Pandora confessed that she’d railed against the doctor upon finding he’d kept the secret of Jasper’s being in Paris, as a means of keeping her to himself. He’d flown off in a rage to his atelier, declaring if she were truly wise she’d shrug off this childhood romance and act like an adult. When he came back, he expected her to accept his proposal.
“I know,” she agreed. “But what do we do now? We were counting on him to help get us started. We’re back to square one.”
“We have all the time in the world,” Jasper told her, and seemed to realize it, now, for the first time. What was the rush?
“What are you suggesting?”
Jasper smiled. He brushed a hand over her soft golden hair, remembering all at once how it felt the first time he’d done it. “We don’t need a patron to attend The Sorbonne.”
“How will we live? They won’t let us take Lee.”
“I’ll work,” Jasper said, a thought that would have sent his father into a pique. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“We don’t need him,” she answered, speaking less to him than to herself. “We can do this on our own. We don’t need Archie, or my father, or your father, or anyone else who would get in the way of our dreams.”
Jasper’s heart skipped to see the girl he fell in love with reappear. “We can, Pandora. And we will.”
Pandora sidled up to him, sitting down in his lap. Her arms came around his neck. “Thank you for understanding. For coming to find me.”
“I said I would. And I always will.”
Jasper used what was left of the money he brought with him on a down payment for a small flat along the Champs-Élysées. One room, with only a hot plate and a small fridge for the kitchen, and a bathroom whose entirety would have fit in his shower stall at home. He was hired on as a shopkeeper for an antiquary, a job that both paid the bills and helped start a path toward the future he and Pandora dreamed of.
He kept work hours around their schedule at The Sorbonne, where every day his exhaustion spoke to him, telling him it would all be worth the temporary sacrifice. His discomfort rendered insignificant when measured against the size of their dreams.
At nights, he would return to their homely abode and reflect on how it was the simplest things—the way Pandora moved about the flat in a white nightgown, the perfect smiles on his son’s face—that kept his world spinning, day after day.
One day, he and Pandora would change the world. They would see their dream through, and introduce a blend of magic and science such as New Orleans had never seen.
For now, though, he was perfectly content in this imperfect world of their loving creation.
For my readers looking for a spicier interlude
I
Cyler stood upon the dais with his peers, flashing a defiant smile toward the gathered throng of Empyreans.
Many had come for this day, a celebration occurring only once every century. A shared honor, to watch the young graduates take their Mark of Emyr, and swear their vows of obeisance, for then and always, to their Father, Emyr.
The platform stood raised among the crowds, fettered with gold and crimson cloth, matching the festive pennants that streamed from building to building. The statue of Emyr towered over them, a reminder of the basis for their very existence. Their alpha, and their inevitable omega.
Cyler scanned the masses. Mostly unfamiliar faces gazed back from the blanket of crimson and gold, stretching down the mountain glacier and into the valley below. The majority of Empyreans left their homeland upon maturity, venturing forth into the wide world, returning only for the next hundred-year celebration releasing a newly imprinted batch of Empyreans into the world.
An Empyrean graduation held little in common with ones Cyler read about from Children of Men. Thankfully, no family fawned sloppy affection on the emotional atmosphere. Cyler last saw his own parents a century ago, when they relinquished him to the care and tutelage of the Scholars. He’d hardly thought of them since, sentiment not part of his people’s bindings.
Which is not to say the young Empyrean was without sentiment. As he listened to the Scholar’s wisdom travel on the Nordic breeze, set against the low hum of prayer, his eyes sought one other: Duke Agripin, the warrior prince.
Tales of his heroics in the Second Runean War stirred Cyler like nothing else presented in his tedious instruction. While his peers muttered about seeing the world, Cyler wanted nothing more than to be taken under the wing of his idol. If he could find but one moment to display his keen mind, geared toward tactical use, he believed the duke would mentor him without hesitation.
“Our Father of Light, our Father of Fire,” Scholar Saxon intoned, leading the throngs in yet more prayer. “We are Yours in the flames!”
Cyler dutifully repeated the words in an automated fashion. The plush velvet seat to the right of Grand Emperor Aeron remained painfully vacant. Where is he?
The frenzy of prayer increased, Empyreans swaying in their love of Our Father. Cyler’s lips moved, but his heart remained dedicated elsewhere, ten steps ahead of the events unfolding around him.
The emperor rose, spreading his arms in a universal signal ending the formal ceremony. He announced a return to the festivities in the palace banquet hall, later that evening.
Yes, Cyler decided with an inward cry of relief. The banquet. The duke would never miss a chance for celebration and excess.
Crimson and gold adorned every possible surface in the colossal banquet hall. Everything, from the décor, to the food, to the clothing allowed at the entrance, represented their most sacred colors. Gold cups, crimson chairs. The vast array of meats had been doused in ruby-colored spices; the fruits misted with golden flakes.
Rising above the chatter and stoneware, the melodic voices of minstrels and songstresses harmonized the victory songs sung after the Second Runean War. No attempt at subtlety, repeated reminders of the Senetat’s great power, and the weakness and penury assured those who dare rebel against them.
Cyler personally didn’t care much for politics, but he would whole-heartedly fight these battles, if fortune smiled upon him tonight.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, crowded into the hall, pushing forward in hopes of a favor granted by the emperor, who sat upon a ruby throne at the front and center. Cyler repressed a smile as he thought of the Grand Emperor Aeron’s face, should he approach and ask him only, Can you tell me where your son is?
A roar rose from the left, followed by contagious laughter, which rippled through the crowds. An Empyrean jumped atop one of the long tables, knocking aside some poor sot’s food and wine with his unruly boots. Covered head-to-toe in dirt, sculpted abs hidden in the grime, his presence reverberated indisputable. The flashy centurion uniform, one Cyler had only heard legend of, gleamed in garish contrast to the sea of august robes.
“Grand Duke Agripin has arrived!” someone yelled, as the room fell into momentary silence at the sight before them.
Cyler went rigid; his heart stilled. Tonight, this night, may be his only opportunity. He would have a fortnight before leaving Farjhem, but tonight… tonight was the closest he would get to his hero.
As he pushed into the throng of bodies, each gap he made closed and the path to Agripin grew denser. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to the duke, to hear about his latest exploits. The prince stayed atop the table, double-fisting bottles of whiskey as he regaled them with tales Cyler was too far away to hear.
In a moment that stopped time, the duke’s eyes fell on Cyler’s. Agripin tilted his head ever-so-slightly to the left, studying him. He winked.
A heartbeat later, the moment ended, Agripin returning to his admirers with more stories Cyler would do anything to share. Not to mindlessly pander, as most of these fools were likely doing, but to learn. To absorb all the man had to offer, and then demonstrate his own warrior heart thundered a fine complement.
Cyler’s efforts continued as the night wore on, but he never made it any closer to an audience with his idol. As dus
k turned to dark, and dark to the early light of dawn, the festivities came to an end. The evening was declared a success, for all but Cyler, who had no desire to follow the whims of the other students. His one and only aspiration lie in the caprice of the creature being carried off by faceless admirers.
Resigned to momentary failure, Cyler stepped out into the crisp morning air of Farjhem, filling his lungs. His eyes closed, he let his thoughts go entirely blank, his mind awash with the black of night itself. The time for strategy would come again. He needed to refresh.
He remained this way until he sensed the presence of another. Opening his eyes, the creature before him was robed, but in gaudy shades of magenta and turquoise, rather than the reverent crimson and gold. Eyes cast carefully down, the messenger pressed a scroll of parchment into his palm, affected a light bow, and disappeared again.
Cyler turned the correspondence over in his hand, studying the strange seal. He unrolled the paper tube.
Your presence is cordially requested at The Menagerie, on the following evening, at the hour of dusk. A messenger will arrive to escort you, where you will be treated to the pleasurable company of Duchess Oriana.
He read it again, and again, but the words offered no better clarity than the first time.
Yet in one fortuitous moment, a new hope filled Cyler as he saw another, unexpected path to the duke open before him: through his enigmatic sister.
II
The cart hit a bump, jostling Hanna momentarily airborne. Her blindfold shifted upward with the abrupt force. Light flooded her vision, blinding her in a painful flash.
No one apologized for the rough ride, but she wasn’t expecting polite kindness. She’d received no apologizes for any of the injustices done upon her since being abducted from her father’s home in Harstad, on the eve of her wedding to Johan.
Hanna had immediately known something was amiss with the two exceptionally tall redheads who arrived yesterday evening, looking to do business with her father. The impropriety of showing up unannounced at suppertime signaled their foreign nature, if their unrecognizable accent did not.
“I have only license to catch my own fish,” the patient Pieter Bergerson explained, dumbfounded at the unexpected company. Hanna scrambled to parcel out the already scarce perch into two more plates to accommodate their guests.
“We’re not here for your fish,” one of the men said.
“I hardly catch enough for the two of us,” Hanna’s father protested, oblivious to the response. “A blessing she’ll be in another man’s home in days.”
The two men exchanged a look. Then the one on the left, who had not yet spoken, leveled his gaze on Pieter. In a matter of moments, a cloud passed over her father’s expression, all the tension falling from his eyes and brow in a noticeable plunge.
With a drowsy smile, Pieter Bergerson said, “Yes, of course, Hanna is yours.”
Before Hanna could react to this terrifying shift in the visit’s tone, one of the men grasped her shoulders, immobilizing her with hardly any effort. The other pulled a hood over her head, as she was dragged from her home, without answers or a chance to understand why and how her father had given her to these men he’d only just met.
With an unexpectedly gentle nudge, in comparison to the rough handling when she was pulled from her home, she found herself hoisted into a cart. As she struggled, she rolled into another warm body, equally trussed and fraught.
“What’s going on?” she cried.
“We don’t know,” a male voice replied. His vocal chords were strained, causing her to wonder how long he’d been screaming for his freedom.
“They’ll tell us nothing,” another girl sobbed.
This was the last conversation Hanna had for two days.
As her eyes adjusted to the glare, the smell of baking bread wafted to greet her, and for one single moment, she felt safe.
“We’ve stopped,” the young man from before said, voicing a realization she was slowly coming to herself.
No time to consider what this meant, for hands were on her again, pulling her from the cart and replacing her hood. When Hanna’s knees gave out due to days of lying supine, strong arms brusquely righted her.
Alternately dragged and led, she moved from the outside to an inner building with stone floors. Their footfalls caused rippling echoes, giving the impression of a vast chamber.
When at last they stopped, a new voice pierced the silence.
“What has happened to you thus far has been against your will. Quite likely you’re terrified, hungry, and wishing for home.”
Fear squelched their murmurs of assent.
“You were chosen, however, because the lives you came from were less than tolerable. Your futures promised hardship, turmoil, and a lack of hope beyond the will to survive. We offer you much more.
“But we will not force you to stay. We only ask that you approach with an open mind so you make the decision with the whole story before you.”
Their hoods were removed. Hanna gasped at the first free breath of her journey.
“Welcome,” a beautiful, dazzling redhead said, “to The Menagerie.”
III
Cyler lay on the bed in his dormitory, at the base of the Scholar’s Temple, reflecting on all he knew of the Duchess Oriana.
The list was admittedly short.
Grand Emperor Aeron had only three children: Agripin, Oriana, and Nerys. All three were mysteries to Cyler, and to others, but none more than Oriana and her reported den of hedonism, The Menagerie.
Tales of Oriana’s juxtaposed kindness and cruelty were legend. Of her taking in human men and women and giving them sanctuary from broken lives. Of her destroying those who would threaten this same sanctuary or the power she asserted over it.
Rumors often circulated, speculating on how she chose individuals for her exclusive summons. Very few were invited, and only those individuals had seen the duchess in recent centuries. She remained in her concourse, reigning from her underground lair.
He had a fair idea of what went on in The Menagerie. Hand-chosen human men and women, brought in for the pleasures of those Empyreans fortunate enough to garner an invite. Secrecy was paramount, but stories had made their way to outside ears over the years.
Many of his peers in the Scholar’s Temple talked about The Menagerie as if there were no greater gift for their race. Passing down tales surely both true and not so, they made it seem as if life held no greater reward than being selected.
Cyler, for his part, had never given much thought to his own sexual desires. His heart lay in battle. In strategic command. Everything else was a useless distraction.
But, as all the best tacticians understood, to achieve your goals you often had to take unexpected routes.
He set the parchment down on the chest beside him.
Tomorrow, then.
IV
The first day in the unknown land occurred behind the obscuration of blindfolds.
Hanna and her fellow captives were ushered into a room that, though she could not see with her eyes, she could quantify by listening closely to the way sounds bounced. Spacious, she deduced. Long… filled with furnishings of some kind, from the lack of strong acoustics. Not like her Spartan home back in Harstad.
Attendants were at hand to assist them in anything they needed. They led them to the supper table, going as far as lifting the spoons to their lips. Ushered them to the privy chamber when it was time for the necessaries, and tucked them into plush beds at the end of the evening. A certain tenderness came across in the touch of her captors. A lover’s touch, she might have said, had she the experience.
Their gentle handling confused her, and provided a comfort that made her angry at herself. They’d been ripped from their homes! Taken against their will! And though they whispered promises of free choice, every second ticked like an eternity of bondage.
No one spoke beyond what was necessary. The practice wasn’t forbidden, but neither Hanna, nor her fellow captives, se
emed to have any words worth sharing.
She awoke, disoriented, despite—or perhaps because of—the abundant light. With no windows from which to get her bearings, illumination came from lavish wall sconces. How much time had passed? Is it morning? Mid-day? After a lifetime of rituals and chores based on the sun’s path over the sky, her body wanted to orient itself to normal daily rhythms.
Hanna’s eyes strained to adjust, to get used to the sensation of sight and allow her brain to catch up to all her vision processed.
It took considerable time to absorb the vast array of colors decorating the room. She started with the basic structure; the chambers were long, as her ears had picked up, but rather than rectangular, the shape was an oval. A fountain in the center of the room spewed forth water from a dozen spouts, in the form of angel’s lips. Ornate beds were scattered in no mindful order throughout the room, faced this way and that. Atop them, the other prisoners strained to understand, eyes wide in a mirrored image of hers.
Vibrant hues of marigold, cerulean, and magenta covered everything from ceiling to floor. Violet flora stretched up the walls, bowing over in uncontained growth. Even the simple water basin, sitting at the center table, was a deep green.
The color white could be seen nowhere, other than in the pale reflection of their own skin.
The wonder of this new step in their freedom filled each of them with unanswered questions, rendering them speechless. Six, Hanna counted, her eyes finally adapted to her surroundings. There were six of them, including her.
Two of them, a male and female, seemed to be from one of the bigger cities, perhaps Oslo, judging from their dress and precise mannerisms. Another two were twins, females with white hair and crystal blue eyes, wrapped around each other despite having their own beds. The last one, though… this one, Hanna recognized. She knew him well, in fact. Nikola, the miller’s son.
Lagniappes Collection II Page 4