Face the problems when they come. Do not take on more burdens than you can handle today, her father often counseled.
"Welcome to the Sanctum, Kena'Naya. I am Agrat, chief warder.” He gestured to the eunuch beside him. “This is O'klan. He will be your personal warder. He will attend to your needs. He will be your voice before me. He will guard your purity when you leave the Sanctum.” Agrat sniffed, his watery brown eyes sparking with indignation mixed with fear.
Challen could almost hear him whine and whimper that permitting her to leave the Sanctum was against all propriety. If she were hurt, he knew he would be blamed. She almost felt sorry for him, but she had always hated whiny, irritating voices and whiny, irritating, self-important people.
"Welcome, Lady. All I am is yours to command,” O'klan rumbled in a deep, musical voice that spoke strength, laughter and many years of vibrant male life before he faced the knife.
Challen wondered what had happened. Was he a war prisoner? A slave from another land? She had encountered so many odd pronunciations and lilts during her years at the oasis, she had no idea what was a foreign accent and what was merely a dialect from a far-flung region of the kingdom.
O'klan was a massive, ebony wall of a man dressed in a sky blue kilt and one light drape across one shoulder, held in place with a silver chain belt. He wore a silver band on each arm and ankle, decorated by the Sanctum key rendered in blue stones. His hair was clipped short and he had no beard. His hands were massive, nearly large enough to hold both her feet in one palm; long-fingered and neat. Challen thought she saw humor in the eunuch's night dark eyes.
"I give Lady Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya into your custody,” Lady Mayar said, her voice chill and regal, pitched to carry across the courtyard without strain or shrillness. “As the daughter of a Bride, a healer, whom I counted my sister, a mind scribe who risked her life for our kingdom, I will know and be distraught if she suffers the least harm within these walls."
"The Sanctum will never fail your trust, Lady,” Agrat's thin voice cracked as it tried to sound grand and dignified.
Challen bit her lip and held her breath against a chuckle. There were some advantages to wearing a veil.
"O'klan,” she continued. “I have heard only good about you. I entrust the daughter of my heart to your care."
"In your service, Lady,” O'klan rumbled.
Challen could have sworn she saw the big man wink as he bowed his head to Lady Mayar. Something loosened the inner tightness that threatened to crush her. O'klan, she sensed, would be a friend; a window to the outside world.
Then Lady Mayar made her farewells.
"Two years shall pass quickly, my child,” she whispered as she clasped Challen's shoulders and pressed her apple-scented cheek to the girl's through her veil. “When you are free, we shall dazzle the Court and break the heart of every arrogant young man who sees you."
"Yes, Lady.” Challen stifled a groan. Even Lady Mayar seemed to think she had to get married.
Then Agrat beckoned and scowled and scurried through the shadowed doorway into the Sanctum. O'klan bowed and gestured for Challen to precede him. Her new life had begun.
Agrat yanked off her veil when she reached his office and discussed her physical attributes as if they were defects to overcome. Challen was grateful for her father's discipline, which helped her hold her tongue against questions and denial of every word from Agrat's simpering, whining mouth.
Her hair was too red; it would have to be lightened.
Her skin was too dark from the sun; no more time outdoors.
She stalked like a man; she required dancing lessons so she would sway like a willow tree. Challen nearly choked at that bit of poetry. She doubted Agrat even knew the names of the popular poets. She did, thanks to chests full of scrolls and copies of all the popular songs and stories, sent to Shazzur courtesy of Commander Asqual every spring and fall.
Her hands were rough from work; creams to soften and whiten them. Her fingers were dented from stylus and pen; no more scribing. Challen bit her tongue to keep from reminding Agrat that the King had permitted her to leave the Sanctum to study. Let the odious man be reminded by someone he feared.
Every time Challen thought she would lose control and open her mouth, she felt the gentle touch of O'klan's hand on her shoulder. The big man stood directly behind her. She felt his support, his sympathy. She even thought she heard a few snorts of disgust.
Her possessions had already been transferred to the Sanctum. Challen seethed as Agrat examined every piece of clothing, relegating her daily clothes to the rag bin. The lovely new dresses from Cyrula were barely acceptable.
"No.” Challen broke her silence when Agrat lifted a pale blue dress to hand to one assistant for disposal. “That was my mother's. I keep it in her memory."
She had snatched it up during those strange, terrifying hours between her mother's death and her father's decision to flee Bainevah. Challen had huddled in her mother's dressing room, clutching Naya's favorite dress, refusing to cry, refusing to believe that her pretty, laughing, adoring mother was dead. Shazzur had let her sleep with it and clutch it like a lifeline all during the long journey to the oasis. Challen had always been amazed that the delicate fabric had survived the rigors of the journey. She refused to let a simpering ninny like Agrat take it from her now, simply because it was out of fashion.
"You will make a fool of yourself, Kena'Naya,” Agrat said, his voice turning flat and nasal with distaste.
"For memory,” she repeated. “It is too precious to be worn."
"Lady, perhaps it would be best to send to your father for safekeeping?” O'klan suggested. A massive black hand and arm stretched past her to take the bundle from Agrat's hand.
"Yes, please.” She turned enough to meet the big man's gaze and smiled her thanks.
Why did Agrat have to be so critical of her? The Sanctum Brides came to this place of seclusion to study and prepare themselves spiritually if they should be chosen for the Sacred Marriage. The seclusion was to ensure their physical purity and their safety. What did it matter to anyone, least of all the King, if she wasn't a vision of loveliness when she sacrificed her virginity for the sake of Bainevah?
Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. Agrat is a sour old persimmon that never ripened. He thinks his reputation depends on making the Sanctum Brides useless, brainless decorations. I won't let him do that to me. Never. I have more important things to do.
"When you go outside the walls of the Sanctum,” Agrat said, after he assaulted her with dozens of rules, “you will wear your veil at all times. It will cost the life of any man who sees your face. It will cost fifty lashes each to your bearers and your warder."
Finally, Agrat released her to go to her rooms. Challen would have run to her rooms, but she didn't know the way and O'klan seemed to always move at the same long-legged, confident, leisurely pace. She walked with him, silent, fearing unfriendly ears around every corner. She noted the turns and decorations on the walls as they made their way through the massive building, so she would never have to ask directions in the future.
All Challen wanted was to surround herself with quiet and solitude while she organized her thoughts. The trip to her suite took three times longer than necessary because every Bride found some excuse to be in the halls, to see her and to be introduced.
All the Sanctum Brides were birds, she decided when she reached her room. Birds in bright, expensive, perfumed feathers, who fed on jewels and who spoke with whispery voices and painted themselves unnatural colors. How could they stand to wear their hair twisted and bound with heavy combs and pins and burned into unnatural curls; piled so high on their heads they couldn't move faster than a crawl for fear of unbalancing it? She had always worn her hair simply, for convenience or comfort. Dressing her hair in the Court styles her father remembered had been an amusement for winter days; she couldn't imagine spending hours every day to arrange her hair and then leaving it that way even when her head ached from the
weight. For what reason?
"This place shall be the undoing of my mind,” she muttered when O'klan finally opened the door to her suite.
"Be encouraged, Lady,” he rumbled, laughter in his near-whisper. “You shall escape soon enough to your studies."
"The next hour won't be soon enough. What shall I do with my mind while I wait?” Challen sank down on the nearest couch as the door closed with a heavy clunk that meant it was thick enough to resist noise. That meant freedom to speak, and that lifted half the headache that had crept up on her.
"Perhaps you may consider painting yourself as a scribe's puzzle,” the big man offered after consideration. He stood with his back against the door. “Consider learning fashion and the intricacies of dance as preparation for war."
"My father taught me various exercises so I could defend myself, and said some were akin to dance.” She nodded, catching on to what he meant. “But how can I learn to flutter and twitter like those useless, fancy birds I just met?"
O'klan laughed. His shoulders shook and his eyes crinkled closed and his mouth opened, but little sound emerged. Challen felt a rumble in the air, like a quake far away. She supposed he had learned that as a defensive move; Agrat didn't strike her as someone who welcomed hearty, booming, healthy laughter.
"Oh, Lady, you are a thunder crash from the Mother,” the big eunuch said when he regained his breath. He sank down on a stool next to the door. “I am here as your friend. It is only by the Mother's grace Agrat chose me to assist you. If he had known I wanted to be your warder, he would have chosen another."
"He's punishing you for something?"
"He thinks I am a bad influence on the maidens. He would make them useless bits of fluff, happy to make grand marriages and be nothing but decoration for their husbands’ homes. Then, these men who have peace in their homes would be grateful to him and he could retire in luxury. Peace at the cost of life and growth and wisdom. You, Lady, will be a partner and confidant and hidden strength to the man you marry. I vow my life to protect your spirit and mind, and not let you be poisoned by silly fripperies and cosmetics and your brain deadened by gossip.” He pressed his hands together and touched his forehead with his fingertips as he bowed, making his half-joking words into a solemn vow.
Challen laughed. She was delighted she had read him so accurately, and she had found a friend to shelter her from Agrat's brain-numbing influence. Then O'klan's smile dimmed.
"And, I also must confess to you, Lady, I am here for other reasons. I was asked to come and watch for evil slipping into the Sanctum. It is believed that poor little Shersia...” He sighed and closed his eyes. “The Sacred Marriage failed at summer solstice because the Mother did not inhabit the Bride. There are those who say Shersia was not in command of her soul and mind, when she went into the Chamber of the Suns. The Mother did not inhabit her because Shersia allowed evil, enemy magic to control her soul. She was not a willing servant and vessel."
"And you're here to make sure no other Bride is influenced and captured for evil, because another failed Sacred Marriage would spell disaster for Bainevah.” Challen nodded. She understood that very clearly.
A snort escaped her. For all she knew, her father had sent her here to prevent such a disaster rather than protect her from assassins with black eyes and no shadows. This made far more sense. Knowing she would be useful took away a little of the sting of being made a prisoner for two years. A little, but certainly not all of it.
"I knew your parents,” O'klan continued. “Our gracious Lady Mayar knew I was here already, investigating on behalf of High Priest Chizhedek. She begged me to find a way to stand with you. The Mother is kind, yes? She guides and guards us."
"I could do with a little less guarding and a little more guiding and freedom.” Challen gestured at her dress, which had been fine when she was playing games of dressing up and dabbling with cosmetics. She missed her loose-woven trousers and sleeveless sheath—and being barefoot on cool tile floors.
"Consider, Lady, that perhaps this is the best course. You are so newly come to Bainevah, how shall you make your way? You may learn slowly here, hidden. When you emerge, the Court will see you as you wish. Like a sword forged in secret, or a warrior trained in secret. The enemy cannot repel the unknown."
"What if the enemy finds a way to use my separation from my Father and make it a weapon against him?"
"Then use this hidden time against his enemies. Consider, Lady ... you are among bright birds. Learn to look and sound like them, and the hunters will not see you as a bird of prey."
Challen nodded, knowing his words were wise. She said a silent prayer of thanks that she had been given such an ally. It truly was as her father said—the words of the Mother never failed. Shazzur maintained he and his family were woven into the Prophecy, and while they were willing servants, Mother Matrika would provide for them.
"Warfare,” she murmured. “Very well, then, I must learn my enemy's territory and strategies. I know little about the Sanctum and the tradition of the Sacred Marriage. Logic says there must be scrolls of history stored here. May I study them?"
"I will bring you the first scrolls at the noon meal, Lady.” His ebony face twisted into a regretful mask, but couldn't hide a sparkle of humor. “Soon, you must go to the seamstress and be fitted for new clothes and then the baths for your first treatments after meeting the dancing master."
Challen sighed. When—if—she finally escaped to the Scribes Hall, she suspected the rigorous course of study awaiting her would seem like a day of indolence and luxury.
CHAPTER 8
"I don't understand why he agreed to such a thing,” Elzan muttered as he and Asqual crossed the plaza between Shazzur's quarters and the main body of the palace complex.
They had escorted Shazzur there after the Council adjourned for the day, formally returning him to his former status for all to see. Elzan left Shazzur surrounded by servants busy furnishing his restored home to make it worthy of his status.
"Shazzur, or the King?” the commander said with a chuckle.
"Oh—I don't know! After what happened at the Sacred Marriage, the rumors about the Bride, how could Shazzur have given his daughter to the Sanctum? Who knows what could happen to her there? Shersia certainly proved the Brides aren't protected. For all we know, she was no longer a virgin, and that's why the Mother didn't inhabit her."
Elzan knew he spoke mostly to hold back other words, and fears, and anger. He had vague memories of Shazzur's daughter as a bright, quick child who laughed and squirmed up onto her father's lap to read aloud from the scrolls he used to teach Elzan from, during their tutoring lessons. Elzan hadn't been irritated at the child, so different from his fat, whiny half-sisters. She was like a bright bird, full of songs, so innocent and pure. He shuddered to think of her being turned into a useless flower to decorate some self-aggrandized noble's house. He felt sick, thinking about the danger to her mind and soul, if the same evil that polluted Shersia and made her unfit for the Sacred Marriage attacked Shazzur's daughter.
What did the girl feel, coming to the huge, bustling city after living in the relative solitude of the oasis? Taking her from the studious atmosphere of the tower where she had grown up and putting her into the cloistered Sanctum was tantamount to taking a pet goldfish from its tiny pond and tossing it into a tank inhabited by eels.
"Obviously, he thinks she'll be better off in the Sanctum than his home.” Asqual chuckled. “Think of the young men eagerly waiting two years for her to appear in public without a veil! My men are already telling stories about her fiery beauty and a temper and wit to match. Every woman in Court will tremble at the thought of her appearing among them!” He laughed so hard he had to lean against a convenient wall to keep upright.
"It's no joke. Kena'Shazzur has been made a prisoner when she's committed no crime.” He spat, but he couldn't lose the taste of bile.
"Her mother's participation in the Sacred Marriage blessed Bainevah miraculously. Some have convin
ced the King the daughter of such a Sanctum Bride will revive his manhood,” a sneering voice said from the shadowed doorway ahead of them.
Prince Shadrash, son of the concubine from Chadrasheer stepped into the sunlight. His younger, full-blood brother Mynoch followed him. What nastiness Shadrash hadn't devised in childhood, their mother had. She had died several years ago—poisoned by another concubine, rumor said.
"She requires training and purification, first,” Asqual said in a bored, cool tone. “There are always twelve Brides waiting. Little chance the lots will choose her."
"Unless the choice is rigged,” Elzan muttered. He glared at his half-brothers and continued through to the gate into the palace gardens.
Their laughter followed him and Asqual, making the late morning sunlight hotter and brighter than ever.
Shazzur had been no help at all. Elzan had raged in the privacy of the Seer's quarters, trying to understand why the girl should be separated from her father. Shazzur was particularly closed-mouthed about the decision. Elzan suspected something odd had happened during the journey across the desert, but when he started to ask, his former teacher cut him off with discussions of their renewed studies and what Elzan had learned on his own. When the prince protested, the Seer grew stern.
"The words of Mother Matrika never fail,” Shazzur had said. “I trust the Mother and the Prophecy to protect my daughter, and to restore the health and vigor of the land. Yes, we are reacting to the first testing attacks of the enemy, and my eyes have been opened to new possibilities and answers because of this. Nothing the enemy does can harm us, only make us stronger. This inconvenience will be of benefit to us all. You, my boy, should go back to the scrolls and study them again. Don't rage against providence."
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