She watched as the ship cleaved the water, out of the bay and into the open expanse of the sea of Thleen. She watched the ship until it disappeared into the haze of the horizon. She watched the ship carry Jorrell away from her, for years, maybe forever.
She would have to find a new hiding place in her new house. She would not be living at the palace after her marriage, and Serwren did not think she would ever be able to return to the Moon Cave now. The jagged pieces of her shattered heart stabbed at her lungs at the mere thought of the memories held in that once sacred place.
~o0o~
The midnight marble floor of the palace ballroom was polished to a mirror shine. The effect was dizzying as the shimmering reflections of the whirling dancers flickered in between the rainbows thrown by a thousand candles casting their light through prisms of crystal. The insubstantial illusions were as tangible as air, a befitting vision for the goddess that the ball was being held to honour.
Serwren stood in the midst of one of the most beautiful spectacles that she knew to exist, and wished to be anywhere else. She would rather have been wearing her oldest clothes and been tucked in the dusty straw, listening to the gentle thud of her mare’s heartbeat, than on show as if she were a prize sow at a village fair.
She had dreamed of this night over and over, but in her dreams she had been twirling around the floor in Jorrell’s arms, looking for an opportune time for them to escape without being noticed, so that they could hide in the shadows of the palace gardens.
The mingled scents of perfumes and colognes, and the underlying musk of bodies, interlaced with the strains of lutes, flutes and drums, exactly as her mind had conjured. She was wearing the dress that she had originally intended to entice Jorrell with. She had requested that the seamstresses use the silken blue fabric, the same turquoise as the shallower pools of water in the Moon Cave, knowing that it made her eyes more luminous. It was tailored to her form, admittedly a little more loosely since the last fitting, but certainly more closely aligned to her curves than her everyday clothes. A long split in the skirt that brushed the floor revealed one leg as she walked, and one arm was wrapped in fabric, while the other arm and shoulder remained bare. Because it would have been remarked upon if she had not made the effort, her hair was dressed in a cascade of tumbling curls and she had lined her eyes with black pigment.
Serwren had imagined the expressions that would appear on Jorrell’s face as she made her entrance, as the dress was both more revealing, and yet almost as demure, as the clothes that she usually wore. Even before they had planned that Jorrell would ask her father for her hand on marriage this night, Serwren had wanted to appear worthy of being his bride. She had imagined his fingers tracing over the skin of her bare arm and shoulder as they danced, tantalising her in a room full of oblivious people. Now, she felt overtly exposed.
Serwren could not hide from the people thronging the room, but she had removed herself to stand by one of the windows. She could keep her back to the wall there and so avoid anyone, particularly Erkas, from appearing near her without her knowledge. As the daughter of the First Father, she was as visible as she was prepared to make herself. She could not twist her features into an expression of enjoyment. The best she could manage was to keep her face carefully blank. She knew that her father was unhappy with both her unfriendly demeanour and with her retreat to the edges of the gathering, but Serwren considered that to be his problem more than hers. She was making a superhuman effort not to run screaming from the room; she could not possibly do more.
Her father was beckoning her over now. He was going to make the announcement of her betrothal. Serwren took a deep breath and pushed away from the wall. She skirted the crowd on her way to the dais on which her father stood. As she began to mount the steps, Erkas appeared beside her. Serwren flinched, and would have drawn away, but she was elevated above the main floor now, and anything she did would be witnessed by everyone in the room. Every muscle in her body clenched in revulsion and fear, and her heart began to race, but outwardly she appeared unaffected.
“Are you enjoying yourself, sister? This is a momentous night, is it not?”
“Yes, brother, it is.” She had to grit out the familial term. And yes, she supposed the callous disposal of her freedom did qualify as a momentous occasion. She could not give voice to the lie that she was enjoying herself; he knew very well that she wasn’t.
“Consul Bornsig will indeed make a distinguished husband.”
Serwren was saved from having to respond to the sneer in his voice, saved from having to defend a fiancé she had no desire to defend, by her arrival at the top of the platform. She did not say anything to Erkas, or to her father, as she took her place by Dimacius’ side.
The Master of Ceremonies, liveried in full-skirted, wide-sleeved coat of scarlet silk edged with gold brocade, called for attention and the room hushed.
Serwren did not pay attention to the words that her father spoke as he made the announcement that she was to be married to Consul Bornsig. She concentrated on keeping her chin high and on holding back the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks. She would not make an exhibition of her turmoil for this crowd. Her father took her hand, which might have been a foreign tree limb for all Serwren was aware, and placed it in the outstretched palm of the older man she was to wed. The consul, looking even more corpulent than usual in his tightly fitting ceremonial dress, with his drooping jowls framed by straggly grey hair that brushed his shoulders, showed more enthusiasm than was strictly respectable when he tugged Serwren to his side. She held her breath to avoid inhaling the stink of his rank body odour.
The crowd broke into applause as the consul laid a slobbering kiss on her lips. Serwren made enough of a pretence at a response to hide her disgust, but no more than that.
“Dear girl, you look most delectable.” The consul licked his lips wetly as he spoke at her ear. “Such a ripe fruit, I can hardly wait to pluck.”
The clapping reached a crescendo, hiding the consul’s murmured words from any ears but her own. Serwren could not stifle the shudder that ran through her, but the consul only laughed at the evidence of her discomfort.
He conducted her down to the steps to the floor of the ballroom. The applause made way for the instruments as they began to crash out what, at one time, Serwren would have considered to be a joyful and celebratory tune. Now it was no more lively than a funeral dirge as the consul lumbered around the floor, dragging her with him in a semblance of some dance steps. Serwren endeavoured to keep up on light feet, because if she paused a moment too long between steps, the consul’s hand slipped from her waist to squeeze one cheek of her backside as if to encourage her. Serwren cursed again the lack of the full skirt that would have been more of a barrier between her flesh and the consul’s grasping hand.
When the music ended, Serwren was horrified to see Erkas tapping on the consul’s shoulder to request the next dance with her. She couldn’t refuse; she would have to endure. The band flooded the room with their tunes again, competing with the chatter of the happy crowd, as Erkas guided her into the steps, with no more appropriate a hold on her than the consul. Serwren felt the bile rise in her throat, but swallowed it back. She had done her duty now, she would feign a headache, retire to her room and bar the door, as soon as the music stopped.
She couldn’t help commenting, though, on the extremely good humour that Erkas appeared to be in. Contrary to the last time she had been so close to him, when he had been full of a mad rage, he now seemed almost gleeful. Curiosity got the better of her hatred.
“It’s strange that you’re not so jealous of my husband-to-be, brother.”
Erkas threw his head back to loose his chuckle. She had obviously amused him. “Such an aged buffoon is no threat to me, sister.” Erkas’ hand began to slide down the curve of her waist. Instead of gauchely squeezing her as her fiancé had done, he let his palm rest proprietarily on the swell below her hip. “No threat at all.”
There was a pa
use as the musicians finished the piece they were playing and collected themselves for the next performance. Serwren immediately tried to step away from Erkas, but he held tight to her hand and hip. She tried to wrest from his grip, but his smile mocked her. He intended to dance with her again, and she could not get free of him without making a scene. As the light in his eyes gained heat Serwren began to panic, feeling her heartbeat jump into her throat.
“Mistress Serwren, would you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
Serwren was jerked out of the wave of terror that had crashed over her by the light touch of another’s hand on her bare arm. She whirled, too quickly for politeness, to find Consul Seddrill by her side. Serwren had to look up to meet the consul’s eyes; he was slight of build and unusually tall, even Erkas had to tilt his head to look him in the face. Serwren had never before spoken to the envoy from Vuthron, but at that moment, a pack of ravening hounds would have been preferable company.
“Of course, Consul.”
Erkas was momentarily distracted, no doubt trying to come up with a reason why Serwren should continue as his partner. Serwren used that second of confusion to disentangle herself. She placed her hand in the consul’s proffered one and followed him further onto the dance floor.
As the other couples took up the steps of the traditional dance, one that was somewhat slower than the turn she had just taken with Erkas, Serwren fell into step with the consul. As they passed the long tables that had been laden with all manner of delicacies for the guests to eat at their leisure, Serwren caught sight of her intended groom. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for her to dance with another man, not of her family, on the night of her engagement, but Consul Bornsig had eyes only for the plate he had piled almost to overflowing with food. Serwren mentally shrugged and turned all her attention to the man she was dancing with.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” Consul Seddrill said kindly with a small smile, mistaking her discomfort for the result of his proximity.
Serwren blushed. She was not friendly with all of the consuls, only those that she had reason to interact with on a regular basis, and even then, it was more respect than friendship, but she would not have sought conversation with Seddrill. She had learned of the brutal traditions that Vuthroans enjoyed, during her studies.
“I didn’t think...” Serwren stuttered.
Seddrill chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m used to it. I’ve lived in Thrissia for more years than I care to count, and still everyone seems to think I’ll fasten my teeth to their neck, given the merest hint of opportunity.”
Serwren had learned of the blood toasts, but her tutor for the subject, Consul Securan, had been disparaging of such barbarity and hadn’t expanded much on the actual details. Seddrill chuckled again, and Serwren knew that he had seen the desire to ask the question flash behind her eyes. Although Seddrill’s features were sharp and pointed, his brown eyes were warm. Serwren felt a little ashamed of her ignorance, but not terribly uncomfortable.
“We take blood from the wrist.” Serwren’s bare arm was resting along the arm that the consul had lowered so that he could hold her waist. Her right arm was outstretched, her hand clasped in his. He turned his grip slightly and rubbed his thumb over the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. Serwren felt that touch along her whole limb, but still she did not feel as threatened by this dance partner as she had by the previous two.
“Why do you take it all? Surely you derive no nourishment from it?” The consul’s friendly demeanour gave Serwren the confidence to indulge her curiosity.
“No, we don’t. It’s really very much a tradition. I’m sure you’ve been taught that my people were once flesh eaters?”
“That you were cannibals? Yes. Our tutor laboured that point in much detail.”
“I can guess who that was,” Seddrill muttered. “It’s the natural progression of any civilisation to become more refined in its habits, and really, the eating of flesh became unsustainable as Vuthron prospered and its population grew. But we were loath to reject our history and traditions completely, and there is a belief that the drinking of blood maintains the magic in our royal line.”
“Is it true that they can raise armies from the buried dead?”
“Yes, although it takes great strength and power to do so. Not all of our monarchs have been able to exercise the magic equally.”
“Can King Kavrazel use the power well?” Serwren asked, intrigued by the insight that Seddrill was offering.
“Yes. Our current monarch is one of the most powerful that has ever been seen. Have you ever been to Vuthron?”
Serwren didn’t snort, that wouldn’t have been ladylike, but the scoffing sound that she made conveyed the ridiculousness of such a question. Seddrill laughed again.
“Of course the First Father would never allow his precious daughter into the dark lands.” Seddrill was not unkind in his accurate surmisation. He looked over Serwren’s head. “Which is why it makes no sense that he would discard you to that glutton.”
Serwren didn’t need to look to know that her future husband would probably have reached the point of refilling his plate and that his mouth and chin would be bearing the evidence of what he had just eaten. “Apparently I’m of an age where my future must be decided.”
“Really?” Seddrill arched one finely shaped brow. “And you are in perfect accord with this decision?”
Serwren answered that question by raising one of her own eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Of course not.” The consul lowered his voice. Serwren had to concentrate to hear him over the music and chatter. “I heard about Jorrell being sent away. I disagree with the manner in which it was done, but I think ultimately it may be exactly the experience in life he needs to break out of your coddled shell.”
Serwren tried to pull away, insulted by the consul’s words, but Seddrill held her tight with surprising strength for one so slim.
“No. Don’t take offence. You know I’m right. And I know that you, too, are now to face your own trials, which will mould you into a very different woman than the one you were destined to become. There are two things you need to bear in mind always, Serwren, even in despair. There is always opportunity, even during the worst torture, and you are not without friends, no matter how alone you may feel. Remember that,” Consul Seddrill advised, and released her as the dance ended.
Out of the corner of one eye, Serwren saw her father approaching them. He did not look pleased, and she guessed she was about to receive a lecture in appropriate conduct. She turned, her mouth open to speak, she wanted to ask Seddrill more, but he had melted into the crowd.
Chapter Eight
The Lieutenants that organised the new recruits and commanded the ship said it was character-building, that it instilled teamwork and discipline and developed strength, that it was necessary. Jorrell didn’t doubt that the tradition of forcing the new recruits to man the oars of the army ship was necessary, but he thought it had less to do with building character, and a lot more to do with breaking their spirits.
By the end of the first day, his palms were open wounds, raw and bleeding, from the constant rub of the smooth wooden pole in his grasp. The oar itself was slick with his blood and that of his comrades on either side. By the time they pulled the oars in for the night, it was almost impossible to maintain any sort of grasp on the implement. The muscles of his upper body, from his abdomen to his neck, ached as though he had never used them before in his life.
They were packed, three men to each bench, and the benches lined both sides of the narrow vessel, with a channel between, barely wide enough for one man to walk along. At night, weather permitting, the main sail would be dropped to harness the winds to do the work of powering the ship. There were no sleeping quarters, no hammocks. The recruits were expected to get their rest sat upright on the rough benches. Some of the boys and men had already slumped against the sides of the ship and against each other.
Exhaustion had overwhelmed
his appetite, but when Jorrell was handed his pitiful ration of hard bread and even harder cheese he made sure to eat it, knowing that if he tried to hide it, it would most likely be stolen. He thought there was a chance that some of the meaner recruits might try to take it from him; indeed, he could already hear the muffled exclamations of shock, dismay and anger as some were relieved of their portions. None of the lieutenants intervened in the bullying.
It was a hell that he’d never known, and there were still a moon's span of days during which the torture would have to be endured. It would be worse if the wind did not rise, they would have no recourse but to row the whole distance. They had already sailed past the Neldinean Pool; that had been interesting. Avoiding the whirlpool itself and the shoals on either side of it had necessitated careful navigation. A lieutenant had stood at the helm of the ship, in the galleys, and had bawled instructions to raise or lower oars, to bring them into the belly of the ship and when to extend them again.
Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1) Page 9