“I’ve become used to it, yes.”
“But your Glaeban slaves do not deal so intimately with their masters as ours, do they?”
Arkady shook her head. “Not at all. And they’re usually Crasii, rather than human, which makes their attention seem much less personal. We are much more…reserved. In private, at least, although in public we’re quite wanton and liberal by Torlenian standards.”
Chintara smiled. “There was a time we were just as wanton and liberal.”
“What happened to change things?”
“A Tide Lord became jealous that another immortal was lusting after his lover.”
Arkady sat up a little straighter, fascinated to hear Chintara admit such a thing. “Then it is a religious custom, wearing the shroud?”
“To be a religious custom, belief in the Tide Lords would have to be our religion,” Chintara pointed out.
“But you believe in them.”
“I believe the sun will come up tomorrow, too, but that doesn’t mean I worship it, or that it’s my religion.”
“But you have monasteries and temples devoted to studying the Tide—”
“We have people who choose a life of seclusion to contemplate the various ways in which the Tide affects us. Others study the teachings of the Lord of Reckoning, who has left us with much to contemplate. That doesn’t make it a religion, Arkady.”
“So the Way of the Tide is a way of life, not a creed?” Arkady asked.
Chintara smiled. “Tides, but you’re a pleasant change from the usual ambassadorial trophy wife I have to tolerate, Arkady. Shall we spend the afternoon discussing more of the differences between our religions, or the lack of them? You, who claim your women are better off than ours, but who flinches when a stranger touches her body?”
Arkady was quite sure there was nothing down that road she wanted to discuss with the Imperator’s Consort. “I think, my lady, it’s not a matter of where one is touched, but by whom.”
Chintara seemed amused by her reply. “A fair comment, albeit an evasive one.”
“I’m curious as to why you refer to Torlenian customs and the Way of the Tide as your own,” she asked, hoping to move the topic away from herself and the reasons for her own particular inhibitions. “Torlenia is clearly not the country of your birth. Have you embraced their way of life so completely because of your husband, or because it appeals to you personally?”
“You see, that’s why I like you, Arkady,” Chintara announced, slipping a light silken robe over her statuesque body and then shaking her magnificent hair free from the knot that had been holding it clear of the oil. “Nobody else in Torlenia would dare ask me a question like that. Come to think of it, few of them would have the wit to think of it in the first place. Why don’t you stop sitting there clutching that wretched sheet like your virginity’s at stake and put a robe on? We’ll have some lunch.”
A little embarrassed at how transparent her inhibitions were to this perceptive woman, Arkady hopped off the bench and slipped on the silken bathrobe left for her by the slaves, tying it closed with relief. Chintara watched her dressing, a wry smile on her face.
“You can’t help it, can you?”
“Can’t help what, my lady?”
“Acting as if you have something no other woman has ever seen. Do you not bathe communally in Glaeba?”
“Tides no!” Arkady exclaimed. “At least not in any decent establishment.”
“It’s all the fault of the weather,” Chintara concluded, as Arkady fell into step beside her. The women padded barefoot across the tiled floor of the anteroom to the main chamber where the slaves had already laid out lunch. “Once you start having to cover your body to stop yourself from freezing to death, you’re doomed.”
“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning, my lady.”
Chintara shrugged, as if the answer was self-evident, and indicated that Arkady should take a seat. “After a while, people forget why they’re dressed from head to toe in furs. The clothes take on other purposes. They become less and less about protection from the elements and more about assuming false identities, boasting of rank, displaying wealth…or any number of other human foibles. Once you conceal it, flesh becomes a currency, Arkady, remember that. We should make everyone on Amyrantha move to the equatorial zones where clothing is an adornment, rather than a crutch.”
“Even if such a thing were possible, my lady,” Arkady said, taking a seat opposite the consort on the couches facing the low table where lunch awaited them, “your argument is flawed. Despite the temperature, your women cover their bodies from head to toe here in Torlenia, with a shroud that is mandated by law.”
“In public, yes,” the consort conceded, helping herself to a platter which she began to pile with sliced fruit. “But we don’t have the same constraints in the privacy of our own homes. And if you think about it, the shroud serves the same purpose as being naked.”
Arkady shook her head. There was a piece of logic begging an explanation if ever she’d heard one. “I would have said the two were diametrically opposed.”
“They equalise us, Arkady,” Chintara replied. “Under the shroud, all women are beautiful; all women carry the promise of something exquisite. Stripped of clothing, in the eyes of men, we are the same, too, believe it or not. It is not our appearance that attracts men. If men only cared about physical perfection, the handful of perfect women in this world would have all the men chasing them and the rest of womankind would be ignored.”
Arkady smiled. “According to my father, that’s the main function of alcohol. Everyone is beautiful through the bottom of a glass, he used to say.”
Chintara laughed. “Perhaps he has a point, but I fear you’re missing mine. It is the promise of the pleasure we offer them, that makes a man foolish over the butcher’s fat daughter as easily as someone as lovely as you. The lure of immortality is more than most men can resist.”
“Immortality?”
Chintara nodded, apparently seeing nothing peculiar in the reference. “Since the Immortal Prince extinguished the Eternal Flame, Arkady, the only hope for any man on this world to achieve immortality is to do it the old-fashioned way—through his descendants.”
“You know the story of how the Immortal Prince extinguished the Eternal Flame?” Arkady asked, fascinated to realise here was an opportunity to hear the legend from someone who believed in the Tide Lords as real beings, rather than mythical figures on a painted set of Tarot cards.
And to hear something other than Cayal’s version of events.
“Of course. I’m surprised you know anything of it, though. I thought you Glaebans considered anything to do with the Tide Lords to be superstitious nonsense.”
“I have a…friend,” she replied. “She is something of an expert on the Tarot. She used to tell fortunes at our dinner parties.”
“And what did your friend tell you about the destruction of the Eternal Flame?”
“That Cayal…the Immortal Prince…was so angered by the death of his daughter, he emptied the Great Inland Sea of Torlenia, making it rain down on Glaeba in an effort to douse the Eternal Flame, creating the Great Lakes in the process.”
“Ah yes,” Chintara agreed, picking through the fruit bowl until she found a small bunch of grapes she considered pleasing. “The Tears of the Immortal Prince. I’ve heard that version.”
“Is there another?”
“Several.”
“I’ve not heard of them.”
“That’s hardly surprising, given you’re a Glaeban sceptic.”
“Will you tell me about them?”
Chintara studied Arkady for a moment, her expression intrigued. “I’m surprised you want to know.”
“I’m a historian, my lady. I collect legends the way others collect shells or porcelain figurines.”
That answer seemed to satisfy the consort. She leaned forward and picked up her glass. “Well, everyone agrees the Immortal Prince was driven by rage when he destroyed the Flame
,” she said, taking a sip of chilled wine. “But not all of us share the Tarot’s romantic notion of his motives. In fact, there are many who believe it was his anger at Diala and Arryl for thwarting his plans, not his grief over a child—who may or may not have been his—that drove Cayal to destroy Amyrantha’s climate so comprehensively it took the world the better part of a millennium to recover from it.”
“Plans for what?”
The consort shrugged, her attention once more fixed on the buffet. “That we’ll never know, I suppose. Some think he was planning to challenge Syrolee and Engarhod. Others thought he was still looking for a way to get even with Tryan for destroying his homeland and planned to use Fliss to do it. Then there’s the chance Lukys had something to do with it. He always seems to be lurking in the background whenever something catastrophic happens.”
As she listened to Chintara, Arkady was struck by an odd feeling that she’d heard all this before. It wasn’t so much what Chintara was telling her, but the way in which she told it. The familiarity, the assurance with which she spoke, was hauntingly reminiscent of the way Cayal spoke when he was telling his story…
In fact, not since the Immortal Prince had Arkady met anyone who spoke with such confidence about the Tide Lords and their motives.
And then something else occurred to her that left Arkady breathless. “My lady, you talk of Cayal flooding Glaeba’s Great Rift Valley over the death of a child named Fliss.”
The consort leaned back against her couch, tucking her legs underneath her. “So?”
“The Tarot mentions nothing about a child. According to the Tarot, the Immortal Prince flooded Glaeba with his tears over the death of his one true love, Amaleta.”
The Imperator’s Consort barely even hesitated before offering an explanation. “We are much better educated, here in Torlenia, than those in other countries who rely on a charlatan’s tool for their information, Arkady. As a historian, surely you understand that.”
“Yes, my lady, of course I do. It’s just you seem so…” Arkady hesitated, searching for the right words. “So…well informed…”
Chintara smiled. “Do you think Glaeba is the only place where a woman might gain an education?”
“Of course not.”
“Then don’t look so surprised, Arkady. Some of us know the history of the Tide Lords quite intimately.”
“You must have studied them extensively, my lady,” she said, wondering if this woman could be recruited to Declan’s Cabal. Someone with such in-depth knowledge would be a great asset to those looking to find a way to protect Amyrantha from the Tide Lords’ return.
“You have no idea,” the consort agreed with a smile. “More wine?”
“Thank you,” Arkady replied, wishing she was brave enough to pursue the matter further. But Stellan’s position in Ramahn was still too tenuous and for all her outward appearance of friendliness, Arkady didn’t know Chintara well enough to know if she could risk mentioning the Cabal of the Tarot.
One thing was certain, though, she decided as Chintara rang the bell for a slave. As soon as she returned to the embassy, Arkady was going to send a message to Declan Hawkes in Glaeba.
Perhaps the King’s Spymaster knew whether or not the Torlenian Imperator’s Consort could be trusted.
Chapter 10
Hidden Valley proved to be everything Warlock had hoped for, while being nothing like he expected. Nestled in a small valley some eight miles from the main manor house of the Summerton estate, it was a place of fertile soil, abundant game and several hundred Crasii of every species Warlock had ever heard of.
Aleki Ponting had delivered Warlock and Boots into the care of a large canine named William Phydeau. He ran the camp and was responsible for training the Scards who’d found a home there, not as fighters, as Warlock had assumed, but as spies. The Cabal of the Tarot needed Crasii who could slip in and out of the halls of power for one very simple reason—if you were looking for a Tide Lord, once the Tide was on the turn, the halls of power were the best places to look for them.
Warlock had few complaints about the camp. He and Boots were allocated a bunk in a small hut on the canine side of the valley and welcomed with surprisingly little fuss by the other occupants. The food was plain but plentiful and there was always something new to learn, either about the Tide Lords or ways to deal with them. They were instructed on the secrets to appearing servile when you were anything but, how to get messages out secretly, how to write and read simple codes and phrases that would identify other Scards, trained by and working for the Cabal.
The weather was warm, the other Crasii didn’t care that he was an ex-convict and Boots treated him like a friend, which—given their previous intimacy—was more than he expected. Female canines were notorious for their fickle natures, and he wasn’t sure what had brought about this change in her until she’d informed him, quite matter-of-factly over dinner one evening, that she was pregnant.
Since then, despite the fact she acted more as if she was resigned to the idea of impending motherhood, rather than excited by it, she had been not just friendly, but almost affectionate. Like it or not, she was his mate now. Warlock was still adjusting to the notion that he had one, let alone the news that in a few months’ time, he was going to be a father.
Warlock had only one complaint, really. On his arrival in Hidden Valley, Phydeau announced that he would have to change his name.
“I am Warlock,” he’d announced. “Out of Bella, by Segura. I have no need of another name.”
“Your name brands you as less than human,” Phydeau had said. He was a large, shaggy canine with a dark-brown pelt covered in nicks and scars indicating he’d not found Hidden Valley without a fight. He’d been a tracker once—according to the other Scards in their hut—who’d murdered his master when ordered to tear apart another Crasii who’d displeased the man by letting their quarry get away from them on a weekend hunt. Whether he was a true Scard—one who could defy an immortal—was unknown. Like many of the creatures here in Hidden Valley, their rebellious natures had brought them to the Cabal’s attention, but until they’d confronted and defied an immortal, as both Warlock and Boots had done, nobody was really sure who were the true Scards and who were the hopefuls. It was a sobering thought, and made their predicament all the more dangerous. The Cabal was building up a secret army of Scards with no guarantee they wouldn’t change sides and betray them all, the first time an immortal commanded them to do so.
“But I’m not human,” Warlock replied. “I am Crasii.”
“And an animal, according to the vast majority of humans,” Phydeau reminded him.
“My master always treated me with respect.”
“Respect? Tides, lad! Why do you think they name us like household pets? Out of consideration for our feelings?”
“I never really gave the issue any thought.”
“Well, you should,” Phydeau suggested. “Have you ever heard a human announce their pedigree the way you so proudly announce yours?”
“Warlock is who I am,” he maintained stubbornly. “I cannot change that. Nor do I wish to change it.”
Phydeau shook his head. “You are no longer called Warlock. Warlock is a name one gives a pet dog. You are Cecil Segura. Cecil will be your first name, and Segura, because that’s your father’s name. From now on, that’s how you’ll be called.”
“I wish to be called Warlock.”
The old Crasii had smiled, clapping Warlock on the shoulder. “It’s a good name, Cecil. You’ll get used to it.”
“I am Warlock,” he insisted.
“Your mate didn’t have a problem with her new name.”
For a moment, he didn’t understand who Phydeau was referring to, the idea of having a mate was still so new to him. When he did, Warlock was shocked. “You gave Boots another name, too?”
The camp commander nodded. “From now on, she will be known as Tabitha Belle.”
Warlock had frowned, trying to imagine calling Boots by anythi
ng but her given name, but he couldn’t do it. Boots was tough and cheeky and resilient. The dam of his cubs wasn’t a Tabitha Belle.
“She didn’t object?”
Phydeau shook his large, shaggy head. “Why would she object, Cecil? She was named after a type of human footwear. What dignity is there in that?”
What dignity indeed, Warlock thought, as he helped carry water back to their hut on the slope, overlooking the thatched common-house where the Scards gathered for meetings and any business that involved all of them. It was cleaning day in Hidden Valley. William Phydeau ran a tight camp and every Crasii in it was expected to pull their weight and help maintain the camp in good order.
Dignity, be damned. There wasn’t a lot of dignity in being named Cecil that Warlock could see.
“Hey! Farm Dog! Wait up!”
Warlock stopped and turned to find Boots hurrying up the path behind him, rather disturbed to realise that he actually preferred “Farm Dog” to “Cecil.” She had shed her linen shift now she was living among her own kind with no humans to please or offend. Her pelt was brushed to a shine, her bushy tail pert and enticing. She looked fabulous, Warlock thought, eyeing her swelling belly. It was almost three months since their mating and there was no longer any chance of hiding her pregnancy. Now he’d gotten used to the idea, Warlock was secretly bursting with delight that he was to become a father, although Boots seemed a little more pragmatic about impending motherhood.
“Hello, Boots.”
“My name is Tabitha,” she reminded him, falling into step beside him. Then she grinned and nudged him with her elbow. “Cecil.”
Warlock was not amused. “I am Warlock.”
“You’re an obstinate fool,” she corrected as they resumed walking up the steep path to the hut. “Why don’t you just give in and accept it? Everyone else here has a proper name.”
“Giving us human names doesn’t make us human. We are Crasii.”
“Actually, we’re Scards,” she pointed out. “Even the Crasii don’t accept us.”
“Then I am a Scard and proud of it. I don’t need a different name to remind me of the fact.”
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