm down, girl. Your son is here. He is safe. Loosen your grip on him, love. He’s frightened.”
Nasheer’s wide eyes brimmed with tears. His chin quivered. Imrah forced herself to calm down, to relax her grip. She began to sing softly into her son’s ear until he settled and his eyes began to droop.
“I’m sorry I upset you,” Prestis began, but Lapuro held up a hand and shook her head once. She settled onto one of the flat-topped rocks, her bones popping. A grimace spread on her face as she came to rest. She breathed in deeply and took Imrah’s free hand.
“Dear girl, I know you love your child. Think on this. There was a time, long ago, when I lived in the Middle Sector as a slave-wife. I had five children. Four boys. Not one of them survived the Kelda Canyons. Even if they had…” She looked down at the floor. “Even if they had, I’m not sure how much of who they were would have survived. You, my dear, have a unique opportunity among slave-wives. You have a choice. You might have the chance to save your boy, maybe the chance to save many boys. Take a day to consider what the Ambassador has suggested.”
Imrah was silent for a moment as she let the old woman’s words sink in. Finally, she met Lapuro’s eyes, nodded, and left without another word, only a hesitant glance toward the ambassador.
Before she arrived home, Imrah was nearly convinced. All she wanted was for Nasheer to live and be free of Adikea.
Four nights later, Imrah lay awake next to Nasheer.
“I love you.” She kissed her son’s forehead and examined him from head to toe, admiring his button nose and curly dark hair so much like Anakai’s. His steady breathing was a sweet sound in the otherwise quiet room. Imrah was still unsure about the small pouch the ambassador gave her that morning on the crowded Inner Road. The umro was a muddy substance, black, with an earthy odor. Nasheer had to ingest every bit of the stuff, about a small spoon’s worth. She dipped her forefinger into the pouch and looked down at Nasheer.
This could kill him. He could die before they get to his barge in the ocean. But if I don’t do this now, there’s a good chance he’ll die before he is fully grown, or he’ll become like his father, or worse…
Imrah slipped her finger into Nasheer’s mouth and he began to suckle, swallowing little bits of the umro until it was gone. With each finger-full, Imrah buried her head in the crook of her arm, unable to watch as her son unconsciously swallowed every last bit of the umro. When it was done, she burned the pouch, washed her hands and cleaned away any evidence from Nasheer’s chin and the inside of his mouth. He continued to sleep, but his breathing became shallower until Imrah couldn’t tell if he was breathing at all. Her whole body shook with the sobs of a childless mother, and her wailing soon attracted the attention of servants nearby.
An hour later, a physician pronounced Nasheer dead. Imrah’s master-husband was promptly notified that his slave-son had died in the night, and the next morning he came to see Imrah. She was sitting in a corner of her room, hugging her knees, staring at the bed she usually shared with her son. Her eyes burned and her throat ached. She was weak from the toll her grief had already taken on her body.
“Nasheer is dead,” Master Dakkan said, as if she didn’t already know. She looked up at him. Shaved head, sharp angled nose, square jawline, broad shouldered, and lean muscles — everything about him was matter-of-fact and no-nonsense. He hadn’t changed in the ten years she’d been his slave-wife. Always hard. Always harsh.
He held his whip in one hand, the one the stable hand used when driving pikkans at the front of the carriage. He let the black cord unravel. It had been a while since Imrah had experienced its stinging bite against her skin. She stared at it, numb to any fear it may have brought her before. She looked at her master, a man who called himself her husband after the tradition of his people.
“In Ergon, a husband would comfort the mother of his dead child. But we’re not in Ergon. And you’re not a husband to me, not as my people understand the word. No. You’re a cruel man, and I hate you.” Imrah spoke her thoughts for once instead of keeping them carefully locked away inside.
“You were charged with my slave-son’s keeping, and you failed me and my household, Imrah,” he said, ignoring her, which, she thought bitterly, was a kind of grace for him. He sighed. “I know you are grieving your mistake, but I must give you at least five lashes. Next time, perhaps you will be more careful with any other slave-sons you might bear for me.” He looked down at her and spoke as if he were explaining to a child why his hand must be slapped for some kind of misconduct.
I hate you, and I hate this place, Imrah thought. She had felt fear since her abduction, and anger as well. But now Adikea had taught her how to hate. If all of this works, Adikea will bend a knee to Eikon, she thought, and it gave her comfort as she removed the sashes over her shoulders and unbound her breasts. Her bare back was exposed as she lay on the cold dirt floor of her room and said nothing as the whip came swinging down, cracking loudly as it made contact with her skin. She flinched each time, but didn’t protest, praying with each strike that Nasheer would live, and accepting each flesh-splitting crack as justice if he didn’t.
Her master finished the five lashes, the last one coming down a bit harder than the rest. He rolled up the whip as Imrah forced herself to sit up. When she came to rest with legs folded underneath her, he crouched down and lifted her chin so that their eyes met. His fingernails dug into her skin. She bit her tongue to keep from spitting in his face.
“We will send the boy off in two hours’ time. A barge is being prepared as we speak. I have an important dinner to attend, so we must make the ceremony quick. I can’t leave General Achar waiting.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue.
Just an inconvenience, a disappointment at the most, Imrah realized. He jerked her head to the side as he let go of her chin.
When he left, Imrah returned to her corner. Though she thought she had no more tears, she wept and wondered if she would ever feel anything but sorrow.
Chapter Eighteen
Moloch
The City of Patriphos, Eikon
2nd Cycle of Chenack
987 Post Schism
After talking to Lord Nondrum, Moloch hadn’t been able to go home. Instead, he and Bram had traveled north to Patriphos. As always, he was well received by Prince Zuria, but Moloch spent more than a span locked away in the Red Rooms. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Junia, though she sent for him several times. He could only write to her, hoping she’d understand. Every morning, he woke with a sick feeling in his stomach.
What if I am like my father? What if I hurt Junia?
And then his thoughts would swing to his inheritance, the thing he’d been chasing since he was twelve years old.
Who will I be if I have no title? If Waen’s marriage and whatever else he’s scheming win my father’s approval? If I’ve wasted my time pursuing something that will never be mine?
Bram was the only one he allowed in to see him, and the man was obviously concerned. “You need to go outside, Moloch,” he said. “You look terrible. I mean, not just a little sick. More like death warmed over.”
“Leave me be, Bram. I just… I need to think.”
And he did. Moloch spent every waking hour thinking about how to prove to Lord Nondrum he was a good match for Junia. But every idea seemed so feeble.
My father practically killed his sister. At least, that’s how he sees it. How am I to prove anything to him?
And then, one day, Junia came in person instead of sending a servant to check on him or request his presence.
“Let me in,” she said outside the door to his bedchamber.
“Unchaperoned? I think not, my lady,” Rendre said.
“I quite agree,” said another voice, female, probably Junia’s lady-in-waiting.
“He’s ill,” she said. “Leave the door open if you want. Or let Anette come in with me.”
“If there’s a chaperone…”
“Good. Open the door.” Wh
en Rendre opened the door, Moloch bolted upright. He didn’t want anyone to see him like he was — unbathed, undressed, distraught — much less Junia.
“Anette.” Junia said the name sharply, and the lady-in-waiting hurried inside and into the corner. Rendre shut the door, and Junia turned to Anette. “Close your ears, Anette.”
The lady-in-waiting averted her eyes to stare at the floor. It was a command. Close your ears. Ambition was required to become a lady-in-waiting to a woman such as Junia. Nearly any woman would blur the lines of morality to keep such a position, and indeed, Anette had done so before. She had stood watch in the past while Junia and Moloch met in the darkness to satisfy certain longings. Anette had proven herself more than loyal.
“My love,” Junia said when she laid eyes on him. She’d taken to calling him my love six cycles ago, only when they were in private. It made Moloch’s hair stand on end, made his heart leap, and his body tremble. But today it made him shrink in shame.
“Junia, I… you shouldn’t be here.” Moloch pulled the blankets up around him as she sat on the edge of his bed.
She reached out to touch his face, concern etching her features. “Moloch, I didn’t know you were so ill.”
“Junia, please. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Tell me,” she pressed on, “what is it? Tell me what has upset you so. Has your father named your brother his successor?”
“No.” Moloch looked away. “I went to see your father.” He hadn’t meant to say it. He didn’t really want her to know.
Junia paled. “You what?”
“I went to see your father.” Moloch repeated himself.
“Why?” Junia stood. “Why would you do that without talking to me?”
Moloch rubbed the grime off his face with his hands. “I heard he was… not in favor of our relationship. I wanted to meet with him. To convince him to bless our betrothal.”