Protector of the Flame

by Isis Rushdan

  “I’ll work,” Cyrus said, “but you have others better suited for menial labor. I’ll discuss this with Neith.”

  “She anticipated as much and awaits you in the kitchen.” Without further discussion, Soren left them.

  “Is Neith difficult?”

  Serenity pulled him under the water, lathered a sponge with soap that smelled of honey and began washing his body. “She’s a dictator who rules with an iron fist.”

  That would be a yes. He’d never been subjected to a lowly task in his entire life and it wouldn’t start here. He had no desire to offend his hostess, not only the oldest of their kind, but one who had reunited him with his mate.

  Indebted or not, he’d be treated with the deference his position and bloodline deserved.

  On the way to the first floor, Cyrus tossed his arm around Serenity’s shoulder, relishing the feel of her tucked close where she belonged.

  “The kitchen is through there.” She pointed to double doors at the far side of the room.

  Without a glance toward the kitchen, he proceeded to the breakfast buffet. Inquisitive gazes swung in their direction. Jaw tight, he took a tray and handed her one. The set-up was something better left in cafeterias, certainly beneath the Great Library, which had been shrouded in mystery and myth all these years.

  They sat at an empty table, his back to a wall, where he could eye the doors to the kitchen.

  “The boy, Adriel, mentioned you were having difficulty with your mother.” He bit into a speckled orange fruit. His mouth puckered at the bitter, tart taste, but he swallowed. He chugged the water in his cup to cleanse his palate.

  “Even though she saved me and brought me here,” she confided in a low voice, pushing the food around her plate with her spork, “she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. It’s the first time she’s seen you in twenty-five years. Maybe she needs time.” He stroked her warm cheek. “Did she tell you what happened to your father? Why she never came back?”

  She shook her head. Wisps of curly, damp hair brushed her face. “Adriel is a powerful healer. He restored my memories.” She looked at the gray glop on her plate. “My grandfather had my father killed in some sick game to manipulate my mother to serve the Paladins.” Pain welled in her eyes as she glanced at him. “I come from a twisted family full of psychopaths.”

  Bad blood. She already thought she came from a corrupted gene pool. Knowing the truth without reconciliation with her mother could push his mate further into that dark place where she saw herself as unworthy of love and incapable of motherhood. Wrapping his arm around her, he brought her close into his chest. Her sadness raked through their energy stream, but he sensed there was more she held back. He shouldn’t have raised such a delicate topic in a public setting.

  His trusted friend, Elianus, approached their table. The warrior with a shaved head, imposing stature and skin the color of raw sienna knelt. “Lady Serenity, Wife of Cyrus, I am Elianus, son of Evander. May the almighty Creator have you in his keeping.”

  “Please rise,” she said in a surprised voice.

  “Join us, Elianus,” Cyrus said.

  “I’ve already finished breakfast and must find Soren for my work detail, but I wanted to meet your kabashem.”

  Serenity extended her hand, but Elianus looked to Cyrus. He nodded in approval, then Elianus took her hand gently.

  “Cyrus has spoken of you with great affection,” she said brightly. “I hope we have a chance to know each other while we’re here.”

  Her energy stream bubbled and thrashed.

  “I trust we will.” Elianus shifted his gaze to Cyrus. “I have your belongings. Shall I deliver them to your room?”

  “There’s no hurry. Good luck with your work detail. It has to be better than the kitchen.”

  Elianus’s brow creased. “They plan to put you to work in the kitchen?” His friend’s repulsion of the idea rivaled his own.

  “We shall see,” Cyrus said, jaw tensing again.

  “May the almighty Creator hasten Abbadon’s efforts so you may be restored to your rightful status.”

  “Thank you, old friend.”

  Elianus wandered off, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

  Cyrus glared at the kitchen doors, scooping a helping of the gray glop into his mouth. How did they manage to create sludge that tasted of bile and why would they serve it? If all of the food was this disgusting, he understood why his mate barely ate.

  “What is this crap?”

  She laughed, caressing the back of his neck. “Yaki. High in protein and quite filling.”

  “Maybe I should be in the kitchen. They could use the help.”

  “What good would you be in the kitchen? You don’t know how to cook.”

  “True, but I know what tastes good. We won’t dine on such slop tonight.” He stood up and kissed her. “They’ll prepare us a proper dinner.”

  Cyrus marched past the double doors into the kitchen.

  As the doors swung shut, Neith pivoted to face him, breaking her conversation with a man dressed in light blue. “Cyrus.” She beckoned. “This is Lazarus. He’s in charge of the kitchen and your work detail for the week.”

  “I appreciate your hospitality, Neith, and have nothing but the utmost respect for your—”

  “The best way to show your gratitude is through compliance. The rank of Council or nobility holds no weight here. The only authority that counts is mine. You are talented beyond measure in many things, but I wish to see you grow in the areas you are lacking. Lazarus will give you instructions. I’m sure you will treat him and every other inhabitant of my island with due respect. Have a good day.”

  Before the word “but” could leave his lips, Neith had departed the kitchen, leaving him to a grinning Lazarus.

  On the walkway upstairs, the sound of the tide rushing into shore filled Serenity’s ears as the taste of saltwater tickled her tongue. In the library, Adriel sat in between two historians on the opposite end of the terminals from where they usually sat practically attached at the hip. After weeks of sitting together, sharing secrets, he had cast her aside.

  “Your art supplies are in my office,” Neith said.

  How long had the ancient beauty been standing there, watching her watch Adriel?

  “Will Cyrus—”

  “Your kabashem will be fine,” Neith said, putting a hand on Serenity’s shoulder and guiding her to the office, “working in the kitchen for the week.”

  Her love had fought and lost a quick battle to a formidable opponent.

  Before they entered the office, she glimpsed Adriel, his gaze latched on to her, a hint of a smile on his mouth. Warmth fluttered in her core. He was still her friend, her brother.

  “What is your artistic process? How long will it take to complete my portrait?”

  Serenity sorted through the art supplies Adriel had purchased. “I do sketches first until I have a clear vision of my subject. I don’t know how long a portrait will take. I’ve never done one. I guess it depends on how clearly I see you.”

  Neith held a peacock feather, stroking it. “I sit before you unmasked in daylight. What more do you need to see?”

  “We all wear a mask and you most of all. I can only paint the truth of your soul in a portrait and right now I can’t see it.”

  A deep look of satisfaction swept over Neith’s face, seeping into her eyes as she fanned herself with the feather. “Make yourself at ease in here. You’ll stay by my side during the day, sketching until you can see me clearly. Do you have everything you need?”

  Serenity picked up a high quality sketchpad, pencils and charcoals, not her favorite brand but they’d work. “This’ll be fine.” She sat on the chaise, facing the ancient beauty.

  “You should come closer,” Neith said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk.

  “I’ll be able to see you better from a distance.” She opened the pad and began a doodle of
the lion-headed statue. She already knew Neith’s face, the carved lines around her eyes and mouth that betrayed her youthful radiance, yet deepened her beauty. She needed to see her soul. A precious thing Neith only let show in veiled glimpses.

  Standing in the doorway, Soren knocked, redirecting her attention. Neith waved him in.

  “I have a problem with Elianus. He refuses to perform his detail in the orchard and requests reassignment to security.”

  Neith twirled the white feather. “Serenity, what are your thoughts on the matter?”

  A warrior skilled at battle should be used as security, but she didn’t want to get roped into Neith’s mind games. “I think you’ll sort it out in everyone’s best interest.”

  Neith cocked her head to one side. “Elianus and the others are technically yours. What would you have me do with them?”

  Serenity’s gaze narrowed at the words. This game was putting her front and center. “Where are the others assigned?”

  Soren rattled off a list of details across the island, but neglected to mention the kitchen.

  “Carin is a healer. Maybe she can help Ximena with her duties taking care of the bees and silkworms instead of the laundry detail.”

  Boredom draped Neith’s face. A yawn was the only thing missing.

  “The other warriors should be reassigned to Sothis’s team.”

  Interest hiked an eyebrow. “Why? Sothis doesn’t need to acquire any more followers to bow before her. She already has thirty of my best sentinels under her guidance. The rest are on security or serving in another much needed capacity. Once the first thirty are trained they can share what they’ve learned with the others.”

  “The sentinels belong to you,” Serenity said, setting the pad down in her lap. “I want my warriors to benefit firsthand from the unique expertise she has to offer. We have no idea how much she’ll teach them and as you’ve already pointed out, time isn’t on our side.”

  Neith eyed her thoughtfully for a long moment. Then with a wave of her hand she said, “Reassign them.”

  Soren bowed and left.

  “He didn’t mention the kitchen detail Cyrus is on. Why not?”

  “Cyrus is not yours.”

  Her breath stalled in her chest as she clutched a pencil. Neith might as well have stabbed her in the heart when she spoke those words.

  “Cyrus is the north star of Herut,” Neith continued plainly. “He may be your kabashem and husband, but his life now belongs to them.”

  The pencil snapped in Serenity’s hand, jagged edges of wood pressed into her palm. It wasn’t like Neith to be cruel. Then again, she had no real reference point to determine how Neith tested one’s mettle and gauged what needed to be weeded out or strengthened.

  “Filling a role he finds subservient will make him an empathetic leader,” Neith explained. “Do you think he or this collective would be better served with him in a different position?”

  “I’ll let you decide after you eat dinner.”

  Something close to a smile danced on her lips. “Cyrus will rotate weekly through all the work details. Growth is not meant to be easy. Filling roles outside of what he is accustomed to will challenge him and you. It’ll give you an opportunity to hone your skills in coddling. If you both survive long enough for him to fill Constantine’s seat, the role of a Council member’s mate will require you to be skilled at stroking his ego and biting your tongue. You’re already accepting your new place in his life with a measure of grace. That is good, for you will need it.”

  New place. Why not call a spade a spade and dub her second fiddle.

  Neith leaned forward, opalescent eyes glistened, translucent skin aglow. “Did he tell you what the mate of a Council member does?”

  Serenity began to sketch, discarding the other half of the broken pencil, before that glimpse of the real Neith disappeared. “No, he didn’t.”

  “If you’re male, you take up an active role on the fringe of politics. If you’re female, you breed.”

  Serenity’s hand stopped moving, her gaze locking on Neith’s.

  “Constantine’s mate bore him thirty-seven younglings, a record for Kindred. She was completely devoted to him. Cyrus never mentioned it?”

  Heart throbbing, she shook her head. She did her best to memorize that chilling face, distracted as she was by Neith’s words.

  “In between spurts of breeding, there’s politics. The various clans will pander to you, hoping you’ll persuade Cyrus to make decisions in their favor.”

  “Clans?”

  “Did you envision Herut as one big happy family?” Neith’s laugh grated. “The Houses have a Council for a reason, young phoenix.”

  “Make your point.”

  Neith leaned back in her chair, stroking that damn feather like she had some sort of tactile fixation. “I believe I’ve already made it.”

  And she had.

  As Serenity clung to the sketchpad, she realized Neith was the true artist. With a few well-chosen words, she had masterfully painted a vivid image of a life she wanted no part of, except for being with Cyrus, who was no longer hers.

  She had no idea if she’d live long enough to have a child or what her destiny might be, but without a doubt it wouldn’t be as a baby-making factory or playing the role of the strong, dutiful wife standing in the shadow of her husband.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The afternoon declined in silence. Serenity admired the lines of the black marble statue posted to the side of the room, the regal pose and stark dichotomy between the fierce lioness head and curved female body. Crowned with a sun disk, gilded scepter in her right hand, ankh in her left, and seated upon a throne, she watched over all things. Much like Neith.

  A pigeon the softest shade of white flew into the office, landing on Neith’s desk. The ancient beauty stroked its wings, removed a small brown tube from its leg and unfurled a strip of paper.

  “Is it news from Abbadon?”

  “Far too soon for word from Abbadon. This is from my dear Atlas.” It was the first time Neith radiated joy. “He is the oldest of my children left, 987. He says he ran into trouble but is on his way home.”

  Serenity went back to sketching. “What kind of trouble?”

  “It’s unimportant. He and his team are safe.” Neith kissed the bird’s head and released it. “I worry for Atlas while he is away.”

  “I take it he’s not a warrior.”

  “No, his ingenium is to show another how death will come for them. It does not protect him or serve him in any way. He cannot even see his own death. I wanted to make him a historian to keep him safe and close to me, but he felt the call to go out into the world and be a record-keeper. It’s rare to know in one’s heart, to feel the call before you are summoned to serve, as it was with your mother.”

  The beautiful sage was determined to wrench a knife in every sore spot today.

  “For all the good it did her or me.”

  “Your anger and grief blind you. If not for her calling from which she ran, you wouldn’t have been born amongst humans and survived. It was the fruit of her service that enabled you to live free and it was her skill as a Paladin that saved you from the clutches of Aten.”

  “My father is dead because of her call to serve.”

  Neith dropped the peacock feather and floated to the statue. “This is Sekhmet. She has been called many things: Avenger of Wrongs, Protector of the Flame, Lady of Slaughter.”

  “Why Lady of Slaughter?”

  Neith faced her. “Humans conspired against the sun god Re and rebelled. Sekhmet was sent to destroy them, but bloodlust took her over and she nearly eradicated all of humanity. She is also seen as the divine arbiter of ma’at, justice and order. To see her only as the Lady of Slaughter is to deny her full power and true role. The whole is more than the sum of its parts.” Neith walked over and touched Serenity’s cheek. “Forgiveness can clear away the ignus fatuus. Without it, you will never have what you want from her.”

  Nothing co
uld give Serenity what she wanted from her mother. The divide was too deep, too wide, too painful. “What is ignus fatuus?”

  “Starting tomorrow you will begin to learn Latin. Now, let us go down and break bread together. We have a day of birth to celebrate.”

  Serenity closed her pad and left it on the chaise. “Can I trust you won’t sneak a peek at any of my sketches or the painting until it’s done?”

  The ancient beauty gave a look as though such an act was beneath her. “My only desire is to see the finished work. You may put your full trust in me.”

  At a computer terminal, Adriel typed feverishly, the only historian left.

  “Will you join us for the evening meal?” Neith asked.

  “I’ll be down.” He didn’t look up as they passed. “There’s something I need to do first.”

  The dining hall was a flurry of activity. Neith and Serenity sat at a table with several empty seats left. A flustered Cyrus unloaded a tray of food nearby as he practically tossed a bowl of soup on a table, splashing liquid across the white surface.

  When he looked in her direction, she gave a sympathetic smile. He rolled his eyes, shook his head in exasperation and schlepped toward her, carrying the tray.

  “How was your first day?”

  He sat and kissed her cheek. “I don’t like the kitchen. It’s hot in there. They’re constantly cleaning or chopping or stirring.”

  Nikos headed to their table, scowl on his face. “Get back in the kitchen. You can sit and eat once the other tables have been served.”

  “I’ll sit and eat now,” Cyrus said.

  “I’m sure Lazarus would love to hear that personally. He could always move you to the nightshift of the kitchen detail. Then you could sit and eat dinner like everyone else. You’d just have to clean up the dishes, deliver the compost to the fields, pick the produce from the garden and orchard, fish before dawn and prepare the morning meal while your kabashem sleeps alone.”

  Silent and still as a fly on the wall, Neith eyed the exchange.

  Cyrus rose slowy, knuckles cracking as his hands clenched into fists and stormed into the kitchen. Nikos roared with laughter behind him. Someone else filled their table with platters of food, a large bowl of soup, bread, and jugs of wine and water.