Zakarij caught up with her as she hurried back toward the palace. “I’ll wager Pater Julian is this moment praying feverishly for your demon light to be removed from his sanctuary and wondering why his God allowed you to set it before Him in the first place.” He paused. “How long did you will it to burn?”
Kassia shrugged. “About twenty minutes.”
Zakarij chuckled. “I wish we could stay to watch, but Master Lukasha wants to see you right away. We’ve been asked to dine with the king this evening. I believe he wants to discuss protocol with us.”
Kassia slowed her pace. “Dine with the king? Us? You and me?”
“I think you’ll find King Zelimir is a nice enough fellow. Or so he seems to me. He’s not above himself by any means. Of course, you knew that; you met him this morning.”
She glanced at him sharply, wondering if he knew of her early morning encounter with “Mishka.” But his face revealed nothing and he did not seem particularly guarded at the moment, so she assumed he must be speaking of their conference before the council convened.
“Yes. He does seem . . . approachable. I just never contemplated that I might someday dine with the king.” She changed the subject. “Do you know Pater Julian?”
Now Zakarij was definitely guarded. “We’ve met.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Let’s just say that there are not many points of theology on which we agree.”
“You mean there are not many points upon which he agrees with you. I was being as agreeable as I could just now. Pater Julian was having none of it.”
Zakarij glanced sideways at her, wry humor in his eyes. “You thought the creation window was a depiction of the Wedding of Mat and Itugen, didn’t you?” Seeing the look on Kassia’s face, he chuckled. “I made the same mistake my first visit here. The glaziers were just installing it, then. They thought my observations were quite appropriate and tried to draw the good Pater into a discussion on the amazing similarities between our creation stories. He was not amused.”
“I see. I don’t suppose you left him a gift of fire, though, did you?”
“Ah, no. I wasn’t nearly so . . .”
“Childish?”
He looked directly at her. “Daring.”
She shook her head. “Come, Zakarij, you thought what I did was childish. I agree. It did no good whatsoever to provoke Pater Julian.”
“I said daring, and daring I meant. Of course, it may have also been childish, but who am I to judge another’s immaturity? Perhaps it was merely a playful gesture.”
Kassia laughed, feeling somewhat better, but knowing that whatever words Pater Julian might use to characterize their encounter, “playful” would not be among them.
oOo
Pater Julian Miezcko stood frozen at the mouth of the apse, his eyes unable to escape the pull of the demon flame left there by the shai. It was only when he realized the flame was not dying that he moved—stumbling back into the apse and coming to his knees before the altar, the little blossom of fire right before his eyes. How in the name of all that was holy had this happened? How had God allowed it to happen? He glanced up into the face of the Messiah on His throne. It inspired him to fevered prayer.
“Dieu Pere,” he began, but when he completed the prayer, the fire still burned amid the candles of the pathetically few faithful in this pagan outpost. He gritted his teeth and recited a verse of scripture . . . in Church Frankish. The candle still burned. Dear God! How did it have the power to resist the purity of this place? He made the sign of the cross. The flame paid him no heed. He performed the sign again. There was no effect. What then?
Holy water! Surely that would put out the demon fire. He leapt to his feet and scrambled to the font to wrest the ewer of blessed water from its niche. Shaking, he dumped the contents of the ewer over the wicked flame. It extinguished a handful of candles around his target, but Kassia’s spirit fire remained. He tried the sacramental wine next, with no result.
He was at the end of his wits by now. What else was there to try? Desperate, he pulled out his prayer beads, intending to utter every invocation he knew. Before his disbelieving eyes, the flame guttered and died.
He looked at the beads, then dared to move closer to the place where the evil little flame had been. It had left a smudge of soot on the white stone of the altar, but that was the only sign of its passing. He rose, still quaking, but no longer with dread and fear. He kissed the triumphant rosary and returned it to his pocket. Then he hurried to find his bishop.
Chapter Eleven — King Mishka
They dined with the king in the smallest of the salons—Kassia, Zakarij, the Masters Lukasha and Antal, Chancellor Bogorja and his wife, Daria, several darughachi and some ladies of the court who spoke in softly accented tones and smelled of flowers and incense. Kassia had, at her Master’s suggestion, eschewed her Apprentice’s garb for a gown of deep azure which had been waiting for her when she and Zakarij returned from the church. She had been reluctant to accept the gift at first, but Lukasha’s solid logic that her school clothes were not appropriate for a royal banquet—even a relatively small one—won her over.
Likewise, Zakarij left off the wearing of his Aspirant’s tunic and leggings for a more formal skirted coat of palest blue, to the shoulder of which he fastened his Aspirant’s badge. When Kassia complimented him on his appearance, he returned the compliment, telling her solemnly how exotic she seemed—like a legend come to life. His approval notwithstanding, Kassia was over-awed by the other guests, particularly the women, who seemed to move in a radiance born of the knowledge that they were extraordinarily beautiful and exotic. Only one or two of them were native daughters. One had skin the color of turkaffee and hair that curled like lamb’s wool. Another had hair that shone like spun gold beneath the lamps and candles of the banquet hall, and eyes of clear, sky blue. A third had skin that made Kassia feel dusky in comparison, while her hair was a deep, ruddy flame.
Kassia was fascinated by them all, curious about where they had come from, and what native tongue they spoke that caused their Polian to be so variously and charmingly accented.
Surrounded as she was by important men and magnificent women, Kassia had thought she surely would be left out of all but the most perfunctory conversation, but Zelimir would not let her be left out. As they sat in a ring of colorful pillows and bolsters to be served from great silver trays, he told stories about the founding of Tabor, talked of the building of the grand cesia where they had shared morning devotions, asked about her studies in magic. She eagerly absorbed the history and tried to answer his questions about her research without betraying her Master’s trust.
When the meal was done and musicians arrived to entertain them, Zelimir found a moment to lean close to Kassia’s ear to thank her for the webbed bracelet. Already, he told her, it had helped him see what before he had only suspected. Then he told her, with eyes shining, how glorious she looked in the azure gown.
“Glorious” was the exact word he used, before he echoed Zakarij: “How exotic you are, Kassia. Like a flower that blooms only in moonlight. A white orchid—that’s what you are.”
Kassia accepted the praise stoically, with flushed cheeks and bowed head. Only one other man had ever spoken to her so, and then only in the privacy of bed or bower. She glanced down the table to see if anyone had noticed the exchange and blanched. Everyone had noticed. Assailed by that sudden attention, she immediately knew her friends from her enemies and vowed that she would give those splendid ladies a wide berth for the remainder of her stay.
All too soon, it seemed, the evening was over and the king was excusing them to return to their quarters. Kassia rose reluctantly and shook out her skirts. Once again, she caught several of the other women assessing her, their eyes hooded. Their regard was more than casual and, since they made no attempt to shield their thoughts and feelings, Kassia knew it was hardly kind. She could only suppose that they were not generously disposed toward having to share their table a
nd their king with such an unsophisticated woman as Kassia Telek. She drew herself up a little taller and turned to bid Michal Zelimir good evening.
He took her hand in both of his and raised it to his lips, pressing them firmly against the soft flesh at the wrist. “Thank you, Kassia, for granting me the pleasure of your company and the bounty of your arcane gifts. May Mat and Itugen visit you with delightful dreams.”
She bowed to him, a little embarrassed at the gracious words. She felt the women’s eyes pressing her—questioning, hostile, curious.
“Who are they?” she asked Zakarij as they left the room together.
“Who are who?”
“Those women. Are they the wives of the darughachi?”
Zakarij shot her an odd, half-humorous glance. “They’re no one’s wives. They’re royal concubines.”
Kassia stopped in the middle of the corridor that led to their chambers. “Royal . . .?”
“They serve the king . . . and his guests if he so orders. I think darughachi Batu has an eye for the fair-haired one.”
Kassia felt suddenly and deeply embarrassed . . . and naive. She hated feeling naive, especially here. “I’ve never much understood the idea of concubinage. Are they slaves?”
Zakarij had to consider that for a moment. “In a sense, I suppose they are. They could leave the service of Michal Zelimir, but if they did, wherever would they go that could offer what they have here? Certainly, they could find husbands, but which of them would choose to live in a merchant’s townhouse or a farmer’s cottage after . . .?” He made a sweeping gesture around them. “They most likely have no skills except those of courtly protocol and artfulness. I suppose they might learn a trade, but why on earth should they wish to?”
“Won’t he dismiss them when he marries?”
Zakarij’s mouth twitched at the corners, a gesture Kassia found maddening since she knew it meant he was laughing at her silently. “I shouldn’t think so. He won’t be marrying for love, after all. And even if he were . . . He is not a common man, Kassia. He may behave in ways you or I would find . . . indefensible. Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about the King’s ladies. They have a good life here.”
“I wasn’t worried about them. I was only wondering why they seemed to dislike me so intensely.” She put a hand to her hair. “It’s this, I suppose. The shai have no better reputation here than they have in Dalibor.”
Zakarij grimaced. “I doubt your being shai has very much to do with it. You won the eye of the king, and his smile. They may be afraid that in due time, you’ll have his heart as well. Then they might not be as favored as they are now.”
Damek’s words, spoken a week ago, came back to her with ferocious clarity. “Zakarij, will you speak to me in all honesty?”
“Always.”
“Damek put the idea into my head that Master Lukasha brought me to Tabor because he . . . he hoped the king would be interested in me. As . . . as a concubine. Do you think that could be true?”
There was nothing at all opaque about Zakarij at that moment. His thoughts were written in detail on his face. “Kassia, that is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard! What would possess Damek to fabricate such a . . . a detestable story?”
“I suppose he was only trying to goad me,” she answered. “It’s not important, really. Though I suppose it means I can’t call him ‘Damek the Unimaginative’ any more.”
Her attempt at levity fell flat. Zakarij grasped her arm gently. “Kassia, how could you entertain, even for a moment, the possibility that Master Lukasha would do such a thing? You’re one of the most important things that’s ever happened to Lorant. The Master loves you as he would love his own daughter. What father would contemplate giving his daughter into concubinage?”
Kassia managed a weak smile. “Some fathers obviously would give their daughters, or the king would have no concubines. You make it sound like slavery. Someone just told me it’s not like that.”
“Forget that. That was about someone else; this is about you. Master Lukasha wouldn’t do something like that and you can’t imagine that he would.”
“You’re right,” she answered him. “I can’t imagine it.” She slipped his grasp then, and returned to her chambers.
oOo
Lukasha rose to follow the others from the salon, but his King’s voice halted him. “Master Lukasha, please—a moment of your time.”
He turned. Zelimir had remained seated; Chancellor Bogorja at his side. Clearly, the king was in a mood for confidences. Lukasha happily conceded and moved to join the other two men.
When he was certain they were alone, Zelimir said, “Bishop Benedict engaged me in private conversation after the council meeting this afternoon. He put it to me that the Mongols are a greater threat to Polia than I am willing to admit. In his estimation, Polian forces are not enough to protect us from the Khan. He believes that were the Gherai to attack our southeastern borders, we would be unable to stop their advance without an unacceptable expenditure of Polian territory and lives. He suggests that the Frankish Empire would be willing to lend us the forces necessary to the protection of the realm.”
“And the price of this protection?” Bogorja asked, suspicion clotting in his voice.
Lukasha answered in Zelimir’s stead. “Marriage to the Lombard . . . and conversion to her religion.”
Zelimir smiled wryly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know that.”
Lukasha did not return the smile. “I also know that your conversion would not be the end of it. They will insist on the conversion of your people as well, and the Zelimirid realm would be absorbed into the Frankish Empire. Utterly absorbed. Body and soul, land and spirit. We have seen it happen to others.”
Michal Zelimir’s face was pale above his emerald robes. “How can even a king demand the conversion of an entire people? How can he assure it?”
“We know how the Tamalids assured obedience,” murmured Lukasha.
Michal shook his head as if to free it from a snare. “I have thought that perhaps the better path would be to make a pact with the Gherai kagan now, before it’s too late. To take him as an ally against the threat from Avignon.”
“That would almost certainly make the Franks our enemies,” observed Bogorja. “They might even view it as an invitation to war.”
“I had not thought it the policy of the Church to be quite so militant.”
“They are an imperial force, Majesty. Empires, as you well know, do not spread without some militancy. Your father overthrew the Tamalids in a military action.”
“That is not the same thing. My father rescued his people from a house of demons. He liberated these lands, he did not enslave them.”
“The Bishop of Tabor,” observed Lukasha, “would most certainly see our absorption into his Empire as liberation. In his eyes we are slaves to ignorant paganism. He would liberate our souls. The ends justify the means. It is a matter of viewpoint.”
“I need your advice, gentlemen.” Zelimir looked from one to the other. “I am asked to choose the lesser of several evils. My impulse is to marry whom I choose and make allies where I will for the good of my people. I despise the thought of alliances made from fear, be they political or marital.”
“Or religious?” asked Lukasha.
“I believe it is the Arabian Prophet who said that there is no compulsion in religion. I whole-heartedly agree.”
Lukasha smiled. Dear Zelimir, ever the stubborn individualist—in word if not in deed. “Your impulses are not unwise. It is too early to decide on either wives or allies. Bide your time, Mishka. But keep your eye on the Khan.”
Chancellor Bogorja nodded. “And on the bishop. You may consider finding out if the Gherai Khan has any marriageable daughters.”
Michal laughed. “I’ve heard he has hundreds.” He shook his head. “I have too many choices, gentlemen. Perhaps I should convert to the Arabian’s faith. Then I shall have encompassed all of the Prophets and Messengers. At the very least, I
would be allowed more than one wife. I could maintain several alliances that way, and please more people.”
Lukasha smiled. “An interesting idea, Mishka, but a chimera. A Turk may have four wives, it’s true, but only if he can treat them with absolute equality. In your case, this equality would have to extend to the allies bound to you by those wives.”
“A chimera, indeed.” The king sighed dramatically. “One has only to ask my concubines.”
The conference concluded on that light note, but Lukasha was not comfortable with the levity. Too much depended on the instincts and decisions of one man. It was wrong. It was entirely wrong. The fate of nations and peoples should not be so. Polia was more than a bit of cloth painted with lines that were rivers and roads, and circles that were cities and villages. There were lives contained in those cities, held together by those roads and rivers. Yet, to men such as Jagiello Starza, Bishop of Tabor, the Zelimirid realm was merely a living map, and maps could be divided with ease. It took only a moment with a sharp knife or a crofter’s shears; a slice here, a slash there, and the Tamalids or the Khans or the Franks could have the land or the lives or the souls they desired.
No. Not this time. He, Lukasha Dalibori, would not allow it to happen. Zelimir might marry a Lombard or even a Mongol, but neither would possess his heart or his ear.
In his chambers, Lukasha moved to his mirror and called back to it the Squared spell he had used earlier that day to eavesdrop on his king. This time, however, the mirror showed him a spell-lit room wherein a young woman sat propped up among the pillows on her bed, a thick little book in her hands. Her eyelids were beginning to droop, and as he watched, she passed from the waking world into slumber.
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