by Janet Morris
Belting on his chald, he came around to face me, his arched brows slightly raised. “I think, upon another thought, that I will allow you to accompany me. What rises within you has taken my interest. Clothe yourself.”
I bowed my head, smiling, and went searching my one garment. When I had tied it at the neck and hips, he beckoned me close.
Amusement flickered in his eyes. He looked me up and down and bade me turn. Then he untied the s’kim’s strap, knotted behind my neck, and retied it loosely. He pulled the second tie tighter across my hips.
“It will have to do,” he said. “I must get you some other garment if you are going to sit to council.” His manner drove me deep into my meager store of Stothric teachings, where I searched the ice of distance to soothe my indignation. He did not fail to mark it.
“Be silent,” he admonished. “Be obedient. If you do not perform creditably, I assure you, you will regret it.” His hand went around my throat. By it, he pulled me roughly against him, into those arms that could have crushed me lifeless.
“Yes, dharen,” I breathed when he released me. I shivered.
Beside him, I walked with attention, proudly. Unaccountably, I laughed at my fears. Doubtless, he might kill me. Rightfully, I feared him. All women fear such men, who know them. Such men, who do not fear themselves, must always be feared. But that, also, is the attraction of them, the fearsome ones, who take from us what is only such men’s to take, and not a woman’s to give. A woman may give her body, but a man must demand the rest, that which is his alone. A woman, Khys once said, is like owkahen—the time coming to be—which is either what a strong man may make of it or what a weak one will be made by it.
“Heed yourself, Estri,” he advised, cryptic, as he stopped before a door and reached across me to push it open. His robed arm brushed my breasts, and they responded. I had been considering myself—walking the most priveleged keep at the Lake of Horns, beside the dharen of all Silistra. At the will of such a man, my best would never be too much. Even Estri the Keepress, my namesake, who had found herself often overqualified in her dealings with men, had, before this man, fallen. She would, I was sure, have approved of me, in my new perspective. My freshly wakened body preened itself, much aroused.
The room behind those thala doors was seven-cornered. One great window, dark-hung, looked out upon the Lake of Horns. The ceiling, high above our heads, was of hammered gold, ruddy and gleaming, lit by clusters of entrapped stars.
I found myself trembling, chilled, as if the cool gol under my feet was instead colored ice. Upon that strange symbol, of a bursting spiral, I turned, slowly, full around. Khys, by the window, watched me intently. Again I surveyed it, that empty hall of gold and thala. At either side of the double doors stood high-chalded arrars, lake-born by their fire-licked skin, still as statues, in the blue-black of Khys’s service.
The dharen called me to him. My limbs, as I obeyed him, seemed numb.
“I have been here before,” I murmured to him, and the room took my voice and returned it to me, louder, echo-edged.
“In your dreams, doubtless,” the dharen said, indicating that I should kneel before the window.
As he taught me, I sat there, upon my heels, my head bent, my mind whirling. After a time, I was conscious of his eyes no longer upon me, that he went and spoke with his attendants.
And then began the audiences. As each man was announced and presented to him, the supplicant knelt before the dharen and put his lips to the master’s instep, as I had been taught to do.
The first of them, a Day-Keeper, was named Ristran, dharener of hide diet. Attired as a Darsti builder, with his red-haired head shaved in the lateral stripes of the period of history in which he specialized, he made obeisance to Khys, who did not see fit to allow him to rise, but kept him upon his knees the whole time.
Of Astria, the high Day-Keeper spoke to the lord of his kind, and of those problems he faced with some who had taken helsars there.
And Khys was displeased. He adjured the dharener to send him no more excuses, no matter how inventive, as to why he could not deal with the helsar situation himself. And of his misdeeds, was Khys aware. Cruelly, as Ristran attempted to explain himself, did Khys restrain him. Remembering the horrors of the dharen’s flesh trap, I felt compassion rise up in me for the Astrian dharener. Helsars, Khys instructed him, were not to be apportioned. Those that lay still upon the plain of Astria awaited certain individuals, for whom they had been intended.
And the dharener Ristran, head bowed, only listened as Khys instructed him to open his school to those who had taken helsar teachings, or were about to take them. The dharener objected. He wanted no servers, no coin girls, no weapons masters of threxmen, in his care.
“What am I supposed to do with them?” he inquired, his voice atremble with fear and rage, still upon his knees.
“Train them, form them into a group, use them. At least that,” Khys ordered, observing that though some who had taken helsars could barely read or write, they would soon be possessed of much greater skills. Further, he demanded an accounting of all those involved in helsar studies. He would have it, he instructed Ristran, within a pass. And then, in his most formidable voice, he informed the dharener that he was aware of attempts by those of hide diet to claim certain helsars, without regard to their rightful partners. If, said Khys, he heard again of such misdeads, he personally would put Ristran in a band of restraint.
And the dharener looked up at him in disbelief. And at me, with an expression I could not name. I saw his limbs suddenly tremble, as Khys released his flesh again to his control. Stiffly he rose to his feet and backed the long way to the thala doors, his eyes lowered, deferential.
The second petitioner that day, Brinar first fourth, was admitted even as Ristran made his exit. To him, a man called Brenath, adviser to Well Astria and Port Astrin, the Well’s dependent city, Khys allowed, as he begged, certain aid in the rebuilding with which he was concerned. I learned, shifting there upon my aching knees, much of the state of Well Astria. I learned that in the holocaust of Amarsa, ’695, the coastline of Astria had been markedly altered. The Liaison’s Port, where off-world ships are accommodated, was only now ready to be reopened, in its new location. Also I heard tell of the new Well-Keepress, a forereader, hide-born, who had been installed there. And my discomfort, unexplainable, was such that Khys turned from the supplicant, his eyes, half-lidded, eloquent warning. I twisted my fingers together and sought to calm myself. The woman, named Yrisia Ateje diet Vedrast, was surely no concern of mine. Yet, mention of her, and her installation as high couch, discomfited me. Once more Khys turned. I saw him through tears, blurred, come upon me unbidden. That he might not chastise me, I put my face to the gol. He turned away once more. I found, when my resentments had cooled, that I had drawn blood with my nails upon my palms.
The next to seek him was a man high among Slayers, Rin diet Iron, of the Slayers’ Seven of Astria. He was a much-scarred, grizzled veteran, in the end of his prime, and his distaste for the bending of knee and kissing of foot Khys required of him was ill-concealed. The Slayer’s eyes kept returning to me, and they were blue and troubled when I met them.
He spoke, also, of helsars, at Khys’s prompting, abstractedly, as if he had forgotten why it was he had come here, and wished he had not done so. He explained, with the aid of a man unused to problems beyond his power to solve, the perplexity of his men.
“Helsar talents,” said Rin diet Iron, in a voice raspy and solemn, “seem more a hindrance than help to those Slayers who have acquired them. And when one needs them, in dealing with renegades also possessed of such skills, the carnage accompanying their use waxes out of proportion to all sense of fitness. I have seen men hurl chunks of mountain at each other. I have seen altercations between two take thirty to their deaths. The sort around Astria is so complexly muddled from all who wander about owkahen, none can get any use of it. My men whet their blades and long for the days when they could use them. Only a few find t
heir new weapons welcome, and study their use. Most, myself among them, feel this whole situation unseemly. I would be rid of these gifts, but if I were somehow freed of them, I would be at the mercy of those who wield them with no conscience!” He stopped, spread his hands wide, dropped them. It was obvious he felt that even Khys had, for him, no solution.
Khys instructed him to send, in groups of twenty, his troubled Slayers to the Lake of Horns, to stay a pass, each group, and take instruction.
Dismissed, the Slayer got stiffly to his feet, backed wordlessly from Khys’s sight.
The fourth supplicant was an off-worlder. I looked at him with interest, having never seen a M’ksakkan. He had no horns or tendrils, no tufted ears. His skin, except for an olive cast, was much like Silistran skin. He was not small, as I had conceived M’ksakkans, and his hair was harth-black. Ponderous he was, and overly muscled for my taste, with eyes like dirty ice. He wore a tight-fitting, strangely cut breech, black trimmed with gold, and a white tunic under his Silistran cloak. As he walked toward Khys, I saw that he limped pronouncedly, favoring his left side.
When he raised his eyes from Khys’s feet, he stared at me openly from under bushy brows. I straightened my back, meeting his gaze. My legs ached so from sitting upon them, I could think of little else.
His name was Khaf-Re Dellin, and he was Liaison First to Silistra. I had heard of him. He was before Khys with a formal request for inquiry into the complicity of a certain Slayer who had been upon his home planet, M’ksakka, at the time of the M’ksakkan adjusters’ death. His fear of Khys, I decided, must be second only to my own.
The dharen strode around him, where he knelt upon the spiral set into the gol floor. He suggested to Dellin that he look among his own for his culprit. He had, he said, been informed of the manner of the M’ksakkan’s death, and found it not Silistran.
Dellin, diffident in the extreme, pleaded for a statement to send to his superiors.
That statement Khys gave him, an observation upon the harmonic workings of the Weathers of Life, caused him to cringe upon his knees. Thrice I caught his eyes upon me, and it seemed that he found me offensive in his sight.
Khys also noticed, and bade him explain his fascination, at which time the Liaison begged to be excused. The dharen allowed it.
“Hold the rest,” he instructed those who attended his doors, and strode across the chamber to where I knelt battling the strangeness that threatened to engulf my sanity. I first knew it when he put the flat of his hand on my head.
I quailed beneath his touch, fearing flesh-lock, discipline ... I knew not what. My mind, despite my best efforts, was filled to overflowing with resentment and hatred.
Instead, he bade me rise. And I felt calmed, my hostility fading as circulation returned to my numbed legs. I rubbed my knees. “What think you of our Liaison?” queried Khys.
And I felt invaded, and did not bother to answer him aloud. He had his answer, I knew, from my mind.
His aristocratic face expressionless, Khys toyed with his chald.
“You asked to come here,” he pointed out. “Shall I return you?”
“To my confinement?” I spat. “No. I would rather even this.”
And he indicated that I take up again my place before the window, which now showed the sun’s set. Again sitting on my heels, under his scrutiny, I flushed hot with shame. A decoration for his audience room, I had become. And I felt much-fallen, though from what, I did not know.
He strode, his dark robe swirling around him, to the arrars at the doors. One, nodding, left the audience chamber. The other crossed his arms over his chest.
Six more men kissed the dharen’s feet that evening, seeking his favor, his council. The night stars glittered in the moonless sky before he was through with them. My stomach growled and rolled upon itself. It occurred to me that the dharen might not feel hunger, that such a man perhaps did not need food. But I knew different, from a night I had supped with him. And then I was not sure at all that that night had ever occurred. Looking at his back, I seemed to see the bursting spiral there, scintillant. And he was another, so great that Khys was only a poor copy. Around me, I saw not thala but thick-leaved greenery, and above me was not gold, but the glory of the universe, not paltry as time lets us see it, but brilliant and much multiplied, its beginning and ending and all motion between chronicled there.
And I found that my hands squeezed my head, spread-fingered, and that I rocked back and forth, moaning softly, with Khys’s concerned face close to mine. The tenth supplicant was no longer in the chamber, and the two arrars stood just behind their master, eyes distant.
I could not look at him, though he demanded it. When I did, his features danced and changed in the mist. I heard my own voice, begging aid. I am not here, I thought desperately. The dharen’s flat palm cracked my head to one side, then the other. I barely felt it; rather was I conscious of the different sights before me.
Then I saw that golden ceiling, and the entrapped stars upon it, and knew that he carried me, for they were where the floor should be. Then I was not there, but elsewhere, and I bore that beast again, saw the cord between us cut, heard it scream.
It screamed and screamed. I felt something upon my mouth, and the screaming, mercifully, stopped. I heard my name, and forced my lids apart. And closed them tight against what I saw. But he would not let me be. I could feel him, within me, working. I fought him. Better to drift, forever. He would not allow it. He was stronger than I. He pulled me back. I felt the couch silks under me, and knew my chance was lost.
“Estri,” said Khys, “look at me.”
I did so. His face did not dance. The mist did not obscure him, nor the expanse of his keep, nor Carth, whose worried face peered over his shoulder.
“No.” I denied it all—the madness, the hatred, the other I had seen. “Help. Please help me,” I pleaded, in the face of what I feared most of all.
“Estri,” said Khys. I met his eyes, unresisting, that he might heal my accursed madness. And it was as if one stood over a clear, bottomless well in which the sense of one’s life floated, waiting to be dipped and drunk. I felt my heart rate slow, my blood chemistries come into balance. His fingers came together at the base of my spine; I partook of his strength. His face, as he worked, was transfigured, compassionate.
He sat back, again dharen of Silistra. “Rise,” he directed. I did, and dizziness assailed me. But the keep did not dissolve, and Khys’s grasp on my arm was very real.
“Thank you, Carth,” said Khys, not turning. “Send Vedrast my apologies. I will not be long here.” And Carth, his brow still furrowed, left by the outer doors.
“Now,” he said gravely, “let us discuss what has just occurred.”
“I could not help it,” I whimpered. “I am trying. Surely you know that. I cannot help it.”
“There is no way out. There is no way but mine. There has never been.” He spoke to that within me which still defied him. “I will not allow another of these fits. You will, should you repeat this performance, find yourself once more stripped, and I will start anew.” And though I did not know then what he meant, the fine hairs on my body raised themselves. I clenched my teeth to stop their chatter.
He smiled grimly. “Your sensing is truly superb. The worst is yet to come.” He patted me delicately upon the head.
At the door, he looked back at me. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said. “Tasa.” And I heard the tumblers click as he locked the doors behind him. The stars dimmed.
I sat there, stunned, for a time. Then I went and tried the doors, both those to the hall and those to my chamber. All were secure. The trail gear and weapons were no longer upon the milky gol table. That panel I had seen him push inward did not respond to my touch.
I poured myself a bowl of kifra, to stay my shaking limbs and drive the chill from me. Sorely I had displeased him. I wondered what the night enths held in store.
“It is not fair,” I said aloud, tossing the empty bowl to the rust-toned
mat. It was not right for him to punish me. Surely the madness was punishment enough. I went to the windowed alcove, stared out at the night. The city was reflected in the lake. Another time, I would have been taken by the view’s beauty. There was a wind, bobbling and rippling the lake’s surface and the lights upon it. How long I sat with my leg thrown up on the sill, I do not know. At one point I stripped off my s’kim and threw it, petulant, among the cushions. At another, I thought I heard footsteps, and hurriedly reclaimed it, tying it as Khys preferred, tight over the hips, loose at the breasts. The knots of queasiness in my stomach I attributed to so long without food. I was dozing, my shoulder pressed against the cool pane, when the doors opened. I did not turn. The ceiling stars acknowledged him. I continued to stare into the night.
He came up behind me, in the alcove amid the cushions. Taking a deep breath, my sweaty palms clenched, I turned to face his anger.
And pressed back against the window; Khys had made good his word.
Before me stood the arrar Sereth. He wore a night-dark robe, loosely belted. Shadows hovered in his hollow cheeks, danced in the scar that traced its way from temple to jaw. Khys’s height, but spare was the dharen’s most deadly weapon.
I went down on the cushions to him, my lips to his instep, as Khys required. Abruptly, he jerked his foot away. Confused, my knees resting on my own hair, I stared up at him. He squatted down by my side.
“Do not fear me,” he said, tossing his head. His hand found my shoulder. It seemed that his fingers trembled. “He asked me to come here, to use you.” His voice, through unmoving lips, was very soft. “I will not, if you do not wish it.” So gently spoke this man who ripped out throats with his bare hands, who got well-women with child and refused them. A deep V formed above his high-bridged nose.