I never told Fadil or the others what she voiced that day in the desert. Even if Xarion would release me from the command, everyone is so anxious that I don’t want to add another crack in the already crumbling foundation of our land.
It feels as if we’re suspended in the shadow realm, Osiris breathing down our necks as we hover at the entrance to the underworld. When Cleopatra returns, then the world will return with her. Everyone will celebrate and Xarion will marry and become King. We just have to hold the city together until then. Even if thinking of Xarion’s pending marital obligation weighs on my soul, I push forward, my mind focused on my duty.
Xarion spends his days training with weapons and studying old musty scrolls. He’s spoken to me very little, and hasn’t mentioned freeing my binds since that day in the Library. No, that’s not entirely true. He did try once more to coax an answer from me during a dinner where he had nearly a whole wineskin to himself.
Refusing to discuss the matter while he was intoxicated, I ignored his attempts, especially after he began debating the fact that he was drunk. It was infuriating. Can’t he see how difficult it is for me even to consider? Furious, he stormed off, and that was the last we’ve spoken of my binds. He’s been distant since, and it pains me that things have changed so much between us. I wish I could simply jump on his back and tackle him like when we were kids, but instead, I stand off to his side, silent, while he trains to become King.
I can’t fathom what giving him an answer would accomplish, other than making me more aware of the fact I can never be free—I can never truly be with Xarion.
It feels cruel to admit that my feelings run deeper than friendship for him. But if I’m completely honest, they always have. I was foolish to think I could continue to hide my feelings, even from myself. He claims I won’t answer him because I’m afraid. Afraid to consider what I could do with a free life—one not bound to his. But that, for me, is the real fear. I’ve never thought of us apart. It terrifies me. Maybe my binds to him is my crutch.
Regardless, any thoughts or action hinting toward my feelings is dangerous. If the Council ever suspected something physical happened between us—
I can’t allow my thoughts to wander there. Pharaohs do not have romantic relationships with their Kythan slaves. I’d be put to death and Xarion would be ostracized, considered lower than swineherds.
If our situation grows morbid, I’ll ask Fadil to place me under someone else—to be given a new charge. I’ll never be able not to guard Xarion, as I’ll always worry for his safety; it’s in my blood to protect him. But I feel this complication is hindering him more than my guarding him is helping. I pray it doesn’t come to that.
Tonight is the twins’ birthday celebration, and I sit on my balcony, finishing Helios’s present. My hands spark blue, infusing fresh sand with a white-blue current as I transform the matter into liquefied glass. I pull up with my cupped hands, shaping the glass into a tall vase.
“Are you ready?” Phoenix’s voice comes from the inside of my room.
I finish the lip, then set the vase on the stone to cool next to Selene’s purple and silver infused glass bracelet. “I just need to change,” I say, standing and wiping off my hands on my work tunic. “I’ll be ready soon.”
As I pass Phoenix, I note the scowl on his beautiful face. “Why aren’t you with the twins? What’s wrong?”
He brightens, but his happy features are forced. He adjusts his khopesh beneath his sash and straightens his back. “They’re with Lunia and Nuri. I was sent to capture you, and drag you to the theatre if I must.” He smirks. “Oh, please be difficult. It’s been a while since my last romp, and I’m sorely in need of some foreplay.”
And suddenly, I’m less concerned about his feelings. I roll my eyes and close the heavy linen curtain of my dressing room to change. “What is Lunia wearing?”
“The same as always,” he says distractedly, like he’s looking something over in my room. “Something tawdry to lure unsuspecting Shythe to her bed.”
I laugh. “Then I’ll wear my usual.”
“Something prude and ill-fitting to deter unsuspecting Shythe from yours?”
“Pig,” I mutter, and hear his dark laugh.
“Star?”
“Yes, Phoenix.” I tie my sash, drawing the belt tightly around my middle, the pleats of my cream shift folded shapely against my skin. Then I pull back my curtain. Phoenix is sitting on the corner of my bed, his face buried in his palm. A dull red snakes up his forearm. His Flame is faint, but reveals his emotions.
Narcos are far from even-tempered. Any and every emotion is heated, like their power. His dim light conveys that he’s worried, though to the average human he may seem angry.
Looking up, his lips part, but he only plants his face in his palms again. “What is it? Just tell me,” I say, moving to his side and resting my hand on his toned thigh.
He raises his head and stares at the wall. His dark hair falls over his ears, their pointed tips peeking through. “Have you spoken to Fadil lately?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not sure I should say anything, but it’s been—” He breaks off. A muscle in his jaw jumps against his skin. “Fadil told me that the Leymak are not bound to their creator, to Octavian.”
My stomach sinks. “How does he know this?”
“Fadil claims Isis spoke to him through a priestess. That she revealed Octavian had commanded the Leymak into existence with a sacred relic of Set”—my mind flashes to the macehead I discovered in the Library—“but because he didn’t perform the creation ritual properly, they’re only aiding him in this war. They are not slaves, not like the Narcolym and Shythe are.” He turns his head toward me. A haunted look simmers in his eyes. “Octavian has offered the Leymak high ranks among his legions and land in Rome. He pays for their service, and they fight battles for him. They are rewarded, Star.”
A pang hits my chest. I bite down on my bottom lip, searching for the right words to calm Phoenix. Knowledge of Kythan able to live freely among men, with no binds to command their power—is dangerous. Why would Fadil reveal this information to him? To any Kythan? But especially a Narco. Of the two races, Narcos despise their slavery the most, as it goes against their free nature—the nature of the sun god Ra whose flame is free to burn at will.
I remind myself this is Phoenix. Even though he’s a Narco, he’s first my friend.
Phoenix shakes his head. “Never mind.” He laughs darkly. “I forget the Shythe are content worshiping their masters. Like Alexander proclaimed, you’re above us—created from Zeus himself—part the great Alexander’s legacy. Of course the superior Shythe are happy.”
Blowing out a tense breath, I select my words carefully. “You know I don’t believe in that nonsense.” And I don’t. I respect the late Alexander, but his claims are as farfetched as his mother’s—declaring him to be the son of Zeus after she was struck by lightning while pregnant. “And besides, wasn’t it Alexander who said the Narcolym were descended from Apollo? Don’t forget that, oh, descendant of the great sun god.”
He laughs, and the sound loosens the vise gripping my chest. “I love how they put down the Romans and their beliefs, yet they are just like them, twisting everything to meet their needs for their gods.”
I comb my fingers through his hair. “You’re right. They all twist our ancestry to meet their needs of worship. It’s been the way of it. Even the legend of Osiris has changed through the centuries to fit the peoples’ needs.” I take a breath, gaining my ground. “But we know the truth. Though slaves, we’re our own beings, special—not like them. That is why they try to put divine claim to us. They fear what they cannot understand; something created from the magics.”
His eyes hold mine. “Set was evil until his power was used to create us.” The fire pit in the corner crackles. The room freezes with the sound. “Does that mean we’re evil? Does that mean because the Ptolemies believe Octavian is evil, that the Leymak are evil? What is evil? If yo
u ask me”—he lifts his chin—“evil is humans taking power from their gods to create slave races to fight their wars. Maybe Fadil is right. Maybe it’s time for the slaves to take a stand and cleanse Egypt of the evilness of man.”
I bound up, looking around my chamber as if I can pluck his words from the air and hide them. “I’ll forget you said that, Phoenix. Those words were never uttered.” I turn and start toward the door, shivers crawling along my skin.
“Star,” he calls, and I halt just outside my room. His footsteps bring him close, the warmth of his body—his power—presses against my back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m behaving so. It’s never bothered me before.”
His hand rests on my arm, his fingers caressing my armband. My heart twinges, and I wish I could remedy this for him. “It’s difficult right now,” I say. “But when the queen returns, all will be right. I promise.”
“You’re right.”
I spin to face him. “Phoenix . . .?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Swear to me that you won’t mention Fadil’s claims about the Leymak to any of the Narcos. I know nothing can come of it—but still. There’s no reason to announce this, as it will only cause a divide among the races, as well as the guardians and their masters.”
His features twist into a wounded expression. “Star, I would never do such a thing.”
“I know,” I rush to assure him. “I just need to hear it, as things seem so muddled lately.”
He nods. “I swear. I will keep my fat mouth shut.”
I smile. “It really will be all right once the queen returns.”
“I believe you.” He steps ahead of me, saying over his shoulder, “I probably just need a good romp.”
The theatre is dark. The candelabras’ flames dance along the sides, licking black smudges against the walls. The stone tiered benches wrap around the semicircular enclosure, the sky open along the far side, cloaked by night.
Julius Caesar commissioned the theatre before his demise. It’s traditional Roman style, but hieroglyphs carved on the free-standing columns stringing a heavy red curtain, and Greek writings sewn on tapestries hung against the walls, make it another colossal greatness of Alexandria.
I spy Xarion’s crowned head in the top, center row. Lunia and Nuri—another Narco Guardian of the royal children—sit on either side of the twins, and little Delphus rests in his nurse’s lap. Xarion reaches over and tickles Selene. She beams, her features exultant, her laughter bouncing through the theatre. These are not masters and pharaohs and humans that command us—they are family. They’re my family, and I would protect them against Octavian or any other enemy whether or not the ink on my neck demanded it of me.
I raise my head and look over the citizens seating themselves, their voices carrying through the dark, as Phoenix and I move up the tiers. Fadil is not here, not that he ever leaves the palace, but I’m especially thankful of that tonight. I’m boiling over with rage about what he told Phoenix, and I wonder who else he’s spoken this sacrilege to. He could ignite a rebellion. Not much of one, because the Kythan could never fight their masters. But what if they tried?
We would all be destroyed—executed for treason.
Blinking the frightening image away, I find a seat beside Xarion. “I have their gifts back at the palace,” I whisper. “Should I have brought them?” The talk with Phoenix upset me so, I forgot to grab them.
He shakes his head, a faint smile lighting his face in the darkness. “I’m not giving them mine until after dinner.”
I nod and look out over the platform. A group of Narcos linger off to the side of the curtain while props are arranged on the forestage. A hand slips into mine, and my heart jumps. I look down as Xarion’s fingers thread through mine, our hands hidden beneath his cape and the dark. For just this moment, I try to forget our arguments and strained friendship and tighten my fingers around his, our palms anchored together, welcoming the spike of adrenaline at his touch.
Low drumming fills the theatre, and the candelabras are covered with fumed glass, dousing the light. A spark of Flame ignites in the center of the stage as the curtains are pulled back. A Shythe guardian dressed as Helen of Troy glides across the boarded stage, her thin linen tunic sheer and ruffling behind her like mist in the breeze. Her arms illume blue, and she raises her hands to the heavens, calling a crack of thunder from the sky—her Charge electrifying the air above her.
Steam devices pump in the background. An automaton powered by Flame creates a mist that coats the floor. A statue of Shu stands off to the side, his lips parting and closing as fog spills from his mechanical mouth. Its smoky tendrils waft upward, turning the scene into a haunted recreation of the Mediterranean, dark and beautiful, as the actors push a carved ship hull across the length of the stage.
I glance at Selene and Helios. This is their favorite play, and it’s being performed in honor of their birthday. My chest swells with affection for them as their excited features are bathed in light from the Flame and Charge. A loud boom sounds, and I look back to the performance in time to see one of the Shythe actors demonstrating Zeus’s powerful thunderbolt. He’s Achilles, and he’s being blessed by the god to fight the Trojans.
Lost in the play, I barely feel Xarion’s hand grip mine tighter. But I pull myself away and peek at him as he inches toward my ear. “Come with me.”
A tingle prickles my back, zinging up my spine. I take shallow breaths, then nod slightly. I rise and move past Phoenix, ignoring his curious glare, as Xarion touches the small of my back and guides me toward the back of the theatre.
“What is it?” I ask once we reach the far wall.
Xarion touches his finger to his lips, then yanks me behind a tapestry into a corner alcove. The air is still, and the music and sounds from the stage are muffled. He presses close to me, the heat of his body sending chills skittering across my skin.
“I couldn’t bear being so close to you and not being able to talk,” he whispers, his warm breath caresses my lips as he bends close. “It’s been torture these past months. I’ve tried to focus on my duties, but you’re always so near yet so far. I hate this gulf between us.” He takes my hands in his, rubbing their backs. “I can’t continue on like this.”
My throat grows thick, and I swallow down the aching lump. Meeting his eyes, I attempt a smile. “Xarion, this is the way of it. As I said before, we’re no longer children.” His face contorts in hard lines, his lips pressed together, but I push on. “I’m your guardian. I miss our friendship, too. So much most days . . . but I can’t.” I shake my head. “Please don’t make this more complicated. I just have to protect you and you have to become King. It’s the way it is.”
“Our friendship,” he scoffs with a low chuckle.
“Yes, Xarion. You’ve been my closest friend, and I care for you. Why can’t we have a professional relationship, also? What is bothering you? You take no issue being Habi’s master, or even Phoenix’s or Lunia’s. That is how you must treat us, like I’m your servant—because I am.”
His eyes pinch in anger, and I step back. “How can you not know my feelings for you? Do you think I would risk my crown for just a friend?”
My head rears back, and I blink.
“Star—” He groans and runs a hand over his face. When his eyes meet mine again, he sighs. “I have turned down every offer of courtship from my selected betrothals—all because of my feelings for you. I’ve spent months, years trying to figure out a way for us—” He bites off his words, throws his hands up in frustration.
The air stills in my lungs; I can’t breathe. He’s just admitted his feelings for me, and I can’t form an intelligible thought.
“We’ll leave Alexandria,” he continues, and I look into his serious face, my shock complete. “If that’s the only way, then so be it. It’s probably for the best anyway. Then Octavian’s war is futile. His fabricated reason for war will be moot.” His green eyes seek mine through the dark fringe of his lashes. “If I’m gone
, then Octavian can claim the throne, and my family will be safe. All of Alexandria will be safe.”
Through the rush of emotions and the drumming of my heart in my ears, one thought breaks through: Xarion does not want to be Pharaoh.
He claimed he’d give up his crown to free me that day in the Library. And his sneaking out to the feast before. Dodging his responsibilities. He does not want to be Pharaoh. More so, I care for him, but how can he do this now? Now when everything is against him, the country, and us. The timing is wrong. It may always be wrong.
The unfairness of our situation takes hold of me, and anger seizes my senses.
“You’re so selfish,” I snap.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Selfish? That’s your reply?”
“Yes.” I tap his chest with my finger, trying to control my Charge as his broad collar bites into my skin. “You’ve never taken your position seriously. This is not just about you or me or us, it’s about Egypt. It’s about the people you aim to rule. Don’t use me as an excuse to back out of your obligations. I find that more offensive than my status as a slave could ever be.”
His mouth drops open. “You think I’m using you as an excuse to shirk my duties? Well, it’s nice to know what you truly think of me.” He grabs my hand and lowers it from his chest, holding it a moment longer than needed before releasing it.
“We need to be focused on Octavian’s legions while the queen is at war.” I huff out a deep breath. “I can’t do that, or my duty, if I allow anything to come between us. And”—I stumble over my words as they spill hastily—“I’m scared, too, but we have to keep our wits and you have to be Pharaoh. You’re selfish because you never once considered me—what would happen if your fleeting thoughts of me got out.” I cringe at the thought of what the Council would do to him. “If you care for me at all, treat me like a slave. Just make it easier on the both of us. I can handle being treated like that. It’s what’s expected.”
Astarte's Wrath (Kythan Guardians) Page 6