The Darkest Bloom (Shadowscent)

by Freestone, P. M.

  “Stars above. What a sight.” Esarik winces as he shifts in the saddle. Days on camelback have disagreed with him more than he’s let on. “Isn’t it stunning?”

  Nisai draws the curtains of the litter. “It does have a certain raw beauty – holding back the sands, resisting century upon century of the earth’s attempts to bring it to the ground.”

  “Technically most of it has been rebuilt for century upon century,” Esarik points out.

  “Still”, Nisai says, his eyes taking on a thoughtful cast. “There’s dignity in such resilience.”

  An aurochs-headed stubbornness, more like it. And behind those walls? Just a baser, rougher-hewn version of every other city. The only reason this place is still relevant to the Empire is as a producer of Aramtesh’s most valued goods – oils, spices and at the pinnacle of them all, the dahkai flower.

  I hold my tongue. Nisai seems truly enchanted. Who am I to take that away from him?

  As we near, Esarik stiffens in his saddle. “Cinder and sulphur,” he mutters.

  I follow his gaze to the base of the walls. I’d heard talk among Iddo’s men, but I’ve not seen so many Afflicted since I left the slums of my childhood. Dozens huddle in the shade. Each bears a bandage on arm or leg or what’s left of both. We pass them at a distance, but they’re malodorous enough to be smelled from the heavens.

  May Azered guide their souls.

  We enter the city through its main eastern gate. Our camels kick up dust on the unpaved roads and I cough. Warmth trickles beneath my bandages, a stinging trail of blood and sweat down my side. Nisai looks at me askance. I straighten in the saddle, forcing my features to relax.

  The inner arches of Aphorai’s fortifications have been lime-washed bright white, then garishly decorated in painted murals. The artist had some skill to transform these surfaces, but the result is crude compared with the faience mosaics that bejewel Ekasya’s monuments.

  As we pass beneath, I catch the scent of fresh paint. The show is for us.

  Then I smell something else. A haze of crimson incense billows through the streets – only Riker-knows-why the Aphorains insist on calling it Dragon’s Blood. What do reptiles smell of other than the last thing they’ve slithered through? Or, if you’re Kip, who relished snaring and grilling snakes over a campfire on the journey here – lunch?

  But it’s not that. Riding off to the side, Esarik and Nisai catch it too, judging by the way their noses wrinkle.

  Up ahead, on a paved island in the centre of the dusty road, is a larger-than-life bronze statue. There’s one in every provincial capital across Aramtesh, replaced each generation to capture the current Emperor’s likeness. Flies gather in a black swarm around this version. Emperor Kaddash is barely recognizable – the sculpture has been smeared from crown to foot in excrement. The whole thing reeks to the sky.

  Today, Aphorai’s officials may have arranged for the city to appear its best. But someone has made it clear they have opinions of their own: the ruler of Aramtesh stinks. Whether it’s commentary on heavier-by-the-turn taxation, the growing dissent among the outer provinces Iddo reported, or Kaddash’s Affliction, I couldn’t surmise.

  Perhaps it’s all three.

  Iddo draws his camel next to Kip’s. The younger Ranger stares tight-lipped at the putrid statue, a patrol of Aphorain city guards now desperately trying to swab it clean.

  “Find out who is responsible,” the Commander says from between clenched teeth.

  “No,” Nisai says.

  “Little brother, such a direct insult—”

  “Please, let’s move on.”

  After that, nobody says a word until we reach the five terraces of dull sandstone leading upwards to the Eraz’s manse. We dismount and lead our camels up the steps of the first terrace, where stewards take our mounts. I pause, gazing out over the thatched rooftops, listening to the distant sounds of the markets, the bleating of goats in the stockyards.

  “There’s no shame in feeling a stranger,” Iddo murmurs beside me.

  I regard him quizzically. His dark eyes are serious, without any trace of his usual mocking. There’s an opening here, if I choose to take it. “I guess you’re used to being this far from Ekasya.”

  “When you spend as much time on the road as I do, it’s hard to know where home is.” He clicks his tongue and leads his camel forward, handing the reins to a steward.

  I’d not thought of it like that before, always envious of Iddo’s freedom, his ability to roam unfettered. I shake my head. Ekasya will always be there for him.

  Dusting off his hands, Iddo eyes Nisai. “Are you sure this is the entrance you want to make? There’s a well-appointed establishment not far from here, we could clean up, change into state attire.”

  He’s got a point. We’re all travel-stained. And what I wouldn’t give for some rest in a quiet moment of prayer.

  Nisai straightens his simple robe. “This isn’t about grandeur. I come here humbly. A nephew visiting his uncle.”

  I wonder if he would have taken the same approach before we came across the statue.

  The gates swing wide and we’re greeted by a page. A single page. Insult? Or ineptitude? Inside the eastern wing, we follow the boy down near-empty halls. Iddo and the Rangers form up around us. Esarik dawdles at the rear.

  The page trots up a staircase to a pair of huge wooden doors.

  Nisai runs his hand over the tiny six-petal flowers carved into the cedar. “This pattern… These doors must be older than the Empire itself. Imagine what they’ve heard, what they’ve seen.”

  “They’re doors.” I glance behind us. If they’re locked, we may as well be at the end of a blind alley.

  “My Prince?” the page asks, uncertain.

  Nisai gives him a smile. “Lead on.”

  We emerge into an inner courtyard, partially roofed by eaves of woven reeds. Pools line the perimeter, the water pale against age-worn white marble, myriad cracks repaired with veins of bronze – seems the Aphorains don’t care to conceal the number of times the earth beneath them has revolted.

  If only shade and fountains were enough to combat the heat that prickles my skin, the desert air amplifying the fiery wound in my side.

  We’ve been preceded by a gaggle of Aphorain courtiers. When Esarik catches up to us, several of the ladies follow his every move like cats sizing up prey, batting dark eyes at his green ones. With nervous hands he smooths his robe, the embroidered Trelian aurochs always somewhat incongruous on his slender frame.

  I glance sidelong through the smoke. “Just tell them you’re betrothed.”

  He looks wistful. “If only I could.” Then he gathers himself and turns to Nisai. “Did you take a moment to examine the—?”

  “Did I ever!” Nisai replies, eyes wide. “First century Pre-Accord?”

  “Stars, no! Earlier. Much earlier. Third, I’d say.”

  “Amazing preservation.”

  “Truly.”

  I shake my head. “What are you two even talking about?”

  As one, Nisai and Esarik point back the way we came.

  Oh. Right. Doors.

  Esarik tilts his head towards the courtiers. “Meaning no disrespect, but, you don’t think I could—”

  “—take your leave?” Nisai finishes. “I’m sure there is much you could learn for our benefit.”

  Esarik dips a grateful bow and retreats.

  We cross the courtyard, Nisai smiling and nodding politely when greeted. Officially, it’s all respectful hospitality. But someone here may share the same opinions as Aphorai’s imperial statue decorator. My senses are on high alert.

  We’re ushered into the main hall. It couldn’t be much bigger than the Emperor’s personal reception chamber in Ekasya. Once the members of the Aphorain court move in to line the walls, a quick scan suggests they number no more than two score, yet the room feels crowded. Stifling.

  A bald woman almost Iddo’s height stands at the back of the room, clad in a skirt of iridescent black li
on feathers. Her eyes – in their entirety – are darker still. Shivers run through me despite the heat.

  Received by the Aphorain Scent Keeper.

  Nisai’s uncle nowhere in sight.

  What message are these provincials trying to send?

  Above us, wooden lattices screen off the upper galleries. The hairs lift from the back of my neck as silhouettes shift in the shadows behind. Servants awed by the spectacle? Or something more sinister?

  Slighted. Surrounded. Surveilled.

  Part of me wants to draw my swords then and there. But if half a life at court has taught me anything?

  This isn’t the kind of danger a blade can defeat.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rakel

  Crimson smoke has been rising across the Eraz’s estate since dawn. The incense tints the air as if we’re caught in one long sunset. Or a pool of blood-stained water.

  But crocuses wait for no man, even a prince. With Sephine’s rooms cleaned and the dishes scrubbed from her nightly experiments, I head out into the red haze.

  The path leads past the Eraz’s main hall and up towards the garden terraces in a mirror of the external ramp on the temple’s stepped pyramid – a reminder of the connection between rulers and gods. The plants held by the raised stonework beds increase in value until the top, where Aphorai’s centuries-old dahkai plantation grows.

  Up ahead, servants cluster around the entrance to the hall’s antechamber, jostling for the chance to see the first imperial delegation in Aphorai since the early turns of Emperor Kaddash’s reign. Back then, Father had been away on campaign, so I’d journeyed into the city with Barden’s family to watch the arrivals in all their purple livery parade through the streets.

  Speak of the stench and it appears.

  I knew I’d run into Barden eventually. The Eraz’s estate is big, but it’s not infinite. So when he breaks away from his post, I’m relieved that I have a genuine excuse not to stop.

  “Rakel,” he calls.

  I quicken my stride, pretending not to have heard. The last few days have shaken me to the core; I’m not ready to deal with this part of it yet.

  “Rakel, wait! I need to talk to you!”

  He needs to talk to me? The poor kitten, is he feeling oh-so-bad about ratting out his closest friend?

  I keep walking, retrieving a vial of cedar oil from my satchel. The breeze is in my favour, but the last thing I want is to catch the merest whiff of Barden. I’m not sure I’d be able to keep my composure in the wake of such a familiar scent. One that used to be so comforting.

  Barden jogs closer and I take a deep breath over the vial. It helps me distance myself from my rage, my hurt, from the fact that I don’t know if I can ever again trust my only friend.

  “Rakel! Just give me a moment. Please.” He reaches for the sleeve of my robe, but I’ve already anticipated the move and swerve clear.

  “Can’t stop for chat.”

  “At least let me give you some news from home. How your father fares?”

  I shake my head. Using Father as an opening? I didn’t think he could go any lower, but there it is.

  “I know where Lil is stabled. Want me to—”

  How dare he.

  “No time,” I snap. “I’m on direct orders from the Scent Keeper. Good friend of yours, eh?”

  “I know you’re angry. But you were being so secretive.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did she get to you?”

  “Does it matter?” he asks, voice strained.

  I glare at him.

  “Fine. I was worried what you’d got yourself into. I sensed something was off that night. I followed you, saw you go into that place. When you didn’t come out, I went in to find you. You’d vanished. I couldn’t report it to the garrison sergeant – I didn’t know what you were involved in – for all I knew they’d arrest you. I figured your mother had been Sephine’s… I didn’t know who else to go to. But then you turned up at the end of my shift, acting like nothing had happened. And you can’t argue that things didn’t turn out just fine. I mean, did you ever think we’d both end up here, working on the Eraz’s own estate?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shuffles his feet in that all-too-familiar gesture of discomfort. “She said not to.”

  “You should have told me.” My voice is flat, dead of all emotion.

  I avoid his eyes and keep walking, keep breathing the cedar oil, keep thinking of places far from here.

  There’s part of me that still longs to throw my arms around Barden, bury my face in his chest, tell him every word of what Sephine said of Father, my mother, my life…

  A much bigger part never wants to see him again. The sooner, the better. That part decides on a detour, escaping into the cluster of servants, weaving between them and up the stairs to the viewing gallery without so much as a backwards glance.

  Inside, the only source of light is what filters through the carved wooden screens concealing us common onlookers from the nobles in the hall below. Incense perfumes the air with the dark caramel sweetness of opoponax. Interesting choice. Respectful, but not fawning.

  It’s eerily quiet for a crowded space. I push my way forward, ignoring the grumbles from the other servants.

  The imperials are already here, led by the tallest person in the hall. Must be the Prince’s brother – love or hate the Rangers, the infamous Commander cuts an imposing figure. The next figure looks more like what I’ve heard of the Prince. Average height, medium build, warm brown skin made all the more striking by his imperial purple robes. He’s younger than I expected, not more than a turn or two older than me.

  At the other end of the room, my two favourite people stand on the dais.

  Sephine, naturally.

  And Zakkurus, the snake.

  The Scent Keeper lights two silver braziers beside the Eraz’s throne. I press my face to the holes in the screen and give an experimental sniff.

  My heart forgets to beat.

  There wasn’t supposed to be hardly any of it left. But there it is. Unmistakable.

  I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. Trust Sephine to have sat on a personal supply for longer than I’ve been alive. And trust the welcome mat for a Prince to be worth more to her than ten turns of my life.

  Dahkai.

  Once the scent has permeated the hall, the Eraz blusters in, hair and beard beaded and gleaming with oil. I’ve only ever seen him from afar but even a beggar in the street knows he styles his image as one of the rulers of old: strong and fair unless you invoke his rage, the human embodiment of the Aphorain sigil. I’ve seen enough lions in my time – they approach our village when the dry season stretches too long. The Eraz’s huge belly detracts from the likeness, but hulking shoulders and a straight back tell of the warrior before the fat.

  He settles on to his throne as a girl – my age and clad in barely there silks – takes up position at his shoulder. Lady Sireth.

  The steward clears his throat. “The Eraz of Aphorai, Malmud of line Baidok, welcomes his Imperial Highness, Prince Nisai, Named Heir to the Empire of Aramtesh, caretaker of the Seson Territories and the Palm Isles…”

  The courtiers directly below me begin to whisper to each other.

  “Think he’s attempting to set a new style?”

  “What if he simply can’t grow one?”

  “Can’t grow a beard? Can’t kill a lion? Can’t rule an Empire.”

  Finally, thankfully, the steward runs out of titles and breath.

  The prince kneels before the throne, wearing a slightly lopsided smile that’s at once sweet and sharp. “Will you receive me, esteemed Eraz?”

  A grin dawns on the Eraz’s face. “Rise, nephew. You are welcome.”

  He stands and pulls the First Prince into a crushing embrace.

  “We’ve come for the Flower Moon, Uncle. I hope it’s not an imposition.”

  “Bah! Boy, the firebirds have been burning
the purple stuff for weeks. Shame on us if it’s an imposition by now. Though we’d prepared for a full delegation. Your party is quite …” He surveys the Rangers, the Commander himself, finally letting his gaze rest on the figure trailing the Prince, a guard in black sleeveless silks trimmed in imperial purple. “… small. These are troubled times in the borderlands.”

  At that, the guard steps closer. The Eraz may still think himself a lion, but the figure behind the First Prince moves like one – all muscle and sinew and predatory grace. Square jaw as unusually clean-shaven as the imperial brothers. Angled, high cheekbones. Prominent, straight nose.

  Black ink trails down the tawny skin of his arms, bare except for a prayer band of braided leather – each strand scented for a different god. So he’s a believer.

  I shift, finding a better angle through the holes in the screen so I can piece together the tattoo design – from the lines of the fangs etched into his shaved scalp, to the stylized claws on the back of his hands.

  I bite my lip. The Kaidon sons might be a source of gossip, but the tattooed warrior and his ilk are the stuff of campfire tales. I never thought I’d see one. But there he stands, flesh and blood and an implacable scowl. A life-sworn imperial bodyguard. A Shield.

  As if he senses my presence, the Shield’s eyes search the upper gallery. His gaze seems calm enough, but sweat beads the tattoos of his shaved scalp. I’d think him just a soft Capital type struggling in the Aphorain heat if it weren’t for the slight tremor in his hands.

  Fever.

  The Commander steps forward and salutes the Eraz. “I would have expected more of your own guard, Malmud. It must be a particularly nervous time for the steward of the most precious commodity in the Empire.”

  Nisai taps his nose. “Ah, but until the Flower Moon, there’s no need. Dahkai provides very little of value beyond its bloom. The leaves are unremarkable, the sap a severe skin irritant. Even if anyone wished to steal a specimen, it would die on transplanting – it hasn’t been successfully cultivated anywhere else since the Shadow Wars.”