by Anna Banks
In fact, Theoria’s own Superior class ventures out to the kingdom of Hemut regularly for rest and entertainment when the summer heat proves too scorching for them. They pay for their retreats with spectorium, which helps keep the inner caves of Hemut warm and cozy.
And what will happen when there is no more spectorium for the Superiors to trade?
“If the Superiors aren’t happy,” Tarik says more to himself than to Sethos, “or if they perceive a threat, they’ll leave, taking their resources—and our economy—with them. And I will be powerless to stop it. It’s bad enough that the price of spectorium has soared since Serubel is not trading it anymore. Only the Superiors can afford it now, and they grumble about paying the higher prices.”
Sethos snorts. “What don’t the Superiors grumble about?”
Tarik sighs. “That is a short list, brother.”
Sethos hops down from the balcony and stretches. He’s grown much in his years at the Lyceum; even at fifteen, his body resembles that of a man rather than that of a boy. “I need to return to my Majai mentors. I miss my daily victories. And you’re as boring as ever.”
“I’m as busy as ever, you mean.”
Sethos shrugs as he strides toward the chamber door. “Reconsider allowing me to attend to the harem’s needs, won’t you?”
“Give your tutors my highest regards, Sethos.”
7
SEPORA
The history of spectorium was never written down, for fear the secret would fall into the wrong hands. The story of it has been handed down through the generations of Forgers (the gift skips a generation at a time) and is a verbal tale—a rite of passage as it were—to the poor soul inheriting the ability from a predecessor. And so it goes something like this, according to my grandfather:
A few hundred years ago, after the five kingdoms had split and gone their respective ways, a royal Serubelan toddler, a boy child, was found in his bed covered in glowing liquid. His nursemaid cleaned him up and reported the incident, but her tale was too wild for the king and queen to comprehend, and so they dismissed her and hired another woman in her stead. The very next night, the same occurrence happened, only it wasn’t discovered until the mother queen found her child stuck to the bedding by a worrisome glowing rock that illuminated the entire room more than hundreds of candles. The mother queen took their child to the king, who knew just exactly what to do. (Reports are that it had to be carefully chiseled away from his tiny body.)
In a private caravan, the three of them and a few guards set upon a journey, traveling past the Valley of the Tenantless, into the sands of The Dismals, and finally into the city of Anyar. There they sought the help of the Lyceum of Favored Ones, the most creative and educated men and women of all the five kingdoms. The King of Serubel consulted with the brilliant minds about the rock they chiseled from their baby boy. (It is of import to note here that the king used the utmost discretion, never revealing to the Favored Ones where exactly the glowing rock had come from for fear his son would be considered cursed, an abomination, and unsuitable for the kingship. Why else would it come to enslave the child while he slept?) Almost immediately, the Favored Ones proclaimed it the newest living element and named it spectorium, for it glowed the entire spectrum of the rainbow. Not only did they request to keep this spectorium the Serubelans had brought, but they requested more of it. But the king was too confused to offer them any help.
After the king and his family returned home from Theoria, the king set upon watching his son very closely. All night, he would sit in his room and try to keep awake, trying to ward off whatever curse might come in the night and illuminate the room, effectively welding the baby to his silken sheets. It was on one of those nights that he realized that his son was not being attacked by a curse or a spirit, but his son was making the spectorium himself! It oozed from the child’s palms as he slept, drying in a crust and glowing as white as the sun at midday.
The king was not so relieved that he had forgotten the pleas from the Favored Ones to obtain more of the glorious spectorium, and so the king began to spend more and more time with his son, watching his affliction, and learning how to teach his son to control it.
That is how the first Forger came to be.
I think of that story now as I float in and out of lucidity, trying to ascertain whether I have leaked out my precious spectorium during unconsciousness.
The first thing I notice when I fully come to is that the night is closing in, moving across The Dismals like a silent phantom. The next is that my hands are bound behind my back and that I’m sitting upright. Then, that my left eye won’t open—and it hurts immensely. After a few moments, flashes of memory stir in my mind. The river. The splashing. The large man whose body blocked the sun. His fist rising in the air.
Nothing else. And to my relief, I feel faint and dizzy; a sure sign I have not Forged during my blackout.
My retrospections fade and the world comes into focus. The man from the river has built a fire and he sits across from me, watching me with a smug grin. In the glow of the flames, I see what his looming shadow didn’t reveal before: This man is uniquely ugly. My tutor, Aldon, used to tell me that there is beauty in everything, that things that are outwardly ugly could be appreciated as interesting. But this poor man is just hopelessly hideous. Every feature of his face bears at least one considerable flaw. He’s missing two top teeth and the ones left intact on the bottom appear intermittently black, which I hope for his sake are just shadows cast by the firelight. His eyes droop as though the skin of his cheeks is melting, and one eye appears as though it gazes in the opposite direction of the other just the slightest bit. His nose is bulbous, and even from here I can see the cavernous pores embedded in it and the dirt that takes up residence in them. From his dress, he’s clearly Theorian; he wears only a white linen wraparound skirt—a shendyt is what it’s called—which does nothing to complement his rather extended and rather hairy belly.
It does not slip my notice that his shendyt—and my own clothing—is dry. Hours must have passed since we were in the Nefari. I’m now grateful that I spent all that time needlessly Forging in the Tenantless so that my body did not have the urge to dispense with it while I slept here against this boulder. I’m also thankful that I’m dry, since my attire would most assuredly be transparent when wet. But I’ll not allow myself to blush at that; there are far more important things that warrant my horror at the moment than the thought of transparent clothing.
As it is, in Serubel, this man’s attire would be required to cover him from neck to ankle, and as such his middle would not appear so prominent. Of course, in Serubel, we have the heights of the mountains to keep us cool; Theorians have only the desert sun. No wonder they dress so scantily. Even now, I feel sweat sliding down my back and plastering my hair to my neck like clinging vines. A servants’ attire is especially modest, and here, modest is sweltering.
The man watches me while I watch him, and there is an air of expectation hovering between us. Still, it startles me when he speaks, perhaps because it sounds like a barking of words. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.” His voice is deep, gruff, and moves the lump on his throat considerably when he talks.
Of course he’s never seen eyes like mine before. I’m the only Forger left. The only person in the five kingdoms with silver eyes, because of the spectorium built up inside me. He must have gotten a good look at them in the river—right before he pummeled one of them with his fist. “What do you want?” I say, dismayed to find that my lip is also busted and that I openly wince when it stretches around the words.
My captor grimaces. “A thousand apologies, mistress. Sometimes I forget how big my hands are. My purpose was only to disarm you.”
“I wasn’t armed.” Or had he been watching me long enough to know I had discarded my sword? Again, I won’t blush. I do not have the luxury of being remorseful at the moment. I need to focus my energy on the sole task of escaping.
“Well, I wasn’t sure, so.�
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I sit up straighter against the large boulder to which I’m propped up. “So then, since I wasn’t armed, why did you tie me up?”
The man nods, appearing eager to converse. I get the sense that he’s better with his big hands than he is with his brain. His eyes hold a sort of vacancy in them, at least in the soft firelight. “You’re our prisoner. Rolan said we could get a month’s worth of food if we traded you at the Bazaar.” So, there are at least two of them. This brute, and one named Rolan. And Rolan is apparently thinking for the both of them. I’d wager Rolan wouldn’t want him talking to me right now. I’d also wager that Rolan didn’t count on me waking up before he returned.
The man adds some parched brush to the fire and appears delighted when it begins to sizzle; a childish look of wonder overtakes his expression. The burning foliage stings my nose, and it reminds me that I’m unfamiliar with most of the plants here in Theoria. That I’m unfamiliar with almost everything here in Theoria—except what I’ve learned from mere history scrolls.
“The … the Bazaar?” I ask. We have what we call the Square in Serubel. That’s where all our trading is done. Row after row of booths set up with goods to barter. I’ve never heard it referred to as a bazaar, though. An inkling of hope wells up inside me. I could be closer to Anyar than I thought. Surely the capital city of Theoria would have a square like Serubel. Surely this bazaar is it. “Is the Bazaar in Theoria? Is it in Anyar?”
“Of course it is. What a silly question to ask.”
I try not to take exception to that. Father always said only a fool argues with a fool. I feel a certain amount of relief in the fact that this pair of bandits apparently does not know who I am. And that apparently they’re traveling in the very direction in which I want to go. This could either be disastrous or advantageous. Only time will tell which. “Who will you trade me to?”
He shrugs. “Rolan says because of your beauty and those peculiar eyes, you’ll likely go to a wealthy trader who needs a new someone to warm his bed. It wouldn’t be so bad, that, the life of a ladylove.” But he won’t lift his eyes to mine anymore.
I’m not sure which infuriates me more: the idea that I’m to be traded as a goat or a sheep would be, or that I’m to warm the bed of a complete stranger who is not—and likely never will be—my husband. Such things do not happen in Serubel. And I will not allow it to happen to me. But I need to keep him talking. “And have you ever been a ladylove?” I all but spit.
He scowls. If I weren’t bound, and if I weren’t at his and this vagabond Rolan’s mercy, I might laugh at his pitiable density. “Of course I’ve not been a ladylove. Can you only ask silly questions?” He shakes his head. “A beautiful woman with no sense at all.”
“Well, certainly you wouldn’t speak of how well it is to be one without having been one yourself.” Or a goat. Or a sheep. What is this Theoria that women are held in such low regard?
From his grimace, he doesn’t appear to fancy my reasoning. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
I should move this along, I know. I could easily Forge a small spectorium blade, cut my way free, and run. For all his strength and size, this man is surely too big to be nimble on his feet. I’ve a good chance at escaping, if I do it before this Rolan fellow gets back.
But it would be risky, Forging spectorium in front of another person. If he and Rolan witnessed me do it, if they knew what I was capable of, they would never stop looking for me. Rumors would spread about my existence, about the girl with the silver eyes. There would be no hiding, not in any kingdom, not even in the Baseborn Quarters of Theoria.
And the embarrassing truth is, I haven’t spoken aloud in days and I’ve been a bit lonely and since this man doesn’t appear to want to hurt me—at least, not more than he already has—I suppose I could wait it out a bit longer until a better opportunity presents itself. My satchel and shoes are not far from me, lying in the sand a few arm’s lengths away, but perhaps too far to snatch up before I flee. Empty as it is, I still need the jug inside the satchel to collect water, else I’ll merely escape to my eventual death. And my shoes, for all the tight fit they are, will keep my feet from crisping on the hot sand.
What’s more, I don’t know where Rolan actually is—or if he could chase me down on foot. No, I mustn’t run. Not now. Maybe in a few hours when night has completely fallen. The moon is already out and bright at that, bidding farewell to the sinking sun. I could navigate the desert by a moon such as this, as long as I can find the river swiftly enough. Toiling about in The Dismals is a deadly game I’d rather not play.
But suddenly I’m overcome with an idea. “My name is Sepora,” I tell him. “What’s yours?” Of course, I should have come up with a false name, one that no one will recognize. But only those closest to me know me by my middle name of Sepora, and as far as anyone of importance is concerned, Princess Magar has most likely fallen to her death. Besides, Sepora is a common enough name in Serubel. Hopefully it still exists among the freed slaves in Theoria.
The man has the good sense to at least consider not giving his name, but in the end, his idiocy wins. “Name’s Chut.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chut.”
“You don’t mean that; I can tell.” And he seems put out by it.
“You hit me, Chut.”
He appears flustered, crossing his arms tightly. “I apologized for that. A thousand times, in fact. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, that’s true. Perhaps we could be friends, then?”
He snorts. “Why would I want to make friends with someone’s bed warmer?” There is no malice in his voice. He says it as though I’ve asked if he’d like a chalice of curdy milk.
“I’m not anyone’s bed warmer just yet,” I say, trying to keep the bite out of the words. “And you may not have to trade me after all, Chut.”
“How’s that, mistress?”
“I have something to trade myself. It’s in my satchel. If you bring it to me, I’ll show you.”
“Already investigated that in case you had any valuables. We’ve got your little Serpen, Mistress Sepora, and we thank you for that. Other than the statue, all we found was a water jug.”
And what did I expect? Of course they’d gone through it. If they would steal a person, they would certainly steal a person’s things. But all is not lost. “Ah, but you’ve missed something in the satchel, Chut. Bring it here and I’ll show you.”
But Chut looks doubtful. “Looked in it myself, Mistress Sepora.”
I lift my chin. “If you don’t bring it here, I can’t show you. Only I know the trick, the secret pocket in the bag.” Saints of Serubel, how hard can it be to sweet talk an imbecile? Perhaps I’ve more pull than I’m using. After all, he’s said he thinks me beautiful. Couldn’t beauty be a resource?
I smile at him and his face softens instantly. It’s an odd thing, to conjure up power with a mere smile. “Please, Chut? I wouldn’t want you to miss out on what I have just because you didn’t know about the compartment.”
Chut is already nodding as he hoists himself from his spot across the fire. I arrange my expression into one I hope portrays excitement as he retrieves the satchel and walks it to me, trekking sizable holes in the sand in his wake.
I look up at him. “I can’t show you unless you untie me.” When I see that he’s hesitant, I smile at him again, this time wider. “Chut, have I tried to escape? I did not simply wake up and decide to run, did I? And aside from that, we both know you’re stronger than me. You could easily tie me back up if I try anything.” I say it as though he were silly for not knowing that.
Clearly, Chut doesn’t care to appear silly. He’s probably been made to feel silly all his life. What’s more, he seems satisfied with this line of reasoning. He has a purity about him that I don’t enjoy blemishing. He’s simply in the wrong business to be this trusting, and it’s not lost on me that I’m about to teach him a hard lesson. “All right, then,” he says.
I turn to the side, allowing him
access to my bindings. I’m surprised at how gently he unties them and I decide then to forgive him for my swollen eye. Chut follows orders. It’s obvious that he’s easily persuaded to do the bidding of others.
I open the flap of the satchel and reach inside, pretending to dig around for the nothing that is in there. Chut leans closer, an innocent curiosity drawing his straggly eyebrows together. All the while, I Forge a ball of spectorium in the satchel, a ball big enough, worth enough, so as to secure my release. I have to hunch over the opening, so he can’t spy the glow emanating from inside. It’s heavy, almost too heavy for me to hold with one hand. After it cools, I peer up at Chut, fixing my face into what I hope looks something like delight. “I found it,” I announce happily.
He squats down on his haunches, waiting for me to pull his reward from the leather bag. I gingerly extract it, slowly enough that he can see the light of it before the actual ball. When I present it to him, his eyes go round as the moon above us. He accepts it, and swallows. “You had more spectorium hidden in there? Where did you get it?”
“I’m from Serubel.” I can’t see the point in hiding that particular fact. “I’ve brought it along with me to trade for food. But Chut, it’s yours if you just let me go.”
He frowns. “I’ll have to ask Rolan, Mistress Sepora. He’ll want to know about this. And how would I know what’s worth more, you or the spectorium?”
Precisely what I did not want to hear. I do my best to pout, pushing my lips out—split open though they may be—so that they feel unnaturally plump. It occurs to me that seducing a man was not something Aldon ever intended to teach me. And why would he? Father would have been the one seducing my suitor, choosing someone he could easily control in order to keep our bloodlines secure. But until that time came, I was far too busy Forging for him to worry about inconsequential things such as finding a husband and having a family of my own. I wonder how Mother felt about that. I wonder if Mother ever had to purse her lips, the way I’m doing so now, to get what she wanted.