Nemesis

by Anna Banks

  “Why on her throne? Where did she get it?”

  “She claims not to know, sire. The women say it just appeared there overnight. The guards have no recollection of anyone coming in or out throughout the night. The women believe it to be a gift from you.”

  Impossible. This, of course, must be some sort of mistake. The only news he’d heard from the harem of late was that a few of the women had contracted the Quiet Plague, and a eunuch Healer had to be fetched to care for them. The harem had grown quite the burden indeed. “Have this so-called spectorium brought to me at once. And question all of the women in the harem. Someone had to have seen something. Who was the first to see it?”

  “It was Mistress Sepora, Highness.”

  “Sepora.” He pulls his great chair back to his marble desk and sits thoughtfully. “Why does that name sound familiar?” Then he glances down at the correspondence he’d been reading just moments before. It was, in fact, from the Mistress Sepora. Her handwriting is very loopy and her Theorian is broken, but he didn’t detect any deception in her words. The problem is, there are too many of her words. Each day he receives a new parchment from her. And each day he begins to read it, but much more important matters of the kingdom usually take precedence and he ends up discarding it halfway through reading. “What do you know of this Sepora?” he asks quietly.

  “She’s the most beautiful in your harem, Highness. A gift from your brother.”

  Oh yes, he remembers now. Sethos had gifted him a new concubine, and Tarik had suspected that he was really gifting himself, in the event that Tarik let him make a secret visit to the royal harem. Tarik waves his hand. “I care nothing of her beauty. What do you know of her? Is she the mischievous sort?”

  “No, sire. She is … well behaved.”

  The truth. So the guard is not enamored with her and trying to protect her. Likewise, he’s telling the truth, or what he assumes to be the truth, about the mound of spectorium. “What do you make of this?” Tarik asks him.

  The guard shrugs. “Sire, perhaps someone has gifted you with it, and somehow it ended up in the harem?”

  “But you say no one was seen coming or going? Anyone sending me such a rich gift would have announced it to the rooftops, and yet I have no such declaration. Someone has gifted me with the most valuable resource in the kingdom, and no one is taking credit for it? Find my adviser, Rashidi. And bring that spectorium at once.”

  17

  SEPORA

  The Falcon King never shows up to retrieve his spectorium. Ten of the king’s soldiers arrived in his stead and hauled away every last pyramid of spectorium from our quarters without explanation or commentary. The women of the harem were left in a state of dizzied disbelief as their pride took nearly unsustainable blows. It was then that I realized their luxuries meant nothing so much as attention from their king.

  And so my plan did not work.

  Now, as I sit again in the sun, watching Tuka bat dismally at fruit flies buzzing around the perfumed sculpture of her hair, I realize what must be done. The king will never come to me in the harem. Therefore, I must go to him.

  It will have to be done in the light of day, because without spectorium glowing in the halls and entryways, I’ll never find my way out of this wing and to His Highness. After all, if the harem is this big, I cannot imagine how enormous the rest of the palace must be.

  But the light of day has its own dangers; the guards will see me coming. No, they’ll hear me coming, for all the linens and fine fabrics used for my clothing rustle stiffly even in the smallest of breezes. No, if I’m to make it as far as the exit of the wing where two guards watch over the king’s women, I’m to make the trip noisily. It cannot be helped.

  And so where I cannot have stealth, I will need speed and cunning. And today is as good as any.

  Having Forged more than usual in the lavatory this morning, I’ve gained plenty of energy for my endeavors today. I wait for the highest part of the sun to pass and then make my way toward the exit. As I suspected they would, the guards hear me immediately and turn around. I make no fuss about having been caught already. “Mistress Sepora, you know you’re not permitted in this part of the wing. Return to your sunbathing,” one of them tells me kindly.

  Still, I keep walking toward them, which obviously makes them uncomfortable. “Mistress, you must return to the sanctuary. It is simply not fitting for you to be so close to the palace hallway. What if someone were to see you? Think of how displeased the king would be.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” I say pleasantly but continue forward. One of them swallows, and the other squares his shoulders. They look like brothers, these guards, similar in build and color, with matching helmets and weapons—spears and shields, and neither of those ready enough for what is about to happen. “I’m just curious,” I say to them. “Why has the king himself not come to the harem?”

  But by now I’ve come close enough to execute my plan and so while they’re racking their minds for a proper answer to my question, I begin to sprint toward them, gaining on them faster than even I thought possible. Running across rope bridges my entire life has made me nimble on my feet, but when the guards make their ready, I’m suddenly not as sure of myself as I was before.

  Two men against one girl, and yet I keep the pace, maybe even hastening it, if that were possible. I will never get around them, I think as my approach grows imminent. They are rigid in stance and ready for my body to crash into them, to seize me, to return me to the harem and report my behavior to the king.

  But this time I intend to be the one to report to the king.

  So then, I decide I must simply go under them.

  Within arm’s length, one of the guards braces himself, spreading his legs far enough apart so that I can slide neatly between them—and out of the wing. I don’t take the time to look behind me to gauge my pursuers; I pick myself up from the floor and run.

  Of course, I have no idea where I’m going and I suspect that any second now a spear will pierce my back and my outing will have been for nothing. Before, when I was planning all this, I didn’t account for the fact that escaping the harem’s wing might be punishable by death, and so I make a jagged path as I run, hoping that my sharp, unpredictable movements will save me from being impaled.

  But I don’t have time to contemplate my stupidity; as I run, more and more guards come to the aid of the two I left behind. I hear one of them breathlessly explaining to another that I’m an escaped concubine, and immediately, the pounding of several feet come to a halt in their pursuit, which I would normally find curious, but at the moment all I can think is how grateful I am that I have a mere dozen guards giving chase instead of fifteen.

  The palace proves too great for me; the halls all look the same and go on and on for days as I run, sprinting between guards, twisting and turning out of their grasp as I make my way deeper into the maze. Columns of marble rise from the floor, and I approach a hall where the natural light of day gleams brightly and the sheer curtains give way to gentle gusts of wind coming from the south side, floating up and down like an apparition.

  And from those curtains springs my captor.

  I slam into him, the biggest guard I’ve seen yet, and instantly his arms embrace me, and no matter how much I wriggle and squirm, he’s got good hold of me, a strong, tight hold that I almost feel is meant to snuff the life out of me.

  “Hold her steady!” one of the guards behind us yells, and my detainer clinches down even tighter.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he says, flustered when I bite down upon his hand. Instantly he turns me in his arms, slapping me across the face. Hard.

  The room spins, the columns seem to become one with the curtains, and the colors dance around me, mingling with spots of blackness. I struggle to hold on to my consciousness and listen to what is being said of me, to what will become of me, and it’s then that I hear, “Take her to the king.”

  I’ve done it. I’m to see the king.

 
18

  TARIK

  Tarik leans back in his seat, assessing his oldest friend and adviser from across the table. Patra reclines at his feet under the marble table, purring contentedly. “Your age is showing, Rashidi,” he says gently. “It is time we acquire an attendant for you.”

  Rashidi scoffs. “I do not need an attendant, Highness. It would be an inconvenience for me to have someone always underfoot.”

  “I’ve given you immense responsibilities. More than you had before, with Father. Perhaps we could obtain a Healer to assist you in your duties. A Healer could also—”

  “I’m in no need of a Healer or an attendant,” Rashidi says. His brows draw together. “I have a very particular way of accomplishing my tasks, and an attendant would just get in the way. Your father never made me take on an attendant.”

  Tarik shakes his head. “But he did apparently speak to you of it.”

  Rashidi’s mouth becomes a straight line. He obviously knows his answer will tell on him either way. To Tarik’s amazement, he chooses the truth. “He wanted me to, Highness, but I did not have the time for it then and do not have the time for it now.”

  “You don’t have the time not to have an attendant.” This is the third time they’ve had this conversation since his father passed, and every time Rashidi offers an exhaustive list of reasons why he doesn’t need an attendant. Today, he’s narrowed his point to lack of time.

  Pride of the pyramids, but he’s a stubborn old man.

  The ornate door to Tarik’s private meeting chambers bursts open then, startling them both. Guards file in, enough guards to alarm him, and he stands in unison with Rashidi.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Rashidi demands as the last guard enters the room, hauling something over his shoulder. Rashidi peers closer at the silk-sack-looking thing with legs slung over the guard’s broad chest. At once, Tarik notices that the sack draws a breath and releases a feminine sigh. Rashidi’s nostrils flare. “Is that a concubine you’ve brought here for all the world to see? Have you a death wish for us all?”

  Tarik resists the urge to roll his eyes. The law states that any man who sets his eyes upon the king’s concubines will be thrown from the Half Bridge, eaten alive by the hungry Parani waiting in the water there. He’d much rather have the entire harem stolen away than allow any of his loyal soldiers to die for looking upon any of his royal assortment of women. And to think Rashidi assumes he would punish him for seeing one of them is utterly ridiculous.

  “Who is in charge here?” Tarik says, mustering up his patience. Aside, of course, for me.

  One of the first of the men to enter the room steps forward. “Majesty, I’m Dogol. I guard the harem wing. This—that is, Mistress Sepora escaped this morning.”

  “Escaped?” Rashidi says, incredulous. “Why in the name of Theoria would she want to do that?”

  Sepora. The irritatingly persistent one who does nothing but send him letters scrawled with terrible penmanship and broken Theorian. The one who begs urgently for an audience with him. The one he’s been considering sending back to his brother, since Sethos is the reason for the nuisance in the first place.

  The one who first discovered the mound of spectorium that morning on the Concubine of the King’s throne.

  The guard had said she was not prone to mischief. The guard had been wrong.

  Tarik shakes his head, sighing heavily. “She finally got her audience, then. Set her down in the seat there.” He points to the empty seat across from him, beside Rashidi. “How is it that she escaped?”

  The large guard complies with his king, plopping the girl in the chair and giving her cheek a gentle slap. “Mistress Sepora,” he coaxes, his jaw locked in frustration. Tarik can tell he does not want to be gentle, yet she is, after all, property of the king. “Mistress Sepora, you must awaken.” He looks back to his king, cringing with his answer. “She somehow made it past the guards of the harem wing. We’ve had a fine time chasing her around the palace.”

  Tarik pinches the bridge of his nose. “An agile concubine. Who would have thought?”

  “Highness—” Dogol begins, but Tarik waves him off.

  “It was a jest, Dogol. Please, try again to wake her.”

  Dogol gives her a good shake, but still it takes a few moments for her to come to, and when she does, Tarik must find the discipline not to stare at his own concubine. Her eyes shine astonishingly silver, and her hair, though woven into an intricate braid around her head and splaying freely down her back, is a striking white blond. Her eyes are lined with a metallic pewter paint, enhancing their color tenfold. He knew she was beautiful as she slept; he wouldn’t expect anything less of one of his concubines and, indeed, of such a gift from his brother. Yet, as lovely as she is while sleeping, she’s nothing less than stunning when she opens her eyes.

  It’s a wonder Sethos did not keep her for himself, Tarik thinks dryly. Instead of risking the chance that Tarik would not let him into the harem to see her.

  Once the girl is fully responsive, she rubs her jaw, on which Tarik can see she has a slight bruise. He wonders just what kind of resistance she offered, to be struck so hard.

  “Mistress Sepora, is it?” he says. “Tell me why you’re here and not enjoying the sun in my sanctuary.”

  Sepora sits up straight, squaring her shoulders, aligning them almost perfectly with the back on her chair, which makes her appear regal somehow. “Who are you?”

  Tarik blinks. His own concubine does not know who he is. Well. She is new, after all. And obviously Serubelan, at that, if her coloring is any indication. “I’m the recipient of many parchments delivered at all hours of the day, mistress. Urgent messages from you, as they were.”

  She mulls over this, absently rubbing her shoulder and working her jaw back and forth. Tarik will get the name of the man who thought it was imperative to knock her into semiconsciousness. How could she have been that much trouble?

  “You’re the Falcon King?” she says finally. She raises a brow. “You do not look like a boy.” With this, her eyes drip down the length of him, making him itch to stand taller. Something about her scrutiny finds fault with him, he can tell. Perhaps she was expecting a toddler still suckling at his mother’s breast. He’s glad to disappoint.

  At least she speaks Theorian fluently, even if her written communication is somewhat flawed.

  “You escape the harem, and now you’ve a mind to insult the king?” Rashidi hisses, rage shaking at his hands. “What kind of disrespectful—”

  “Enough, Rashidi, please,” Tarik says mildly. “Recall that she has just been revived from a coma.”

  Rashidi all but pouts. “Forgive me. Your patience is remarkable, Highness.”

  “As is your indifference,” Sepora says and stands, making the guards behind her uneasy. Tarik cuts his eyes to them to stay back, as she places her palms flat on the marble table separating them. She leans in.

  She is something to behold, this Mistress Sepora. She cannot be as old as he, Tarik calculates, perhaps younger by two years. Maybe three. Her eyes have a wild look in them, aside from their being absolutely silver.

  “You’re speaking of the scads of dispatches you’ve sent me,” he says, amused.

  “Of course I am. If you are responsible for the harem’s every comfort, how could you—”

  “One could argue, mistress, that the harem is responsible for my every comfort.”

  She crosses her arms but cannot hide her blush. “Yes. Well. They are eager to see to your comforts, I’m sure. If you should show up now and again.”

  “They? Are you saying you are not interested in seeing to my comforts, Mistress Sepora?” He can’t help but goad her. He wonders if her eyes change colors when she’s angry. A ridiculous notion, of course, but a nonetheless intriguing one. Storms, he decides. Her eyes remind him of the rare handful of storms he’s seen in Theoria.

  Her nose lifts slightly and she sniffs. “Absolutely not, Highness. I’ve been trying to secure my release
for weeks.”

  The truth. Interesting. Rashidi is nearly rocking on his heels in fury. To Tarik’s knowledge, a concubine has never tried to escape the harem. It’s a story his father would have told him, a story that surely would have been passed down from generation to generation of inheriting kings.

  Tarik is not sure what he finds more amusing—Rashidi’s ire or Sepora’s outspokenness. “Did you know, Mistress Sepora, that in Theoria, it is a great privilege to be considered beautiful enough for the king’s harem?” he says gently.

  “And I thank you for that great privilege, Highness.” Insincere at best, he concludes. “But I did not come to Theoria to be beautiful, nor do I consider it a privilege to be sold at the Bazaar like livestock.”

  Tarik almost chuckles at the hissing sound Rashidi makes with his teeth. His poor adviser can barely contain himself. “Such practices have been tradition since before my father’s father was king.” He’s not sure why he’s explaining himself to a concubine to begin with, and especially in front of his men. He rests his gaze on the guard who claimed to be in charge. “You’re dismissed, Dogol. I’ll see to it that the mistress is returned to the safety of the harem.”

  Dogol nods but doesn’t move from his place against the wall. “Are we to report to the Half Bridge, Highness?”

  Ah. The men are not as fascinated with Sepora’s accusations as Tarik is, but are more concerned for their lives. As they should be. Tarik focuses his attention back on Sepora. “I don’t suppose the king of Serubel keeps a harem?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “We, that is to say, the king considers it a vile practice.”

  “And how do you know what the king does and does not consider vile?”

  “It is an assumption, Highness, since he does not keep a harem of his own.”

  A lie. Tarik is not sure what to make of it. The weight of the untruth reflects in her voice and in her eyes, yet the words hardly carry the seriousness of how her lie seems to affect her. She is truly hiding something with those words.