by Tia Reed
“What does Wilshem hope to gain from this union?”
“Lord Hudassan has agreed to stem the flow of porrin into Terlaan.”
Matisse rose, his hand still on the pommel of his sword. It was a plain weapon, well crafted but lacking the beauty for which Myklaan was famed. “And how long does he expect that arrangement to last? If your population is addicted, they will go to great lengths to seek it out.”
“They will recover if the drug cannot be had.”
“That, my dear,” said Jordayne, re-joining them, “is a very naïve outlook.” She had the determined look of someone who had hatched a scheme in the minutes she stood apart.
“More important,” Matisse continued, “it confirms our suspicions. There are reasons beyond those crystals to entertain our guest.” He was standing very close, a smile just visible on his lips. His proximity was distracting, confusing, as were his words. Kordahla turned away, seeking to regain her balance. And caught Jordayne’s pursed lips.
Shah Ordosteen said, “What did you hope I would do, child, so that Ahkdul cannot stake his claim? Or did you think I would simply embrace you into my fold?”
“Will you marry me to a satrap or his son? He can lay no claim upon a legal union.”
His Majesty smiled. “So you would have me treat my subjects like the very chattel you so despise?”
Tears of frustration threatened to well. She had come so far for this. Everything considered, she had to remind herself, the conversation was progressing well. They had not yet thrown her into a dungeon.
“You might find there are those willing enough,” she said.
“But are you, my dear?” Jordayne asked, placing a hand on her arm. “It hardly makes sense to flee one marriage only to enter another loveless union. As for you, Uncle, do remember where we are. The day Myklaani women require a bond with a man for protection is the day this land shall cease to be Myklaan. And I rather thought you would welcome the opportunity to educate our less refined neighbours to that effect. Now, it will be some time before the mages arrive. Until then, I believe we would be remiss not to offer Princess Kordahla a bath and a gown.”
“I came with companions,” Kordahla said.
“For now, they will be fine at the hospice,” Ordosteen replied.
“They will indeed,” Jordayne assured, squeezing her arm. “You can reunite with them tomorrow. Now come along.”
“You believe me,” Kordahla said as they walked through airy halls decorated with mouldings of vines and wreaths, and climbed stairs with lessons of old painted on their tiles.
“Men are blind. They cannot see past those scratches and bites, or the image of the child they retain from Ordo’s last wedding. Anyway, those crystals did the trick.”
They entered a chamber with cream and gold tiles on the walls, and green marble floors. Kordahla sighed. It was luxury to see a maid filling a tub, and another dressing a bed with an embroidered cover.
“I trust you will be comfortable here,” Lady Jordayne said.
The chamber, lavish in its femininity, was fit for a queen. As the maids helped her undress, Kordahla couldn’t help looking at the scenes of noble life painted on the cedar bedhead, dresser and wardrobe. She sighed as she stepped into the hot water. Its luxury made Jordayne’s insistence she recount every detail of her flight tolerable.
“That poor child,” the lady said of Timak. “I shall see he is brought to you in the morning.”
“Erok and Sian will wish to return home.”
“I think that can be arranged. Now,” Lady Jordayne said, when Kordahla was dry and her hair had been combed, we must attire you in the splendour befitting your station.” She lifted a sky-blue choli beaded with pearls from the bed. A tongue of lace narrowed to a large gold-set diamond that sat in the navel. Kordahla gasped and tried not to squirm as Lady Jordayne helped her into the tight top and the matching skirt that but for the sheer volume of layers would have revealed far more than was decent. As it was, she knew she was blushing. Half her hips were bare, and her arms.
“Shouldn’t the maids do this?” Kordahla asked.
“If you stay here, I intend to take a personal interest in your education,” Jordayne replied, fastening a golden necklace around her neck. The five bangles that followed really were too much.
“I can’t,” Kordahla said.
“Nonsense. I have plenty to spare and suitors aplenty who will fall over themselves to buy me more.” She handed Kordahla a chiffon scarf. Kordahla wrapped the garment tight around her, certain it concealed nothing.
Jordayne stepped back to admire her. “You are a vision, but try to relax.”
“Is there perhaps a cloak I could wear?”
“Nonsense,” Jordayne said pulling the scarf away and leaving her revealed. “There. That is better. It never hurts a woman to bring all her powers of persuasion to bear.”
A knock prevented Kordahla protesting further. Father and Levi would smite her down for these clothes alone, and they would not need to see her in them. Hearing of it would be horror enough. She froze in shock as the maid opened the door to Matisse. She would die from the impropriety of a man seeing her so naked. He had to think her crude; he was staring at her.
“Princess, you look ravishing.”
Her blush deepened at his choice of words. The hint of an eyebrow lifting convinced her they had been intentional.
Jordayne tossed the scarf onto the bed. “Brother, did you come with a particular purpose?”
“The mages have arrived. Uncle Ordosteen awaits your presence. I have come to escort you back to the court,” he said, gazing at her all the while. Her heart was thumping. Until now she would have said it was impossible for a man to be more handsome than Mariano.
Jordayne beckoned one of the maids to tie an anklet around her foot. Squeezing Kordahla’s arm, she leaned in close. “My dear, this is Myklaan. There is no dishonour to man or woman if they enjoy each other outside of wedlock. The men you meet will behave as such. All the men,” she warned quietly. “Bar your door tonight if you do not wish uninvited visitors.”
Gazing at Matisse, Kordahla had to wonder whether she might. It was impossible not to keep glancing at him as they made their way back to the court, Vae help her.
All heads turned to her as they entered the domed room. The murmurs of appreciation made her stop before she had gone fully through the doors. The strange men unsettled her and she intended to leave the minute Lady Jordayne did, though from what she had heard of her hostess’s reputation that might not be soon enough.
“My dear, what you have is power. If you wield it well, it is stronger than those swords men are so fond of,” Jordayne whispered to her. “Now come along.”
Her suspicions were confirmed when Jordayne stood on tiptoe to kiss the tallest man full on the lips, right there in plain view of all. They only broke apart when the Shah, seated on his throne, cleared his throat.
“This is Master Magus Drucilamere,” Ordosteen said, introducing the completely unabashed mage, whose build allowed him to carry his height, and his moustache, well. He was dressed in an identical manner to the other two mages, a green kurta, tucked in at the waist with a wide kamarband and black shalvar. She recalled green was the colour of the House of Giordano. “And Mages Kaztyne and Santesh.”
The mages bowed. Dark-haired Santesh was perhaps two or three years older than she, and pleasant of face, but would not meet her eye, while brown-haired Kaztyne gave her a friendly smile.
“Do you understand what you bring to us?” Drucilamere asked.
“Yes and no,” she replied, recovering from the embarrassment. “I cannot attest to how they work.”
“There is another matter we might put to rest first. Will you allow me to confirm your identity?”
“Will you not take my word?” she said, turning to Ordosteen.
“My dear, seeing you here I have no doubt, but there are protocols to follow, especially if we end up at war,” the Shah replied. Unaccustomed to such
attention from men, she had to make conscious effort not to hunch her shoulders.
“It is duplicity of which we are concerned,” Drucilamere explained. He was not unkind, and there was a smile around his eyes.
“You wish to read my mind?”
“In the vaguest sense. I will gain impressions and emotions, but I cannot read your thoughts.” He took her hands. The contact was inappropriate. The Majoria would condemn her to eternal fire if he ever discovered a man had touched her in this state of undress. She pulled back, her eyes growing wary. He released her with an apology. “The mages are bound by a code of honour. I will cause you no distress, I promise.”
“It won’t hurt a bit,” Matisse said. He was polishing the pommel of his sword with the end of his kurta. She did not dare keep her eyes on him. “You may even find it…stimulating.”
“Mind search may jog memories,” Ordosteen hastened to explain as Lady Jordayne rolled her eyes.
Kordahla looked to Ordosteen, sitting straight, silent and inflexible.
“Best to get it over with,” Jordayne said.
Kordahla lifted her chin as she took a deep breath, bracing herself for the touch, suppressing a shiver. The Vae knew she had no choice in this. “Very well.” If the sensation was as unpleasant as Levi’s hand had been on her forehead, she would take Lord Matisse to task, however much such words might bring a flame to her cheek.
Santesh brought a goblet from a table behind the thrones, swirled the contents, and handed it to Drucilamere. The mage drank deep, and passed the goblet back. When his eyes glazed over, she stepped away.
“It is nothing to fear,” Magus Kaztyne said.
She nodded, once, sharp and clear, and allowed Master Magus Drucilamere to brush his thumbs across her forehead. The nudge in her mind was intrusive. She closed her eyes, trying neither to resist nor to allow the strange consciousness full access to her own. A variety of emotions washed over her, excitement, fear, distress, despair and hope, each fleeting before it mingled into the next. In a few seconds it was over, his mind no longer there.
“Princess Kordahla makes the gift in good faith,” Drucilamere said. Her lips parted at the clarity of his speech. Had she not known, she would never have guessed he was under the influence of the cursed drug. “Now, let us see about the crystal. The quartz is for apprentices, I believe.”
Kaztyne placed the crystal in Drucilamere’s hand. The three mages chanted, soft but firm, repeating the rhythm, loud and louder. A light flickered in the interior. Gasps and murmurs welcomed it a second before it died. Kordahla bit her lip as the mages chanted again, but Vae’oeldin did not see fit to kindle its light. She held her breath as Kaztyne and Santesh drank their share of porrin before cupping crystal and quartz in their hands. It was the will of the gods the crystal stayed clear. They stood in judgement of her, contemplating her fate from the heavens as They observed events from the dome of this room.
“There was a light.” Ordosteen was leaning forward on his throne.
She bowed her head. After all she had endured, she would yet perish if the Shah declared her gift useless, at his hand, or Levi’s or her own.
“Indeed there was,” Drucilamere said.
She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Your Majesty, I request this crystal and quartz be entrusted to the Mage Guild.”
Gripping the arms of the throne, Ordosteen stared at her. “It is fitting,” he said. Turning his attention to the mages, he stood. “You have no need of me to tell you what they are worth to Myklaan.”
* * *
Brailen waved the buxom barmaid over to their cramped corner. Three tankards had done nothing to slake his thirst. He hiccupped and slammed the mug on the dry, cracked wood of the table. It banged good and loud, right through the busy evening buzz.
“She wanted to kiss me, you know,” he said, and belched.
Slack-jawed Ulmy looked suitably impressed. Brailen had always known he was a true friend.
Stoopy-shouldered Orhan blew bubbles into his drink. When he finally got his mouth out of the tankard, he shook his head. “You’re full of it.”
“You won’t be saying that when I’m Master Magus,” Brailen said. “Ay, wench, you gonna top this up?”
The barmaid poured brew into his tankard, avoiding his groping hands, the tease. At least she was displaying meaty cleavage.
“You wan’ me to show ya some love tonight? You can boast t’ yer friends what it’s like to lie with a mage,” Brailen said, reaching up to catch strands of her frizzy, blonde hair.
“Perhaps when you grow up a little, honey,” she said, not paying attention to her job because she allowed some ale to slosh onto his lap. “There’s real men that need me tonight.”
That sent both Ulmy and Orhan into hysterics.
“You can’t even get a whore to lie with you. You really think we’re going to believe Lady Jordayne’s got a thing for you?” Orhan said, nudging Ulmy in the ribs.
Loud conversations squeezed around every rough table. Brailen didn’t think anyone had noticed the dills, which was lucky since greasy hair, shifty eyes and unshaven chins marked the patrons as an unsavoury lot. They’d probably have beat him up just for enjoying royal favour, they would, just because that proved he was better than them. “They’re pleased with me, you know,” he said, sniffing up the steam of the soup the barmaids were serving. The cook had to be boiling leather to get it to smell so bad. “Even trust me with the porrin.”
Ulmy’s blue eyes went wide, but Orhan snorted snot right out of his narrow nose.
“When you have any then?” Orhan asked. “Can you even perform magic yet?”
“Takes years of dedication and study,” said Brailen, leaning back. The bench rocked and he near fell off. It was only the wall which caught him. Took some doing to get his behind out of the gap between it and the bench.
“Can you do anything?” Ulmy asked.
“’Course I can,” Brailen said, “But it’s not doing that’s the real test of a mage.”
Orhan jumped up on the nicked surface of the table. “Dear Magus, I’m going to run you through,” he said, pointing an imaginary sword at Ulmy.
Ulmy clasped his hands over his heart and shook his limp, shoulder-length hair. Made him look like an ugly girl, that did. “Alas, fine warrior, in order to prove my worth as a mage I may do nothing.” They both collapsed in a fit of giggles, Orhan stamping and slapping the table.
It wasn’t respectful, this derision. Brailen dropped his head to his tankard and slurped up the ale. Nothing was going the way he’d planned. Orhan and Ulmy picked up their mugs and downed their ale in a race to the end. Brailen thought about joining in but his stomach was churning from that foul gruel, and throwing up in front of his friends would destroy any cred he had left. Curse those mages for doing nothing except insist he put his nose in a book.
“You gonna get a woman tonight?” Ulmy asked Orhan as the older boy hopped off the table onto the wobbly bench.
Orhan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No coin.”
“We gonna get porrin then?”
Orhan jabbed the point of the knife into the table top. “No money for that neither.”
“We get it on credit,” Brailen said. “Like usual.”
“Dindarin, have you been gone a long time in that uppity guild. The dealer ain’t doing that no more,” Orhan said, twisting the knife to add his own nick to the ones covering the table. “’Sides, I still owe him seventy lek. I ain’t about to show my face ’round there without it.”
“Apprenticeship’s the deep mines,” Ulmy lamented. “Do this, clean that, work twice as hard as your Master and you never have any coin.”
“Your Master’s a dream,” said Orhan, and didn’t Brailen know it. Ulmy was always telling how the smith tossed him a coin and a free afternoon once an eight-day. It was because he wanted a romantic liaison with the milkmaid, Ulmy had discovered by spying on him on one of those afternoons. Like that was a good
enough reason to slack off work. Drucilamere spent heaps more time in the company of Miss Poshy Lay-dee-da Jordayne. Brailen didn’t get an afternoon off. On the flea-ridden contrary, he got lumped with extra chores.
The younger boy slumped across the table. “Ain’t no fun anymore since you changed apprenticeships, Brailen.”
Brailen buried his face in his ale. A true friend wouldn’t have reminded him of the day Physic Hamid deq Lamont had caught them in his porrin stores, his medicines and tools in disarray around Brailen. Tripping to the moons for free, and not for the first time, had made his sacking worth it, till his mother moped around the house in tears for three days, then embarrassed him by dragging him to the hospice, dropping to her knees right in front of all the addicts, and begging for his reinstatement.
“The boy has no aptitude for this,” the Physic had said. Brailen had let out a sigh of relief. Mopping up vomit and emptying reeking bedpans was a scummy career. A good thing it was the old man had taken pity and told her to see the magi. His mother had dragged him back out to the physic’s stern caution not to blow the opportunity.
Drucilamere had listened, had him imbibe porrin, though the stingy man had not given him enough for a proper trip, and observed for himself the objects that went flying whenever Brailen was under the influence. There had followed such a lecture on responsibility and the abstinence of apprentices, that Brailen had wondered if the porrin and prestige that went with being a mage was worth the training. His mother had blown her nose on her headscarf, clasped her hands and blessed the mage, bowing her way out of the fancy guild, and leaving Brailen with no choice in the matter.
Determined to make the best of the situation, Brailen had looked at the moustachioed mage and said, “How often do I get to take porrin?”
The mage had arched a thick eyebrow. “Not at all if you don’t prove your worth.”
When Brailen had bragged of his fortune, Ulmy and Orhan had revered him like a god. A mage, golly, what fun would that be and oh, did this mean a steady supply of porrin? they had gushed over the ales they had paid for. Brailen had pretended to virtuousness to cover the fact he had never had so much as a taste after that first day and – djinn curse those hoity-toity, condescending mages – did not even know where it was stored.