Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  “The Aphorain Eraz extends his warmest invitation to the capital on this auspicious occasion. It is imperative we send imperial representation.”

  Galen, the imperial wife from Trel, inspects her manicured nails. “Auspicious?”

  “Fortuitous. Lucky. Once in a generation,” Shari snaps. She and Galen have long fulfilled their duty to provide the Emperor with imperial sons, so there’s no sanction against their romantic interests finding each other. But Shari always seems to overcompensate in front of Nisai lest she be seen to officially show favoritism to a rival province. Then Aphorai, her home province, might sanction her. Even replace her on the Council.

  “Oh! Indeed!” Galen nods, her braids—as gold as Trelian wheat fields—staying neatly arranged atop her head. Her eagerness makes me wish Shari wasn’t so harsh on her in public.

  Nisai clasps his hands in front of him. “Our great-uncle is magnanimous. And it heartens me that the Council will be honoring the imperial commitment to our province. I am at your disposal to assist with preparations for the delegation, cognizant of my father’s needs. His journey will not be easy, but there are ways to ensure it is as comfortable as possible.”

  Shari taps a scroll against the tabletop. “The Council requests you assist in a different manner, First Prince.”

  “Of course, Councillor,” Nisai addresses his mother formally.

  Shari looks around the table, making eye contact with her four counterparts before returning her gaze to her son. “Let’s be frank. It’s time you took over some of your father’s duties.”

  “Councillor, the Emperor is still very much alive.” Nisai’s loosely interlaced fingers lock together.

  “We both know that Kaddash isn’t going to leave the palace again until his body is borne to the heights of the temple.”

  Nobody has uttered it, but I’d wager my swords that everyone in this room has thought it—the longer Kaddash lingers, the worse off the Empire. But it was the Council who had named him to the throne as worthier than his brothers, just as they had named his father and his father’s father and every Emperor going back to the edge of memory.

  The Founding Accord has served its purpose for centuries, ensuring the most powerful position in the Empire is drawn from a different province each generation. Local dynasties can’t overreach their bounds. Border disputes are tamped down before they ignite, lest the Emperor’s office, and the imperial army that comes with it, fall to a slighted neighbor on the next turn.

  It’s assured relative stability across the Empire, allowing people with the wits and means to find ways to prosper. Though those with means without wits, or wits without means—well, that’s another story. One I’d rather keep behind me.

  Shari slices her hand through the silence. “Aramtesh waits for no man. Your father included.” They’re carefully chosen words, with truth and treason separated by a blade’s edge.

  “Indeed, Mother. But I’m still unsure what the Council needs from me.”

  “We’re lifting the seclusion order.”

  I’ve always found Shari’s decisiveness reassuring. Until now. Lifting the order? What is she thinking?

  “Forgive me, Mother, but can you do that?”

  Shari pushes the scroll she’s been holding across the table. “By unanimous agreement, the Council of Five can overturn an imperial decree in situations where not doing so poses a risk to the principles of the Founding Accord. Much has changed since your confinement to the palace. I wish it weren’t so, but your safety is no longer the most important thing at stake.”

  Nisai looks shocked. “You undermined Father?”

  Two seats from Shari, Esmez leans forward. The Hagmiri imperial wife is the very picture of matronly motherliness, contrasting with Shari’s statuesque poise. “We didn’t need to exploit the legal loophole, sweetness.” Esmez speaks in soft tones as if calming a spooked animal. “The Emperor signed the document. His physician forbids him from making the journey in his condition. So, don’t worry yourself. At least not on your pa’s account.”

  “Also,” Shari adds, “your brother has been recalled. He should be with us within a half-moon. The Rangers will need no more than three days to resupply. Then you’ll leave. Together.”

  Galen veritably beams with pride at Shari’s mention of her son. As the only imperial child ineligible to inherit—given his mother and the Emperor hail from the same province—Prince Iddo could have done much worse than rise through the ranks to become Commander of the Imperial Rangers. Or maybe Galen’s just excited to see her son—all the other wives must visit with theirs outside the capital since the seclusion order.

  “It wouldn’t be a good show of faith to send the Ekasyan palace guard,” Shari explains. “Too partisan. But the Rangers are drawn from across Aramtesh to serve the whole Empire. You’ll have your personal staff. And Ashradinoran, of course.”

  I cringe at the sound of my full name, even if Shari only uses it for the sake of the scribe sitting in the corner. These are official proceedings. And officially, I’m the Shield to the heir of Aramtesh. His closest guard. Sworn by ancient law and, like all Shields before me, marked for life with my charge’s family sigil. The stylized winged lion tattooed over my body—fanged head to feathered arms and clawed heels—binds me to defend the Prince at all costs.

  Unofficially, I’d willingly go to the sky if at any point there was a choice to be made between me and him. Even if I’ve returned the favor several times already, it was Nisai who first saved my life with his silence, and his friendship saves me anew with each passing day.

  Now Nisai veritably bounces on the balls of his feet. I can’t blame him for being excited. He’s just been handed permission to leave Ekasya’s palace complex for the first time in turns, since Kaddash first knocked on death’s door and the Council did something that history has never witnessed: prematurely named the Emperor’s successor, bringing on the seclusion order.

  For a heartbeat, I think Aramtesh’s next ruler is going to run around the table hugging each of the Council members in turn. Then he contains himself. “I thank the Council for its confidence in me.”

  I can only stand there, blinking, mouth opening and closing like a river cod caught in a net. In twelve days, the First Prince will be leaving the palace for the first time in as many turns of the starwheel.

  That gives me eleven days to talk him out of it.

  Mint, leather, rosemary, sweat.

  I cling to Father’s shoulders as he carries me through the streets, taking us deeper and deeper into Aphorai City. Every soldier we pass nods to their commander, fist to chest, respect so sure it could be engraved on their features. They don’t seem to pay any mind to the torrent of aroma and stench surging around us. To them, it’s nothing but a gentle stream babbling in the background. But to me, the flood of odors turns Aphorai’s broadest avenue into a mighty river—rushing at me, over me, a wall of water roaring down from the mountains at snowmelt.

  If I don’t scramble free, find some clear air, I’ll be engulfed. The invisible hand of panic clamps around my throat. My breaths come short and sharp. Is this what it feels like to realize you’re going to drown? I can’t—

  Control it, I tell myself, scrunching my eyes shut and pinching my nostrils together. Now, one at a time. Single them out. Found one? Hold tight. Count. Inhale … mint. Exhale … leather. That’s it. Breathe. Just breathe.

  I’ve regained a semblance of calm by the time we reach the walls of the temple complex. Father lifts me from his shoulders. When we face each other, I notice he stands only a head taller than me. Are we on a staircase? No, a level path. Strange.

  “You’ll have to walk on your own from here, little one.”

  “But I want to stay with you.” Tears prick my eyes. “Please.”

  His only reply is to drape a necklace over my head—a silver chain and locket. My eyes widen at the locket’s delicate engraving, tiny stars strewn across the metal as if it were cast from a piece of the night sky. I throw my
arms around Father. “Thank you.”

  “Open it.”

  I do as he says. On one side, there’s an empty balm container. I bring it to my nose. Nothing.

  “When you’re old enough, you can choose your own.” He points to the other side, the lid, lined with a tiny portrait of a woman. “Your mother.”

  I can’t remember her scent, so have no chance at recalling her image. But if she did look like the cameo, she was striking. Noble forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones. A set to her jaw that warned of a will implacable as stone beneath the smile.

  “You grow to look more like her each day.”

  I take a closer look. I think he sees what he wants to see. Though there’s no denying my eyes are set in the same slightly-wider-than-I’d-like way, and that my hair grows in flyaway strands that make it a battle keeping it off my face, let alone trying to tame it into sleek braids. Even now, frizz tickles at my nose. I swipe it away with a scowl.

  Father laughs softly. “You have her temper, too.”

  At least that sounds like the truth.

  “What did she wear?” I ask, holding out the locket, balm container facing up.

  His weathered face takes on a wistful cast. “Desert rose.”

  Like countless times before, I close my eyes and try to remember. Desert rose. With a hint of cardamom for richness? Maybe a note of black pepper to make it her own? That could be it. Was it? I don’t know. And if it was, why can I only smell lavender? Lavender filling my nose, my sinuses, my throat. Lavender meant to calm the injured. To soothe babies to sleep. But by the six hells, this lavender burns.

  I surge awake, gasping for air. The girl leaning over me jerks back. She’s dressed in yellow, but the fabric that slides across my arm is as smooth as water.

  Silk? For a servant?

  Satisfied that I’ve come to, the girl straightens and stoppers a small glazed pot.

  Smelling salts.

  Something itches at the corner of my fogged mind as I realize I’m lying on my back, cold marble under me. My eyes trace the fanciest reed-woven ceiling I’ve ever seen, a five-spoked candlewheel above me casting a single pool of light in the room. The only item of furniture I can see is a low stone bench piled with blue cushions—indigo, cobalt, azure, and then some.

  With a few more breaths, the assault of ammonia on my nose gives way to the warm richness of Aphorai’s prized incense. It’s the pure kind, not that coarse powdered version they burn in the streets.

  Dragon’s blood.

  It worked. I’m here.

  I shove myself into a sitting position and press the heels of my palms to my temples, head clanging like someone clashed cymbals between my ears. By the time the ringing subsides, the servant girl has retreated into the shadows. It’s doubtful I would have noticed the two guards hulking there were it not for the pungent waves of stale garlic and last night’s beer they’re sweating.

  Whether it’s the thought of them having worse headaches than I do, or the residual effects of the concoction I swallowed, I begin to laugh. It’s more mad than merry, and the movement sends pain shooting down my neck. I bring my hand up with a wince. Guess I strained it when I passed out.

  It’s then that I recognize the prickling feeling of being watched. Sized up.

  Fine. I’ve played the game so far. No point in pulling out now.

  “Mandragora,” I say to anyone listening beyond the flickering candlelight. But my voice is hoarse and barely carries. I clear my throat and try again. “It was mandragora you slipped me, wasn’t it? Masked with bitter melon.”

  Nothing. Then, from the shadows, comes slow, deliberate applause.

  “Bravo.”

  I snort.

  “Truly. I don’t know another nose in this city that could have deduced that.”

  The man who could only be Zakkurus emerges from the gloom. Tall and lithe, the dark silk of his robe blooms with tiny lilies in silver thread. His midnight hair is pulled back with a silver band, the fine features cast in pale hue of a life lived sheltered from the desert. With sinuous grace, he crosses the floor, lips curled in a smile. It’s subtle, but I wonder if he stains them with pomegranate. Given the intricate swirls of rur ink outlining his eyes—cold and lapis blue in the candlelight—I wouldn’t be surprised.

  So the rumors are true. Aphorai’s chief perfumer is as beautiful as he is reclusive. Younger than I thought, too. I’d never really believed someone could rise through the ranks that fast. But as he settles on the cushioned bench before me, my skepticism is shaken. He couldn’t have seen a handful of turns more than me.

  Zakkurus folds one long leg over the other and silently regards me. I resist flinching when he reaches forward and cups my chin. His skin is incredibly soft, and so is his scent. The fleeting freshness of violet water spills over me. It sends my imagination away from this strange dark room, away from this situation, so that I’m strolling through a garden in the cool of morning, new dawn dancing colors in the fountains, rare blooms in each terraced bed waiting to unfurl in the sun. I sigh and the scent dissipates, leaving only my longing and envy as its echo.

  Zakkurus turns my head, inspecting me like a pack animal in the auction pens. “Did they hurt you, petal?” The perfumer’s gaze flicks toward the hungover guards. “I told them you weren’t to be harmed. But someone in my position must be ever so careful when receiving unofficial guests.”

  “I’m not exactly a—”

  “Delicate flower?”

  I shrug.

  “No,” Zakkurus says, lounging back on the cushions, gaze taking a languid wander from my dust-crusted boots to where my hair escapes its wrap. “You wouldn’t have made it this far if you were.” And with that, he pulls a bag into his lap and begins to examine its contents.

  My satchel.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Barden’s voice. Be careful. I shake my head, trying to clear the last of the wooliness.

  “Well then, my indelicate flower, care to tell me how you stumbled across a small fortune of pure desert rose oil?”

  I meet his eyes. Don’t flinch now, Rakel. “I made it.”

  I’m damn proud of it, too. An entire season of scrabbling through canyons, harvesting by my own hand. It’s the purest I’ve ever refined, far better than the cloudy dregs found in the market after the best stuff is shipped off to the imperial capital. The secret? Oil, not water. Unless you want to send it straight to the sky, there’s no point distilling rose petals, boiling and steaming their essence from them. That’s too aggressive. Violent, even. Things go much better if you coax the scent out. Gently. They have to want to give up their perfume. Press them between layers of solid fat over days, not hours, and that’s what they do.

  Not that I’m about to volunteer that information.

  Zakkurus is still smiling, but his eyes have hardened to sapphires. “Come, now. Business associates must afford one another respect. Particularly those who have the … vision to bypass imperial regulations, no?”

  Respect. Easy to demand, hard to give. I nod grudgingly.

  “Lovely to know we’re burning the same taper. Now, where did you get this?”

  “I. Made. It. You haven’t even checked for the maker’s mark. Where’s the respect in that?”

  Blue eyes bore into me.

  I hope they don’t notice my pulse quicken in my throat.

  He waves his hand as if swatting at a sandfly. “Leave us.” Several pairs of feet shuffle away in the darkness.

  I smirk in satisfaction when he unstoppers the lid, peering inside as if he were trying to read the stars in the bottom of a cup of kormak. Then he circles the jar under his nose. He frowns and makes another swirl, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

  “By all means, take your time.” There’s nothing preventing me from standing. Except the fact that my legs have gone to sleep. I grit my teeth and force myself up, pacing through the prickling pain, not daring to leave the pool of light.

  Zakkurus produces a sampling reed from
inside his robe. With a steady hand, he dips it in the jar, then holds it above one of the candles. The flame devours it quick as a sniff, charred remains dropping into a copper dish. He rubs the ash between thumb and forefinger, staining them gray, and gives one final huff.

  By the time he’s finished his inspection, my blood has reacquainted itself with my toes.

  “Satisfied? There’s more where that came from. Question is, are you in the market?”

  “Why are you really here, petal?”

  I’d rehearsed this over and over for moons. Just not when my mouth was so dry, my tongue this thick. I can barely swallow down my nerves. “The apprenticeship trials are three days from now. I—”

  “Even if your skills are what they appear, the trials favor the brats from the five families.”

  I was hoping for this: that he hadn’t forgotten who he was, where he came from. I allow myself a small smile at his disdain.

  “By Esiku’s beard, you do think you have a chance.” He throws back his head and laughs.

  Heat flushes my cheeks. The only thing stopping me from turning on my heel and storming out the door is that I’m not sure where the door is.

  I claw back my temper. “Have I ever botched an order? No. You make good money from me, Zakkurus. Hear me out, and you could make more. Much more.”

  He raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “Tell me the final fabrication test.”

  “You’re asking me to help you cheat in my own selection trials? Has all that dreadfully hot out-of-town sun withered your wits?”

  “I prefer ‘leveling the field.’ If I win, you can be as sure as scat stinks that you’ve selected the best of the best new apprentices, not just the ones that could afford a full kit. Imagine the reputation I could help you build. Catch the attention of the capital. Put Aphorai back on the map.”

  His eyes widen ever so slightly. I’m getting somewhere.

  “And if you lose?”

  I hold up a jar of desert rose oil. “It’s not just this. I’ve already tested the method on white ginger blossom. Jasmine, too.” I point to his robe. “Bet it’d even work on water lilies.” I step past him, out of the light. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the gloom. A patterned carpet drapes down the wall—soft under my palm, worth more than a lifetime of toil for most people from my village. The bitter taste of unwanted sureness coats my tongue. There’s no other way.