by Sohan Ahmad
Isa remained to watch over the queen. Am I too simple to comprehend His Holiness? She wondered. He loves the prince and queen with such devotion, yet he shows no affection to Cyrus and continually strips me of dignity. How can a man be so warm and yet so cold? As much pain as Ramses had caused her, she could not listen to the hate that scarred her mind. Still, I will forever love the man who rescued me from those demons dressed as men, he who fathered my beautiful child. The raging waters in her thoughts slowly dried into a cold mist. I am cursed to be a fool eternal; there is no point to this struggle. Slaves should know better than to question the divine will. All I can do is pray that my son is destined for a better life. The throbbing veins along her forehead retreated as the mechanical rhythm of invisible shackles regained control of her body.
Elsewhere, Cyrus provided the young Drake with a tour of his new home as well as an explanation of the duties expected of him. He first guided Geno to the ground level, one floor below the grand hall. “I do not know how you lived previously, but this will be your new home. You’re lucky, you’ll sleep alongside Mother and me.”
“Lucky?” Geno asked with strained brow.
What was that? Cyrus asked himself as he answered. “I honestly don’t know what it’s like for the others because Mother never lets me see where they sleep, but only the important slaves get to sleep in here. His Holiness favors your Drake blood so you are quite blessed.”
Geno’s brows eased. “Thank you, My Master.” But his eyes were empty like a child’s toy.
“Geno,” Cyrus said, closing the door, “you don’t have to pretend with me.”
The young Drake stepped back. “What do you mean, My Master?”
Cyrus sat on his bed, motioning for Geno to do the same as he answered, “You were not born a slave, I can tell. Pretend for His Holiness and the Queen, but you don’t have to do it for me. I think the prince would tell you the same.”
Geno apologized. “This new life, it is still a stranger to me.” The stiffness in his face softened as he sat across from Cyrus. “Before I was sold like cow, I lived with a northern merchant, helping how I could.”
Cyrus was sorry as well. “I also know what it’s like to not be wanted by your father.”
“No,” Geno corrected, “Not my father, but he was kind to me before he found out I am Drake.”
“What happened to your mother and father?”
“I remember only pieces of when I was child,” the young Drake answered. “But I can still see fear on my mother’s face and blood on my father’s back. They gave lives to save me from Red Hunters.”
How terrible? What would I do if I lost Mother? Cyrus wondered with glazed eyes as he asked, “What is a Red Hunter?”
The yet dormant crimson in Geno’s eyes cowered. “I thought everyone knows, but seems they plague only my kind. They are most dangerous bounty hunters, stealing Drake eyes wherever they find.”
Cyrus found it odd. I thought terrible things only happened to people born in chains. “Why do they want your people’s eyes?”
Geno shrugged. “I don’t know history, but Father warned many feared strength of our blood. He also told me there were evil people who paid much gold to collect rarest treasures.”
Though Cyrus was young, he had seen enough evil in twelve short years to know. “It is a miracle you are still alive. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost Mother, but I’m sure yours would be happy that the merchant kept you safe for this long.”
Geno thanked the boy. “You are right. When Iro found me on eastern edge of Chronos, I thought I was dead.”
“Iro?” Cyrus asked. The name sounds familiar.
“Yes,” the young Drake answered. “Iro Brass-Beard. He let me live with him as long as I obey rules, keep quiet, and work hard.”
After hearing his tale, the young Isirian bastard realized. You are more familiar with slave life than you know.
The Drake had an unanswered curiosity as well: “I overhear you and the master are brothers. I’m confused. Why prince’s brother does not sleep in royal chambers.”
Did he hear us on the ship? He was surprised by the question, although it was one he often asked himself. I thought the answer was obvious. But Cyrus answered regardless, “I am sorry that you’re forced to live as I do, but you shouldn’t believe everything you hear if you want to stay alive.” He rose from his bed and opened the door. “Slaves are not allowed to think or understand; we must simply obey the commands given to us. Thinking will only bring you pain. We live and breathe at the will of our masters; to question that will is to question the life they saw fit to give us. My mother and I are lucky to be alive as well, and that is enough.”
Wise words that Cyrus himself often had difficulty obeying, but the message was clear to Geno. Questions are dangerous things. There were no further inquiries for Cyrus, so the two continued on their tour of the slave quarters.
They returned up the steps to the kitchen, which was twice as large as the royal chambers. Two dozen servants, three butchers, and six cooks crammed into the steaming cave of hot aroma. An enormous fire pit stretched along the back wall, roasting freshly gutted pigs and a coop of headless chickens on spinning rods of iron. Black cauldrons, as wide as the widest northerner, bubbled with a mutton stew that bathed in a garden of garlic, tomatoes, chopped carrots, and onions. Is that the new gift from Silonica that Marcus told me about? Cyrus wondered as he and Geno stared at a large cage of sealed clay with a ventilated face that opened like a door.
“Ahh Cyrus, you noticed our newest toy,” a slender man with thinly twirled whiskers announced. “It allows us to bake all manner of cuisine from fresh pies to sauced meats.”
“Hello Master Frie,” Cyrus said. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Who is this stranger with you, Cyrus?” Marrow Frie asked. “You know I do not like it when something is out of place in my kitchen.”
“Apologies, Master Frie. This is our newest slave, Geno. He will be the prince’s personal guard,” the young slave answered. “Geno, this is Marrow Frie, the kitchen master.”
The young Drake bowed as Marrow Frie exhaled. “Very well. Now run along. There is much to do.”
Shooed out of the kitchen, they ventured to the lowest pits of the central keep where the slaves bathed. It was a dark and dank cellar made of dried mud. Stretching deep from the back wall to the entrance was a squared stone ditch, large enough to hold forty slaves elbow to elbow. Due to constant droughts, they were forced to use the same bathwater for weeks on end, but conditions were far worse for those outside the Silent Cathedral.
Their final destination would be the supply hold, located just outside the living quarters. “You will come here most often. It houses the rags and linens for the entire castle,” Cyrus explained.
As the slaves made the return climb, Marcus waited within their bedchambers. Apologies, Mother, but I cannot think of my brother as a mere tool.
When they crossed, Cyrus thought it strange. He is so still and quiet. “Does something trouble you, My Prince?”
Marcus had not yet sensed their presence, but he brushed the queen’s words aside. “It is nothing, Brother, I am just happy to be home.”
The young slave returned his own false smile. It seems we each have our secrets.
His royal brother jumped to his feet and grabbed hold of both slaves by the wrists. “I am bored, come join me in a game of Hunt the Hidden.”
Cyrus was relieved to see his royal brother return to form. “We should have enough time for one game, but then Geno and I must attend to our duties.”
“Excellent,” replied the prince. “Geno, the rules are simple. You will have one minute to hide anywhere below the spiral stairway. I will be the hunter, and the game ends once I have caught you both. Oh, and before I forget, do not make this easy for me. Do whatever you must to avoid my sight.”
Marcus returned to the grand hall, shut his eyes, and counted silently into dry palms. As the countdown concluded, the Cathedral doors o
pened, and the first members of the Serpent Council arrived. One among them fixed his gaze upon the youngest descendant of Elijah. He was an unsightly dwarfish stump of a man, round as he was tall, with damp yellow skin and an unsavory yellow-green glow in his eyes. Standing little higher than did the prince, scattered strands of hair dusted his head like a plagued garden. The councilman’s eyes hungered as he licked his lips until the words of a palace guard startled him. “Follow me, Lord Mammon. I shall show you to your chambers.”
Chapter 10: Hunt the Hidden
Marcus opened his eyes, fortunate not to have seen the sweaty stare, and began the hunt. As he entered the kitchen, it blazed with a culinary craze. Servants rushed in and out, blurs of white, lifting bronze trays of copper-etched plates and cutlery. Cooks seasoned, chopped, and stirred as the kitchen’s pace moved with a musical harmony under Marrow Frie’s firm command. His ivory apron somehow remained spotless amid the clouds of flour and splattering broth, but the gourmet master’s twirled mustache twitched with alarm. In his domain, a young prince stood out like a baker on the battlefield.
“Young Master, you grace us with your presence. Does your stomach growl? There is much to do before the feast can be savored, but I can fetch one of your favorite custard cakes, if you so desire,” Marrow offered.
Marcus never once looked at him as he answered, “No need, please do not let me distract you. I am searching for someone who may have hidden here.” He poked and peeked through every corner of the kitchen as the servants and cooks stumbled around him.
“Young Master!” Chef Frie said in a panic as his symphony of cuisine teetered from its stride. “I assure you, not even a mouse could slip my gaze. Perhaps the one you seek is elsewhere.”
The prince finally turned his gaze toward him. “Do not help me! I must complete the hunt on my own power, assistance is forbidden.” He darted from the kitchen with hard, agitated steps as the flustered Marrow finally regained order.
Marcus proceeded down the steps to the slave quarters. Just as he vanished, Cyrus emerged from behind like a Shadow. Your anger makes you easy to avoid than usual. He carefully followed his royal brother down the stairway, observing each failed attempt as the prince scoured room to room. I hope Geno did not get himself lost, he thought, concerned after allowing his new comrade to stray.
As feared, the Drake had found himself misplaced adrift a sea of linen sheets. A trail of footsteps tapped just outside the door, arriving nearer with each passing breath. If prince finds me, will I lose my new bed. He feared. Just above, however, he spotted a layer of wooden slats. Can I make it? Reaching their protection would require the agility of a tree swinger, but the tip tap of steps thumped within his ears like a beating heart as the door slowly crept ajar.
“I know one of you is in here,” declared the youngest Elijah. He washed his eyes over every square inch of cloth, digging into each corner, but found nothing. I was certain I heard a shuffling. Still, Marcus was not convinced until he heard a scurry across the wooden boards beneath his feet. He turned to watch with a sigh as the noise fled through a cracked wall, climbing its way up toward the base of the kitchen. It was just a mouse. There’s no one here. Marcus shoved through the wooden door, swinging it shut before continuing the hunt.
Geno exhaled the slightest sigh after evading capture. The violet hue of his breathless cheeks subsided, and the misty glow returned to his skin. As his limber body grew accustomed to dangling from the ceiling, two whispers echoed dull within the trickling dust from above.
“We must hurry. Diana finally slumbers, but there is little time,” commanded the rough tongue of an aged voice. Geno heard only silence until drops of liquid splashed against empty tin and the man raised the base of his murmurs. “Cease your dawdling, Isa. Disrobe at once!”
It was faint, but he heard the sound of the woman clutching onto her rags, “Master, I can do this no longer. My lady looks at me as if I am a plague. With each day, her illness spreads and she blames me. I beg you, please release me from this guilt.”
The dangling Drake continued to listen. “Is this how you repay me for allowing you and your seed to live in such luxury? Your life is mine to do with as I please!”
Geno remained silent. I should leave, not my place to hear these things. But he dreaded the thought of discovery. Will they hear if I move?
He froze and Isa’s words continued to entice his ears them through the thinnest cracks above. “I do not mean to forsake your kindness, but if my lady learns of what we have been doing, she will demand my head. Lady Diana has despised me from the moment you brought me to the castle with your blood flowing within my womb.”
For an instant, Ramses fumbled control of the cup in his hand, wine dripping to the boards above Geno’s face. “Watch your tongue, Isa! I am the Viper’s blood. My actions are sacred. Do not speak of my wife with such a familiar tongue; you understand nothing of her pain. Beg and pray to the Divine Serpent that our actions never see the light. If a single breath slips, your line will be forever banished from the lands to which you were born.”
Isa pleaded, “Punish me as you see fit, but I beg you, do not tether Cyrus to my sins. The truth would sooner strangle me than part my lips; it is an unbearable shame. Even if I were capable of providing you with a red-haired heir, surely whispers of distrust would arise. The queen’s failing health is no mystery. Even children of the fishing villages are aware. You must yield to reason, I beg you.”
For a brief moment, it was quiet. The Drake’s escalating heartbeat threatened to wake the bones of the first Isirians, until Ramses carved open the silence. “Shame? You speak to me of shame? My wife lies in bed, doomed to the dust. Neither sage nor healer can save her ravaged body. Yet Isiris requires the preservation of my endangered line, and so I am forced to plant my seed in a slave! No living creature could share my shame. Turn from me before you disrobe—I would not look at you and your shame.”
Geno then heard the Cardinal’s sluggish breaths as he forced himself on the helpless slave. Her voice cowered in silence, escaping to the darkest pit within her throat. The sole sound was that of skin slapping against skin, their sweat dripping onto the hidden Drake who continued to listen quietly. Cyrus. The one thought that came to mind. Although he tried, he was unable to hear the tears that burst inside Isa’s heart. He was ignorant of her pleas to the Divine Serpent to free Cyrus from this miserable life.
Less than a handful of minutes passed before Ramses pierced the poor woman with the milk of his loins. “Wipe off your tears and gather your rags. Your face afflicts my sight; prepare a bath so that I may cleanse myself of your stench.”
The hidden Drake heard Isa sob as she rushed off, but mere seconds after the door shut behind her, Ramses too began to weep. “The things I must do to maintain the monarch’s mask! They are truly a curse. I pray that Marcus’s fate will be different, that he need not cower within his throne like a formless shadow, shamed by the necessary actions of rule.” There was a short pause before he rose to his feet. “For the sake of my flock and family, I shall take all necessary measures. If my path is true, let these indignities create a glorious future for Isiris. Otherwise, may I burn eternally for my sins.”
Suddenly, Cyrus entered the room to the song of creaking ceiling planks. His eyes quickly took notice of the hanging Drake. “You can come down now. The game has ended, and there’s much to do. We must clean the prince of kitchen and cellar stink before the evening feast.”
Geno dismounted, landing softly on his toes as long strands of violet cascaded down atop his shoulders. “Apologies, Master Cyrus.”
The thin, dark hairs on the young bastard’s skin cringed. “The prince is your master, not I. Now hurry, there is little time to waste. Once he has been tended to, we are to assist Chef Frie in the dining hall. Follow closely, and do as I do.”
Before his hips could turn away, Geno grabbed him by the wrist. “Something you must know.” He spoke of the stories that oozed from the cracks above, sharing every chapt
er in vivid detail.
Before he could conclude the tale, Cyrus begged, “Please stop, I do not care to hear of things that I have already seen. Erase these tales from your mind. The prince waits outside.” The Drake’s tight grip crumbled, returning limp to his side as he trailed behind in a hollow silence.
When the door swung open to the hallway, they found the prince gazing aimlessly toward the heavens of wood and stone above. His bastard brother tapped on the back of his slender shoulders. “I found him, Brother. Let us make for your chambers; you should not keep your father waiting.”
Marcus buried his chin into his chest. “Yes, of course.”
His voice seemed dull and weary. Cyrus thought. It was as if the air in his brother’s lungs had been scorched, but nevertheless, the trio made their climb up the twisted steps. They entered the prince’s chambers where heaps of lumber, carved into toys and swords, slept idle along the edge of his bedding. Though it was hardly a child’s room, except for the clutter. Atop the feathered bed lay stacks of open books—Great Battles of the Forge, Tales of the Conqueror, The Saint Fables, and Wardens of Exile, to name a few. Marcus had certainly adopted his father’s lust for ancient words and forgotten lessons.
Inside his bathing chamber, the two slaves scrubbed and scraped away at flakes of dying skin. Marcus never sits idle while he washes, why now? the young bastard wondered, but there was no time for such distractions. What few words were shared echoed within the silence. Shortly after, the prince stepped into his crimson pants of snakeskin and slipped into a tunic that shined like dull gold. With the conclusion of their duties, Cyrus and Geno departed for the kitchen with a gentle reminder: “Brother, your father wishes for you to join him in the dining hall in just over an hour. Please do not make him wait.”
Marcus nodded, but once they left, the haste returned to his feet. He sought an audience with Ramses in the chapel, located directly above the royal crypts, but the King of Hardship would not be disturbed during prayer. The prince’s patience was short, more so than usual. He churned his legs back up the great spiral and into the royal chambers where his mother still slept.