by Anna Banks
Rolan takes advantage of my hesitation, grasping my arm and jerking me backward. I use the momentum to force the crown of my head into his nose as he leans down and gain an instant release. Chut hurries forward arms wide, and again I dodge him, thankful that he’s as slow on his feet as I’d hoped.
I take off running, past the wailing children, past the braying horses, past a woman pouring water from a bucket and a man showing a piece of glittering jewelry. But the Bazaar only becomes bigger and bigger, no matter where I turn or how fast I run, there is no end to it. I dare not look back, dare not become discouraged by the sounds of feet falling in pursuit of me. Booth after booth, tent after tent. It’s a maze of entrapment. I begin to feel dizzy, and wonder how long I was unconscious. How long has it been since I Forged?
My feet do not sprint as they should. I’ve the feeling the booths do not whir by me because of my great speed, but because of my body’s need to release spectorium. I must find a safe place to expel it. I must find a safe place for me.
And fortune does not favor me this day.
Ahead I see soldiers. Surely they will help me. Surely this practice of selling people is not truly legal in Theoria. It is a secret business of sorts, an operation in which only thugs and thieves partake. After all, Chut and Rolan do not strike me as upstanding citizens. “Help me,” I yell at them, not slowing until I’ve pitched myself into the arms of the first soldier I come to. He’s just as surprised as I am.
“Help you, mistress? What is your need?”
“I’ve been kidnapped,” I tell him breathlessly. “And they’re chasing me.”
There is shouting behind us and someone yells, “Hold her! She’s the property of the Falcon King! Do not let her escape.”
The voice does not belong to Chut or Rolan but to an older man. Perhaps the wealthy man I saw before? I do not know. All I know is that the soldier wraps his arms around me and to my horror, keeps me in place while my captor approaches. His black metal beard arrives long before he does.
“The Prince Sethos means to give her as a gift to His Majesty the Falcon King. For his harem,” he informs the guard. Prince Sethos? The Falcon King? His harem? I try to recall what exactly a harem is, and my mind refuses to fully comprehend the idea. To fully comprehend my truly horrific luck.
The man with the beard comes to us, and as I squirm and writhe in the soldier’s arms, screaming as loud as my breathless lungs will allow, he reaches his hand out and clamps it on my shoulder.
My vision is an instant tunnel, growing black around the edges. What did he do to me?
I reach for the explanation, but it eludes me. In fact, everything does. All I remember is falling against the soldier behind me, limp as a string. I’m reminded of the goat-vine potion Rolan gave me as the brilliant colors of the Bazaar fade to gray and black.
* * *
I awaken to a beautiful woman standing over me. She holds a cloth in one hand and with it, reaches for my face. Sitting up, I shove her hand away, more forcefully than I’d intended, and she laughs. “I wondered when you would wake,” she says. “I’ve wanted to see your eyes since you arrived. You have the whole of us curious.”
Even her voice is beautiful, her words lilting around us in the open room. She has long dark hair bound in sections down her back, exquisitely long lashes, and eyes bluer than the sky in Serubel. She sits next to me on a couch, effectively blocking me from getting up to flee. I wonder if she did it on purpose. I fold my knees into my arms, just to put that much more distance between the two of us.
“They were right,” she says. “No one has eyes like you.”
“Where am I?”
She laughs again, and the world seems to get brighter. How can one person be so enchanting? “You are privileged with being the newest concubine of the Falcon King’s harem. Perhaps now that you’re here, he’ll pay us a visit. You are a gift from his brother, after all. He would not be so rude as to neglect the gesture.”
“A concubine?” And what’s more, I’m a mere gesture of goodwill between brothers. Saints of Serubel, how could I let this happen? Mother would expire directly were she here to see this. I was to go to the Baseborn Quarters where I would not stand out. Now I’m a concubine of my father’s own enemy, and rumors have already spread about my silver eyes—at least, throughout the harem. How long before the rumors reach outside the walls of Anyar? How long before my father finds out I live?
I bite my lip, disappointment at my utter failure stinging my eyes.
She allows me to curl up and my shoulders pinch together. “Ow,” I say pathetically. I remember then that the man with the metal beard squeezed me there before I blacked out.
“Should I call for a Healer?” the woman says. I suppose her to be at least twenty years of age, if not slightly older. She giggles at my apparent perplexity. “Who would have thought that the king would prefer plump women?”
Well. My mother always said I had the curves of the River Nefari, but compared to this girl, anyone could be considered plump. Surely they feed the concubines of the harem?
But at the moment, I need not concern myself with the malnutrition of concubines. My concern is for Forging. I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious, how many hours or even days the goat potion kept me idle. I do feel quite faint but cannot discern whether it’s the goat potion still in my bloodstream or my need to Forge.
“I must relieve myself,” I tell her. “Privately.”
She purses her lips. “Cort said you were a flight risk. You should know that if you try to escape, there are guards at every entrance. Don’t bring harm to yourself.”
Why she should care if I bring harm to myself I’m not sure. “I need to relieve myself,” I tell her again.
She nods behind us, to a vast room without a door. “We have running water in there. The seats by the fountain are most comfortable.”
Running water. Our castle in Serubel had running water that eventually spilled into the River Nefari, but there were some structures where the waste simply splattered down to the Underneath. “Where does the water empty?”
She looks at me as though I’ve grown a second nose. “What?”
“The … the refuse. Where does it go?”
“Surely you’re not thinking of escaping through the—”
“Of course not!” I tell her quickly, though that could have been a thought. What is a little refuse compared with being defiled as a concubine of the Falcon King? “I’m just curious to get to know my surroundings, if this is to be my home.” Lying has become a part of me, I realize. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I don’t have to lie to survive.
She smiles. “It empties into the River Nefari.” She grasps my hand, which looks horridly puffy in hers. Though I daresay a twig would appear puffy in her grasp. Still, I wonder just how “curvy” I really am.
“My name is Gonya. What is yours?”
“Sepora. Gonya, I—”
“Yes, yes. Go relieve yourself.”
* * *
I allow the spectorium to pour from my palms, not bothering to shape or mold it. It steams as it hits the water and disappears, headed toward the River Nefari. I’m careful to release it in small pellets so as not to clog the pipe when it hardens in the water. This is much better than having to bury it, as I would have to in other, less luxurious waste holes or in the desert as I’ve done for the past weeks. Indeed, the marble columns and gold-plated ornaments remind me that I am in the Theorian palace, that I am property of the Theorian king, and that the Theorian king has much more wealth than I ever imagined. All of this to accommodate a place to relieve one’s self? What must the throne room look like?
The many curtained seats here in the lavatory lead me to wonder exactly how many concubines the king cares to keep. And why he would possibly need another one, when he has someone like Gonya to occupy his time.
As if I thought her into existence, she appears in the open doorway of the lavish room, her expression filled with worry. I’ll not
allow myself to like Gonya, I decide. Because I will not be staying here long enough to make a friend.
I halt the expulsion of spectorium from my hands and absorb the leftover liquid back into my palms. Standing, I greet her. “Gonya, hello. I was just finishing up here.” If she wonders why I was kneeling in front of the water hole, she doesn’t say as much.
“Well then, come with me,” she says. “I’ll show you around and introduce you to the rest of us.”
The rest of us.
Allowing Gonya to whisk me past plush, colorful couches and rooms separated by sheer drapes and floors inlaid with what appears to be gold, we approach an outside area abundant in sunshine and barely dressed women. Guards stand on either side of the entrance, spears and shields at the ready. The sound of falling water and the heavy scent of orchids assault our senses before we ever reach the garden itself.
All of the glorious concubines lounge, each of them in their own state of relaxation and skillful undress, around a clear shallow pool that seems to glitter as though gems were spread precariously along the bottom of it. Some of the women dangle their feet in the water and talk among themselves. They wear a variety of paint on their faces, mostly red on their lips but with vibrant, rich colors and kohl designs around their eyes, artistically drawn to rival any creation adorning the castle walls back home in Serubel. Each woman drips with jewelry, gold, and gems pressing at their necks, wrists, even their ankles. More baubles hang from one woman than my mother has in her entire collection.
Mother would chafe at the sight of such wasted luxury here. I can’t help but agree.
Conversation tends to halt as we make our way to the back of the sanctuary where a catlike woman reclines on what I’d consider a small throne overlooking the rest of the gathering. This woman wears much more jewelry than the others, in addition to a headdress made up entirely of Defender Serpen scales shimmering brilliantly when she turns her attention to us.
I’d heard Theorians have the barbaric tradition of killing Serpens just to adorn themselves with their scales, but I’d never seen such a spectacle in person. Nurturing an immediate dislike for this woman and thanking the saints of Serubel that I did not bring Nuna on this journey, I take in the rest of her with enough scrutiny to match the ability of any Seer Serpen. Wrinkles tug at the woman’s eyes, which are made more noticeable by the thick black paint encircling them, drawing out the deep emerald color around her pupils. She wears no red on her lips, and she should, for if there were any mouth in need of beautifying, it would be this woman’s. As it is, she molds her face into a scowl as Gonya and I draw closer.
“So, the prize of the harem has awakened,” she announces loudly. She may like me even less than I like her.
“Tuka, this is Sepora, our newest member,” Gonya says diplomatically.
“So, the boy Falcon King wishes for a newer, younger variety even though he hasn’t even bothered to inspect his existing coffer of women.” Tuka leans back, taking in a slow breath. She used to be a beautiful woman, and in some ways, she still could be, if she did not allow bitterness to strain all her more attractive features.
“Sepora,” Gonya says, her voice slightly shaky, “this is Tuka. She’s the eldest of His Majesty’s harem, and Favorite One of the Warrior King.”
So, Tuka is jealous of my age. To her, I am a threat. She was the favorite of the Falcon King’s father, and now I am the first addition since he passed away. If I could muster up some affection for this woman, and if I intended to stay here a moment longer, I would assure her I had no ambition whatsoever to take her place as anyone’s favorite. Already, the king would do well to stay away from me. In fact, perhaps if I told her this, she would help me.
“I don’t want to be here,” I tell her bluntly. “I will leave, if you’ll show me the way out.”
Amid the whispers all around, Gonya says, “Sepora! You mustn’t say such things, lest His Majesty finds out.”
I turn to her. “I should like to speak to His Majesty,” I tell her. “I was purchased in the Bazaar.”
Gonya waits, as if I’m going to say more.
I flush. “Did you hear me? I said I was purchased. Me. A person, not a horse or a cow or a—”
“Yes, yes,” Gonya says quickly, grabbing my forearm and gently squeezing it. “I did hear you, Sepora.” But by her expression, she underestimates the seriousness of the matter. “But leaving the harem is only a decision the king himself would allow, and it isn’t likely he would bother himself with such a notion, as it’s such a privilege to even be here.”
I raise my chin, trying my best to appear regal and above her words. A privilege to be a slave? Has everyone gone mad? “How can I summon this Falcon King?”
Tuka bursts out laughing in genuine glee. Two of her chins jiggle with liveliness. “You wish to summon the king?”
“I do.”
“And what will you do when you have his full attention?”
“I’ll demand my release, of course.” Even I wince at the severity of my answer. Perhaps, if I were smart, I wouldn’t be declaring what I will and will not demand before the king in the company of such obviously loyal followers. My father did not keep a harem. But if he did, he would not put up with such insolence from one of his women.
I can see in her eyes that Tuka is happy with her successful provocation of me. “Guard!” she calls, and my stomach sinks, seeming to settle somewhere in my toes. One of the guards at the entrance of the lush sanctuary approaches. “How may I be of service, Mistress Tuka?”
She smiles at him. “The Mistress Sepora here wishes to summon the king.”
The guard looks from Tuka to me and back again. Confusion emanates from his very being. “How do you mean, Mistress Tuka?”
She laughs. “Sepora, do tell us how you mean to summon the king.”
“I … well, I … do you have parchment paper and ink?”
The guard scratches the back of his neck with the ledge of his shield. “I could obtain that for you, Mistress Sepora, if you wish.”
Perhaps being a concubine is a privilege after all. Parchment and ink are expensive commodities in Serubel. I wonder how it fares in Theoria where there is no immediate supply of trees for the paper. As it were, Serubel had to trade a high price for it with Wachuk, which is even farther south than Theoria. “I do. Wish, I mean. For you to obtain that.” So much for regal.
I can feel the weight of Tuka’s stare on me. What I want most is the courage to deliver a glare back in her direction, but I’m so out of sorts at the moment that I can’t scrounge up the bravery. I resolve to be better at that—courage. As I’m already a master of the lie.
“You heard her,” Tuka tells the guard, slapping her knee. “Fetch the materials right away. We are all anxious to see the king’s response to Sepora’s urgent summons.” Tuka is far too amused at my expense.
And after a week’s worth of days, I figure out why.
The king simply does not answer summonses from his concubines. Each and every day, I bide my time, learning to paint faces as the other girls do, mostly practicing—and failing—on Gonya; I swim in the sanctuary pool; I eat my meals in silence, except for the times when Tuka sits next to me, prodding me with “And has His Majesty answered your most recent requests yet, Mistress Sepora?”
And each and every day, the answer is no.
By now I’ve been fitted and supplied with a new wardrobe so that I’m just as scantily and beautifully dressed as the other women. Colorful linens and silks and fabrics I’ve never seen before, and I have my choice among any and all of them. Fine jewelry from the kingdom of Hemut, rich in diamonds and rubies and any other kind of jewel one can fathom. Gold from the banks of the River Nefari in the southern kingdom of Wachuk. A maid to sculpt my hair into submission, braid it into art, and adorn it with flowers and sweet-smelling perfumes, should His Majesty the Falcon King care to visit and actually choose me from among the other gems of his harem to keep his esteemed company.
All this prepara
tion for a chance visit from him, and he won’t even respond to an actual request for his presence. No matter how urgently I address the letters. No matter how prettily I write them, or how angrily they are composed. No matter how I provoke him with my words. He’ll not answer.
I’m confident that even my father would answer the last letter, if it were only to demand my head from my shoulders.
And so life exists this way until one day, while lying in the sun, I muster up an idea. A long shot, not my best of designs, but it’s something. When I had first arrived, the harem had been abuzz with the recent events; the king had sent soldiers to collect all the spectorium in the harem, which had, by all accounts, been a massive haul. The spectorium had been embedded into ornaments and decorations to embellish the walls, had been thrown into the pool for added sparkle, in addition to being used for lighting in every room of the wing. The sudden and unexplained removal of all that glows had caused a stirring of curiosity—and a little outrage—among my fellow concubines, but it didn’t take me long to figure out why he’d taken it. Without me, the kingdom of Serubel is not making any new spectorium, and the surrounding kingdoms will have been running out.
Including His Esteemed Majesty the Falcon King.
And so while I bask in the sun, using my finger to trace the now healed X carved by venom into my palm, a thought occurs to me. Letters will not get the attention of the king.
But spectorium will.
16
TARIK
Tarik drops the correspondence he’s been reading and stands, sending his seat behind him flying backward. “What do you mean there is fresh spectorium in the harem?” Tarik nearly shouts at his guard. “There is no such thing as fresh spectorium anymore.” He should know. He’s been trying to get his hands on some for weeks for Cy’s healing experiments. The weaker the spectorium, the weaker the healing results have been. And the spectorium they have left is doing nothing but weakening now.
The guard steps back. “I saw it with my own eyes, Highness. White spectorium, a huge mound, on the Concubine of the King’s throne.”