Select

by Patricia Reding

  “Make your choice!” the emperor ordered.

  Broden stood before the young woman he’d noticed earlier. Her eyes downcast, she flinched, then glanced upward. Shaking with fear she sucked in a breath when her eyes met his.

  “This one,” he said.

  Zarek turned to the guard. “Have her cleaned up, then brought to join the others just assigned to him.”

  “And what of the others, Master Zarek, sir?”

  “See Mott. He’ll direct you.”

  “Thank you, Master, sir,” the guard said, before leading the young women away.

  Zarek turned Broden’s way. He pulled his shoulders back. “I see you could use someone to . . . teach you.”

  “Sir?”

  “You need a tutor. Someone who knows our ways here in Chiran.”

  “May I choose this . . . tutor?”

  The emperor grinned, though Broden saw no humor in the expression. “Don’t push me. You’ve had your fun. Besides, you’re new here. You don’t know anyone. How would you choose?”

  “I met someone in the prison. He’s a trained schoolmaster. He’d make a good tutor.”

  “In the prison?” Zarek shook his head, but then smiled. “Yes, all right. What is this prisoner’s name? I’ll arrange to have him delivered to you.”

  Broden’s eyes flickered. Was the man serious? Or would he be signing Striver’s death warrant?

  “No harm will come to him, if that’s what you’re thinking. If you’re to learn our ways, it would be helpful for you to learn them from someone who knows them well.” The emperor turned away. “And given that my guards prepare the prisoners even now for a trip to the gallows, the man you choose will be . . . grateful to you. That will make him all the more . . . useful.” He turned back. “But be warned. If this tutor you choose speaks out against me or my ways . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “His name then.”

  “Striver.”

  “Guard!” the emperor cried.

  A man entered.

  “Bring me one—Striver—from the prison where my . . . son . . . was kept. Clean him up and deliver him to Broden tonight. He’s to have one of the servant’s rooms connected to his quarters.”

  “Very well, Master Zarek.”

  When the door closed behind him, the emperor turned back, scowling. “You’re too thin. Come.”

  Broden followed him down a wide hallway to a dining room. As they entered, a team of servant women scurried away. A long, broad, black wood table sat at the center of the room. Matching chairs, with high, intricately carved backs, surrounded it. Zarek sat at the head of the table and then motioned for Broden to sit to his right.

  Within seconds, servants entered. Each held a tray upon which sat some delicacy. Broden’s mouth watered upon the sight and smell of roast pheasant with a brown sugar and maple glaze; grilled lamb chops with a curry, apple, and sweet raisin sauce; veal with fresh cracked pepper, thyme, marjoram, and basil; potato and white asparagus with salmon; tomato tossed with mozzarella and basil; roasted artichoke with a garlic and pepper sauce; and more. His head spun as he selected from amongst the various items. Within moments, his plate overflowed.

  More servants arrived bearing trays with carafes of wine ranging in color from the deepest burgundy, to blushing rose, to nearly clear. Broden nodded to a woman who held a medium red. The servant poured some into a goblet, handed it to him, and then waited at his side.

  Just as he brought his first forkful to his lips, the emperor held up his hand. “Stop.”

  Broden put down his fork.

  “Guard!”

  What have I done?

  A guard entered.

  Zarek motioned toward Broden’s plate.

  The man approached, took up another nearby dish, then commenced putting a single bite of each item from Broden’s plate, onto his own. Then he ate. When through, he poured wine from the carafe sitting before the young man, into a nearby cup. He drank.

  For a minute, no one moved. Then, when nothing happened, Zarek waved the guard away as he turned his attention back. “You can’t be too careful.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “Why, indeed.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill you? Surely, a leader is beloved by his people.”

  The man’s jaw clenched, causing his dimples to stand out. “I do not seek the love of my people.”

  “Perhaps you should.” Broden drank some wine.

  Zarek’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need their love. I’ve their fear. And fear is stronger.”

  Lucy, Marshall, and all the other adults at the compound had taught Broden otherwise—that the Good One was the most powerful force in the world because He gave life and valued freedom. Love enabled freedom; fear stilted it. From a place of love, people would strive to attain, or to maintain, freedom. From a place of fear, they often sacrificed it. The emperor’s thoughts were new to him, foreign.

  “If you say so.”

  Zarek’s face turned red with anger.

  “It’s just that I was always taught that Ehyeh—”

  “Bah!” The emperor snapped to his feet. The chains he wore about his neck, jingled. “I do not serve a power that requires I do its bidding.”

  “Yet you insist that those who serve you do your bid—” Broden stopped short, fearing he’d gone too far.

  Zarek clenched his fists. He resumed his seat, then leaned back, examining the young man before him, his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he laughed. “Ha ha ha! You know, your mother disappointed me. Oosa would have been delivered to me ages ago had she not succumbed to her own weak and selfish nature. But you? You’ve got promise . . . my son,” he added as though in afterthought. “Yes, I believe you’ve got promise.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’ve signed my death warrant!” Striver, now clean, shaven, and dressed in new clothing, shouted at Broden the moment the guard delivered him to his quarters.

  Broden stood, looking into a nearby mirror, seeking recognition of physical similarities between himself and the emperor. Yes, they were there, in the cleft of his chin, and in his dimples, in his hair color and hairline, and in his overall body type. He was not as large as Zarek, but then, he was younger and had not yet packed on all the bulk of manhood.

  The guard exited, then locked the door to the chambers from the outside.

  “Quite the contrary, Striver, I put a stay on it.”

  He glared. “What are you talking about?”

  Broden relayed how Zarek had offered him a tutor, and how he’d made his choice. Had he chosen otherwise, Striver would have accompanied all the other prisoners—this very day—to the gallows.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me or not. It’s true.”

  “Why? Why would you choose me?”

  “Because you hate him.”

  Striver’s eye twitched.

  Approaching a nearby table, Broden pulled a chair out and then sat down. The size of his quarters pleased him, as they included this main room and three others, one of which the women would occupy, one for his tutor, and one for himself.

  Striver shook with rage, but then, after a long minute passed, approached the table and glanced down, questioningly, at the other chair.

  Broden gestured for him to sit. “You’re not my slave. I’m rather hoping you’ll be my friend.”

  “Friend.” The tutor sat. “Ha! Even if I were so inclined, I’ve nothing to offer you.”

  “I think you’re wrong. I grew up at a place we called the ‘compound.’ It was prepared for the special safety of some . . . unique people. I learned a lot about security there—information I may need. Even Zarek says that my life is in danger. So, I need help. I need you.”

  “Huh.”

  “You hate him, so I believe you’ll be more inclined to see to my safety than to his interests. I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure that I should, but I trust you.”

  “Hmmm. Well, imagine m
y surprise to discover you’re his son. So why would I want to help you?”

  “The compound I told you about? Zarek’s men got past the protections set up there and then captured me.”

  “How did they know you were there?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Who were they after?”

  “What do you know of the Select?”

  The tutor’s eyes narrowed. “I know that they settled in Oosa a long time ago. I know that they serve Ehyeh, whom they also call Creovita, the Giver of Life, or the Good One, and I know that they value life and freedom.” He jumped to his feet, then just as quickly, sat back down. He leaned in. “Which is why my wife and I tried to get out of Chiran and make our way there. Zarek hates them. He’s nearly rid Chiran of them, and now he seeks to remove them from the face of the earth.”

  “I am Select.”

  “That’s impossible. You’re the emperor’s son. Besides, he’d kill you if he knew you were Select.”

  “My mother was Select. Being deemed Select is something that follows the mother’s line. So, I suppose he might still kill me, but for now he seems willing to . . . try me out. And I can tell you that I’m not the only Select here—in Chiran—in Zarek’s own palace. I’d like to know what the others are doing here—why they stay here.”

  “Who? What others?”

  Broden told the man about Sally and Janine.

  “Your mother’s sisters?”

  “So they said, and I tend to believe them. I did feel on first sight that I detected something familiar about them. It was like a . . . family resemblance. I know another of their sisters,” He paused, tilting his head, “and I’d say there’s definitely a resemblance.”

  “What do you suppose they’re doing here?”

  Broden reached for a carafe of wine. He poured some for Striver, and then some for himself. “I don’t know. I wish I did. Zarek said that my mother . . . Let’s see, how did he put it? Oh, yes, something about how she should have ‘delivered Oosa’ to him some time ago.” He shook his head. “That’s all I know.”

  “So you don’t know what your aunts are doing here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because your alternative is a trip to the gallows.”

  Striver bit his lip. “Fine, then count me in—for now anyway.”

  “There is more,” Broden said.

  “More?”

  “When I arrived here, I carried a special weapon . . . and I want it back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sally and Janine informed Zarek what it was. He now carries it.”

  “I see.”

  “You must know,” Broden said, leaning in, “that the emperor might give me a bit of leeway, but he’ll tolerate nothing from you. If he hears you’ve said or done anything contrary to his interests, he’ll—”

  “Kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve nothing much to live for anymore anyway, since I lost my family.”

  Broden touched his new tutor’s shoulder. “I told you, I need your help. You can speak as you like before me, but elsewhere, you must use care. Also—”

  “What?”

  “You said you were a trained schoolmaster, so I assume you can . . .” Broden picked up a nearby sheet of parchment and a quill, then wrote the words “read and write.”

  Striver nodded.

  Gesturing toward the fireplace, the young Select lifted his brow, motioning that they should leave nothing for anyone to find.

  The tutor stood, then paced. “I suppose I should thank you,” he finally said, grasping the edge of his clean vest, “for the bath, the clothing, the full meal, and the medical attention to my wound,” he added, touching his face.

  “No thanks necessary.” Broden went to the window and looked out at the hundreds of soldiers on the palace grounds. “Just remember where your loyalties lie.” He glanced about. “That room there,” he said, pointing, “is for you.”

  “Considering where I’ve spend the past weeks, I’ve no complaints, I’m sure.”

  Just then, a knock came at the door. It opened. A guard stood outside, with Yasmin, Farida, and the young woman Broden had selected earlier. The three, all now bathed, reeked of perfumed oils. They wore the same type of clothing he’d seen earlier on Yasmin and Farida—clothing that left little to the imagination. Their faces were made up to exaggerate the deepness of their eyes and the fullness of their lips, and their hair appeared silky and soft.

  The women stepped inside, then stood before him, their eyes downcast.

  The guard closed and locked the door behind them.

  “Master,” Yasmin said, “Emperor Zarek provided us for you. We are at your disposal. You may,” her eyes flickered Striver’s way and then back, “do with us as you please.” She gulped in a deep breath. “You may . . . gift us.”

  Broden blinked repeatedly. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. The young women were certainly attractive. Still, there was something very ugly—though in truth, tantalizing—about what they presented him. For a moment, he found himself at a loss for words.

  His tutor approached.

  Turning his way, Broden noted that he appeared to assess the young women. “Well? What do you think of this?” he asked.

  Striver glanced at him, then looked back at the young women. “I’ll have no woman that’s sent to me at the direction of, or out of the fear of, or at the order of, another man,” he sneered.

  Yasmin and Farida turned their gaze to Broden, while the third young woman remained mute, her eyes downcast.

  Broden approached her. “What do they call you?”

  She stood, silent.

  “Nothing? You’ve no name? Then I shall call you . . . Mouse,” he said. He turned to Yasmin and Farida. “You may go to your room now.”

  “But, master—” Farida began.

  “Go.”

  “Do we not please you?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “But . . . Zarek,” Farida argued, “will expect us to . . . do our duty.” Her expression revealed a strange combination of fear and relief.

  “Then tell him whatever you think he wants to hear.” Broden motioned once again for Yasmin and Farida to leave. Hesitantly, they followed his direction.

  When they arrived at their door, Yasmin turned back. She looked at the young woman who remained.

  “Good night,” Broden said.

  She turned away, then closed the door.

  “You too, Striver.”

  The man glanced at his student, then at the young woman who remained. His brow dropped, but without further delay or comment, he turned away.

  Broden turned to the young woman. “Come, Mouse,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She looked up. Tears spilled from her eyes. She took one tentative step forward, then another.

  Chapter Twenty

  Zarek lay prostrate in the center of his room of mirrors, a retreat he sought on occasion to escape his duties, or when he needed direction. To his left hovered his closest spiritual advisor, Brother Pestifere, an exceedingly tall and unnaturally thin man, linear and hard. His black eyes were narrow, his nose long and pinched, and his lips thin and colorless. He wore a simple robe of natural wool, its hood pulled up. At his waist sat a loosely tied rope of braided hemp. As was his custom, his feet were bare, and he carried a walking stick. Fortunately for those seeking to avoid him—and that described most everyone at the palace—the click-click-click of his staff as it met the floor with his every step, sufficiently announced his coming, providing others the opportunity to retreat quickly.

  Pestifere held considerable sway over Chiran’s economy and community values—or lack thereof. It was he who’d first introduced Zarek to Daeva when the emperor was but a boy. The priest had found something spec
ial in the youth—a strong desire to control, an absence of restraint, an inkling of great physical power to come, and an abundance of innate intelligence.

  As Zarek the boy grew, Pestifere urged him to take up Daeva’s cause. In time, he did. Shortly thereafter, the priest promoted a connection between Zarek and Lilith, of Oosa. His words shaped the emperor’s political ideology and power, and he exercised unequaled influence among the emperor’s advisors. Only to him did Zarek concede any ground, as he fairly worshiped the priest, seeking his approval at all times and in all ways, much as a needy child might seek the acceptance of the parent who abused him.

  For his part, Pestifere got from Zarek precisely what he wanted. The emperor never considered, would never have thought, that the priest followed his own agenda, that he served his own interests, that he pursued his own personal retribution—his own private vengeance.

  Floor to ceiling mirrors that covered the room in which the two men sat, reflected the countenances of the three lords of Sinespe, each of whom reigned over a different aspect of the underworld: Daeva, over disorder, distraction, and dishonesty; Akka, over discord and disagreement; and Sij, over division and dissent. Although Daeva assumed Sinespe’s most high throne, the three spirits ruled together, seeking influence over the land of the living, conspiring to turn mankind to their ways, and colluding with Pestifere to bring about their desired ends.

  A stifling heat filled the room, as the spirits manifested their presence through flames they conjured up and into the mirrors wherein their faces appeared as blackened skulls, with hanging, decomposed flesh. Light shot from their eye sockets like pulsing, burning lava.

  Each time Daeva arrived at the room of mirrors, Zarek recollected his initial introduction to the underlords. Pestifere had made the spirits known to him when he was still a child—shortly after he’d reached his seventh year. At first, Daeva’s countenance, in particular, frightened him. But Zarek eventually came to enjoy the burning, yet powerful sensation that the underlord’s presence created in him. Upon reaching his fourteenth year, Zarek swore his allegiance to Sinespe and its three rulers. Once done, the spirits burst upon his person. Their flames engulfed the teen in a torrent of heat. Though startled and gasping, he longed after their departure, for more.