by Amy Raby
She forced her mind back to the physical world and set the piece down. “I’m speechless.” She motioned at the Soldier, Sage, and Vagabond pieces, each of which was a hovering, glowing moon, one orange, one white, and one blue. “Those I fear even to touch.”
Lucien picked up the brilliant white Sage, rolled it about in his hand, and set it down again. “They’re quite safe—just harmless magic. Let’s get started. My time is limited.”
She sat. From the way the board was arranged, she would be playing blue and Lucien red.
“I’ve been so eager for a game,” said Lucien. “You’re the first woman I’ve played Caturanga with. Well, besides my cousin, but she hates the game. You, on the other hand—you won at Beryl!”
She nodded uncertainly, wondering whether he expected modesty or pride from her. “I’ve had excellent instructors,” she said, and turned her attention to the board. She was playing blue, so the first move was hers. She chose a flexible opening, the modified Soldier’s Gambit. It gave her an edge in gaining control of the middle top tier.
He responded with the Ilonian Countergambit. She smiled. He was that sort of player. It was an aggressive move that ceded her the middle top tier but claimed the outer edges from which he might make an end run. This was going to be fun.
She made a bid for the Sage’s influence and won it, but Lucien made her pay for it with two cavalry units and a weakened center position. He also trapped her Tribune behind a mountain.
She bit her lip. So much for this being easy. He was the emperor—far too busy a man to spend eight hours a day practicing Caturanga strategies, like she had. She ought to have the advantage. But he had a blazing intellect, and no doubt he’d had fine tutors. She tried a supply-line ruse; he saw through it and broke it. She skipped her Traitor into the back ranks, ready to wreak havoc, but he launched a counterattack that forced her to retreat and regroup. Exasperating!
She shook her head and grinned, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Lucien hovered over the board like a spring, tightly coiled and ready to explode into action. His eyes darted over every space, concerned and calculating, and when she made a good move, his cheeks flushed.
If she could only get her battalions around the water trap he’d set, she could bring her troops under the Soldier’s influence. Her Traitor was well positioned to take advantage of the Vagabond, and she already had the Sage. But her Tribune was under threat, and she couldn’t ignore that. Gods curse it. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the board.
Lucien smiled, tugging absently at his left earlobe.
Could she lure him with Pelonius? Maybe. He was neglecting the bottom tier a bit, focusing on the top. She made a couple of setup moves and offered her Tribune as bait. Lucien leapt to capture it. She made her end run, and he was left in a squeeze—the state in which any move he made could only harm his position. Frowning, he chose the move of least disadvantage. She moved in for the kill. Half a dozen moves later, the game was over.
“Excellent game, Your Imperial Majesty.” She offered him her arm.
The emperor clasped wrists with her, still staring at the carnage on the board. “I don’t believe it.”
“You’re a very fine player,” she said. “I admire your bold style.”
“How did you—? I thought you were going to—” He shook his head. “Your Tribune. That was a strategic sacrifice, wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed. Pelonius’s Mire, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Yes, I know Pelonius, but it’s not normally played on the bottom tier, is it?”
“No, it’s a top-tier strategy. I adapted it.”
He shook his head ruefully.
Maybe Bayard was wrong. Maybe it had been a mistake to win—she’d embarrassed him. Worse, she’d gotten so caught up in the game that she’d forgotten all about seduction.
Suddenly, he laughed. “Three gods, that’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. You must play me again.” He scooped up the red pieces and began resetting them. “Hurry. I’ve got an afternoon appointment.”
Relieved, she slid her blue pieces back to their starting positions.
“I’ve beaten the last two Beryl champions who came here,” he prattled. “Though I’m not certain I earned those wins. I think they might have let me win.”
“I doubt that, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Please, call me Lucien.” He replaced the Soldier, Sage, and Vagabond in their respective tiers. “I’m glad you’re not afraid to beat me. If I’m going to get better at this, I need someone who will give me a challenge.”
“Your game is excellent,” she said, settling back in her chair. “It would be an insult to you not to play at the best of my ability.”
“I’ll beat you this game. Or the next one.” He rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hands. “I dare you to try Pelonius on me again.”
She smiled and reached for a cavalry unit, trying a different opening.
He tugged at his earlobe.
A heavy knock came at the door. “Your Imperial Majesty,” called a muffled voice.
“Pox,” muttered Lucien. “Come, Remus.”
The double doors opened. Remus stared uncomfortably at Vitala. “Sir, we’ve had a message from Tasox.”
“A signal?”
“No, sir. A message, delivered on horseback.”
“What’s the message?” asked Lucien.
Remus’s eyes went to Vitala, his unspoken message clear. Not in front of her. He crossed the room and whispered in Lucien’s ear.
Lucien grimaced. “Clear my afternoon.” He turned to Vitala. “I’m afraid we’ll have to play some other time. The guards will show you out.” He struggled upward, placed the crutch under his arm, and followed Remus to the door.
Vitala felt strangely bereft. She’d enjoyed the emperor’s enthusiasm and fierce energy so much so that for a while she’d half forgotten who he was—and why she was here. She hadn’t made the least bit of progress in seducing him. And he seemed so pleasant, hardly the sort of man who would visit horrors upon her people. Never forget, she told herself as he disappeared from view. This man has done terrible things, and you are here to kill him.
• • •
The inside of the cave was cold. Kolta gawped at the people standing around her. Men and women, children and adults, yellow-haired Riorcans and dark-haired Kjallans. Except the ones who looked like Kjallans weren’t really Kjallans. For that matter, neither was she. She shivered.
Bayard shoved her forward, gentle but firm.
The man beside the cup seized her arm and drew a knife. With a squeal of terror, she yanked at her captured arm, trying to flee, but Bayard held her still.
The man sliced her wrist, spilling a few drops of her blood into the cup. Then he ran his finger along the wound. The pain ceased. Though her wrist was still smeared with blood, it was whole.
Kolta stopped struggling. “You’re a Healer.”
The man with the knife smiled. “I am.”
She’d heard of men with such magic, but never before seen one.
He took the cup and held it to her lips. “Drink.”
She stared at the cup’s contents and wrinkled her nose. There was a lot more blood in there than what her wrist had spilled. No way would she drink that.
“Everyone has contributed,” said Bayard. “Including myself. Drink—one sip is enough—and you will be one of us. If you will not join us, you must return to your family.”
She swallowed and stared again at the cup. She wanted to belong. She wanted to be one of these people. They’d been kind to her, mostly. They’d given her food every day, not just on the good days, and they had magical Healers. She screwed up her face and sipped.
Bayard took the cup from her lips. “You are one of us, now and forever.” He raised his voice to address the crowd. “Welcome, Kolta, to the Obsidian Circle.”
“Welcome,” echoed the crowd.
“In honor of your joining us, I give you your new name,” said B
ayard. “No longer shall you be named for the shame of your birth, but for your purpose: to aid the Circle in returning Riorca to its days of light and happiness. Your name is Vitala, ‘life-giver.’”
• • •
Lucien didn’t send for her again that day. Vitala read, played Caturanga against herself, drank Dahatrian tea, and, in the evening, visited the imperial baths. The baths were warm, scented swimming pools, a luxury almost beyond her imagination. Bathing in the presence of other nude women was odd, but no one else seemed to be bothered by it. As for the tea, she’d asked for lemon balm, but the guards informed her that lemon balm was forbidden within the palace walls—Emperor Lucien’s orders. She’d known the emperor hated lemon balm, but was surprised to learn he’d banned it.
Two days later, the Legaciatti delivered to her a letter from Emperor Lucien. The emperor had apparently inked it himself, since the signature at the bottom matched the writing. The loops and whorls of his hand were precise and clean. My illustrious opponent, he’d written, I count the hours until we can cross swords again. As my apology for keeping you waiting, I offer you a gift: the Caturanga set in your rooms. I also invite you to a state dinner, tomorrow evening, honoring the delegates from Asclepia, which I hope will prove an enjoyable diversion. Remus has offered to escort you. She sniffed. Remus again. Since he was part of Lucien’s security detail, she was a little frightened of him. She’d have to be careful what she said in his presence.
She went to the Caturanga set, picked up a cavalry piece, and caressed it, her heart swelling with a fierce happiness. She’d never owned something so beautiful. In fact, she’d never owned anything at all. Her possessions belonged to the Circle. The sad thing was she would probably have to leave the set behind. Once she’d accomplished her mission—if she survived—she would need to leave in a hurry, and unencumbered.
What about the dinner? She had nothing to wear for such an occasion. Aside from the requirements of propriety and fitting in, if Lucien was going to be there, she needed to look her best. She was on the verge of sending for Remus with a plea for help when a Riorcan slave girl arrived at her door, bearing an assortment of dresses.
Vitala had been in Kjall for years now, long enough that the sight of Riorcan slaves no longer shocked her. Still, she found it tremendously awkward, especially when the girl struggled to communicate with her in halting Kjallan, unaware that Vitala could have communicated in fluent Riorcan.
The slave girl helped her try on each garment. Vitala chose a silk gown in royal blue. The girl carried it away to be altered, and Vitala settled down to play a solo game with her very own Caturanga set.
• • •
After her initiation, they did not stay at the cave. They traveled to a new one, several days’ journey away. There she joined a classroom with other girls, some of them her age and some a little older. All were dark-haired.
“Study hard, Vitala,” said Bayard, “If you do well, I’ll see you in a few years.”
She clutched his hand. He was her rescuer, and he was all she had. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go where you go.”
“This is not my enclave,” he said. “And you are not ready for me.”
Her tears did not move him. When he pried her hand away and shut the door behind him, she had no choice but to turn her attention to the hard-faced, matronly woman who was her instructor. “Welcome, Vitala,” said the instructor. She knelt and pinned a bit of white cloth to the front of Vitala’s tunic. On it was a foreign word, written not in the Riorcan runic alphabet but in the strange loops and whorls of the Kjallan language.
The other students all had similar bits of white cloth pinned to their clothes. Some of them had the same word as hers, while others had different words. None were familiar. “What does it mean?” she asked.
The instructor pointed. “This is the Kjallan word for commoner. Today you are a commoner.” She pointed at an older girl. “This is Arvina. Today she is a prefect’s wife.” She pointed to another girl. “And Ista is a tribune’s daughter. They are your social superiors, and you must treat them accordingly. If you make a mistake, they will punish you.”
Vitala wrinkled her forehead.
“Kjall is a rank-sensitive society, and the rules are taught to Kjallan children at a very early age. To fit in and pass for Kjallan, you must learn these rules until they are as natural for you as walking. Class, if you are seated and someone of superior rank walks by, what do you do? You may answer in Riorcan.”
“Stand up,” they intoned.
“May you greet someone of superior rank?”
“No,” said the class.
“What do you do instead of addressing them?” She pointed at Ista, whose thumb was raised.
“Curtsy,” said Ista. “A welcome curtsy if the difference in rank is small, or a submission curtsy if the difference is great.”
The instructor drilled the class until Vitala felt dizzy and nauseous. There was so much to learn. So many rules!
“And from now on,” added the instructor, “you will speak only Kjallan.”
Vitala stiffened. “I don’t know Kjallan.”
The instructor smiled. “You will.”
3
That evening, Remus arrived for her in his Legaciatti uniform. She’d expected him to wear some sort of formal syrtos for a state dinner, but what did she know? There were gaps in the Circle’s understanding of the Kjallan aristocracy. When she arrived at the banquet hall, she discovered he did not look out of place. All the military men were in their uniforms, with ranks and insignias and medals boldly displayed.
She spotted Emperor Lucien immediately. He was in the center of the domed hall, unmistakable with his peg leg and crutch and the jeweled loros, and the enormous bodyguard shadowing him. Was that bodyguard always present? Vitala could just imagine him standing there in the bedroom while Lucien made love. Worse, that bodyguard was almost certainly a war mage, which meant she was no match for him. The emperor was in the company of three other men who spoke with him, their faces animated. A woman hung on his arm. Vitala’s heart sank.
A slave showed her and Remus to a table. They were seated in a corner with six minor dignitaries, about as far away as they could be from the centrally located imperial table. Vitala greeted her dinner companions, who spoke to her warmly until they learned she was a commoner, and then lost interest. She snuck glances at the lady who’d sat down with Lucien. She wore a gown of sparkling silver that glittered when she moved. Silver was not a color Vitala could wear; it made her look washed-out. This woman’s complexion was just dark enough to carry it off. Red-gold hair cascaded down her back, suggesting more than a trace of foreign blood, and her face was so flawless it belonged on a sculpture. Vitala was outclassed. She was attractive, she knew that, but she could not compete at that level.
A slave placed a bowl of soup in front of her. It was creamy and tasted of sea scallops.
“Those men with the emperor,” she said to Remus. “Are they the delegates from Asclepia?”
“Yes,” said Remus. “They want to build a dam on some river up north.”
“And the woman? Is she from Asclepia too?”
“Yes.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
Remus smiled, raising his eyebrows at her. “She’s not the only beauty in the room.”
Three gods, was Remus flirting with her? Interesting. Could she work that to her advantage and perhaps arouse some jealousy in Lucien? Maybe not. It might backfire. Remus was a high-ranking Legaciattus, and, for all she knew, he and Lucien had the kind of friendly relationship that precluded them from poaching each other’s women.
After the dessert course was served, the light-glows were dimmed and the orchestra began to play. The first dance was reserved for the imperial party. The Asclepian delegates paired off with palace beauties, while Lucien hovered just off the edge of the dance floor with the Asclepian woman. She looked frustrated at having the only partner in the room unable to dance, even if he was
the emperor. Vitala felt a pang of pity for Lucien. How did it feel to be a cripple surrounded by so many examples of physical perfection?
Perhaps she should reserve her pity for the Asclepian woman. Very likely she’d been thrown at Lucien as a bribe to help the delegation get what they wanted. Had she been forced into the role, or did she volunteer? Maybe she stood to gain as much as the men did from the construction of that dam.
No, the Asclepian did not deserve her pity. It could hardly be torture to sleep with Lucien. He was a handsome man, and maybe the passion he’d shown at playing Caturanga also manifested itself in the bedroom. As for the missing leg, Vitala found herself less put off by it than she had been initially, and more curious. What did it look like when not covered by his clothes and that bit of gaudy wood and gold?
The first dance ended, and more couples crowded onto the floor.
Remus held out his hand. “Dance, Miss Salonius?”
She smiled. “Certainly.” Dancing would get her physically closer to the emperor, who was still hovering in the vicinity of the imperial table. Maybe he’d notice her. Though he seemed frustratingly focused on the Asclepian.
Remus’s hand was warm and dry. He led her confidently onto the floor and wrapped an arm around her waist. He danced competently but without artistry or flair. Never mind. He was leading her closer to the imperial table. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to inspire a little jealousy. She gazed adoringly into Remus’s eyes as they passed Lucien.
For three rounds, they circled the floor. The dance ended and they retreated, flushed and exhilarated, to their table. It had emptied of the other guests, who’d probably left to seek more prestigious company. A slave refilled their wineglasses, and Vitala drank deeply. To her surprise, she found she was enjoying herself.
Remus scrambled suddenly to his feet.
Following his lead, Vitala set down her wineglass, spilling a few bloodred drops, and stood.
“Sit down, sit down,” said Emperor Lucien. The Asclepian woman, still on his arm, gave Vitala an appraising look. Vitala was amused by her discomfiture. Kjallans were funny. Rank was encoded directly into their language, which had three separate grammatical forms: one for speaking to an inferior, one for an equal, and one for a superior. Thus Kjallans had to determine relative rank before opening their mouths. Usually it was easy to figure it out, because Kjallan men wore insignias denoting their rank, and Kjallan noblewomen, who derived their rank from male relatives, wore a bit of rank-defining jewelry. Vitala, who was at the bottom of the social scale, possessed no jewelry of that kind, so her rank was not evident.