The Azureans

by R Gene Curtis

  the BLUE FLOWER trilogy

  THE

  AZUREANS

  R. GENE CURTIS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 R. Gene Curtis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design by: Allison P Martin

  Images from Adobe Stock © gonin, bint87, Tomasz Zajda, & alarsonphoto

  https://rgenecurtis.com

  For Anna

  1 Initiation

  Karl

  The sun is low in the sky and my head aches.

  I sit up, shake my head, and orient myself. I’m in a castle. Wynn healed me and someone died. There is a girl in a closet next to me, and I’m wearing a black robe. My name is on the door of this room. Supposedly.

  The girl comes out of the closet and lights torches on the walls; the room fills with the smell of oil and smoke. Her footsteps pad softly on the stone floor. Before she finishes, the door to the room slams open.

  “Karu!” Buen calls urgently. He waves frantically, and I stumble out of bed and follow him out of the room. He breaks into a slow run, and I shake the cobwebs from my mind as I try to keep up with him. Buen. The guy with the orange sash. The guy Wynn told to help me. I think. Is he upset? I did sleep away most of the day, but he could have woken me if he needed to.

  We return to the main castle tower, back to the dining hall. It isn’t empty this time. Six men, all wearing black robes like mine, sit at a table across the hall. These men are built like Buen: strong physiques, commanding presences, and colored sashes: green, red, brown, magenta, purple and gray.

  I’m the only one without a sash.

  Buen says something to the men, and I hope it’s friendly. They don’t look particularly pleased to see me. I stay close to Buen, although I don’t know if I should trust him any more than these men.

  We sit at the far end of the table. The other men eye me warily as the servants bring out food. The smell of warm food awakens my hunger. After the huge meal I ate with Buen earlier today, I’m surprised I’m hungry already. Maybe I slept longer than I thought?

  The last of the servants reaches the table, sets down another large platter, and hurries away. A large magenta-sashed man at the other end of the table stands. His hair is gray, and his beard is full. He leads the men in the same toast for Wynn that Buen taught me earlier today. I follow suit, and we fill our plates.

  Delicious. If possible, I’m even hungrier than I thought. I’m not sure what is going on with my body. I’ve been starved for days, and though the food feels heavy in my stomach, I keep eating. I hope it doesn’t take too long for my system to get straightened out again. A small price to pay for being alive, I suppose. If I was dead, my body wouldn’t have anything to figure out.

  Buen is the youngest man in the group, besides myself. He eats quietly, and the other men don’t talk to him. Any glances down the table end up on me.

  The men are friendlier with each other. Some are loud and boisterous, others converse quietly. All of them look like they could be my dad’s age, though they’re stronger than he has ever been.

  The man with the magenta sash, who led the toast for Wynn, sits across from me on the opposite end of the table. His long hair and beard are an exception—everyone else here is clean-shaven. Except me, of course. But that isn’t the only thing that makes him different. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He barely even eats. He glares at me.

  I squirm under the hatred in the man’s eyes and avert my gaze. I turn my attention back to my plate, but soon I’ve eaten everything on it. I look back up. Yup, the man is still staring at me. More food sits on the table in front of me, but unsure of what might be motivating the magenta-sash man’s glares, I decide not to go for more.

  Without anything else to do, I distract myself by focusing on the language the other men are speaking. It’s a constant babble of sound, and I struggle to pick out words or rhythm. I listen, repeating words I can make out in my head.

  And the night drags on. The plates are cleared, and the food taken away. Buen stays quiet, the man in magenta glares every time I look at him, and the other five men keep talking. This is duller than my graduate-level structural biology class.

  My eyes close slowly, and I fight sleep gallantly. Once it becomes clear that I’m fighting a losing battle, the talking suddenly stops and there is a shuffle of chairs. I wake up and stand with the men just before the door slams open and a man with a black robe and sash enters the room. Light from torches on the walls reflects off his greasy black hair.

  Wynn.

  My mouth goes dry and my hands are clammy. Who will die this time?

  The men fall to the ground. I mimic the stance and put my forehead on my knee. It’s hard to see anything in this position. After what seems like a long time, Wynn barks a command and we stand. The other men start to chant. It’s low and creepy, like something you’d hear at Halloween. I don’t say anything; I’d just ruin the chant and attract attention. I stare at Wynn, looking away whenever his eyes move in my direction.

  The men finish, and Wynn stands in silence at the head of the table, his face expressionless, his dark eyes menacing as they devour each of us in turn. I hold still, wishing I was invisible.

  No such luck—I should have exercised more in graduate school. Wynn motions to me, and I approach him uncertainly. He puts his thin arm around my shoulder and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that tells you something horrible is about to happen. I stay still, breathing hard and clenching my clammy hands.

  The other men sit, and Wynn starts talking. A trickle of sweat slides down my back. I hear my name. No one at the table is smiling, and the man in the magenta sash is still glaring at me. I didn’t know it was possible to hold a glare for so long.

  Wynn pulls a yellow sash from his pocket and hands it to me. I remember this sash. My captor wore it earlier today when he delivered me to Wynn. I watched him die while wearing it. The cloth is soft. Wynn says something, and I put it on. I might have just pledged a lifetime of service to Wynn, or I might have just volunteered to be his next victim. I don’t know.

  Once the sash is on, the babble continues. I stand uncomfortably, wishing Wynn would take his sweaty arm off me. I try shrugging a couple times, but he doesn’t move. At length, the men stand and applaud. The man in magenta only claps once.

  They all sit down, but I don’t get to move. Wynn’s arm holds me in place like there is a chemical bond fixating me to him. A door opens, and two servant men lead the girl from my room into the dining hall. The girl walks between the men, her head bowed and her wrists tied behind her back.

  As soon as they get close to us, one of the men gives the girl a shove, and she falls into a prostrate position in front of Wynn.

  No one speaks. Wynn’s thin, clammy arm still sits on my shoulder. He stares with contempt at the girl. He addresses her, and the words sound harsh and condescending.

  The girl doesn’t move for a time, and then she comes to stand next to me. She faces me, but her eyes are on the floor. Wynn puts his free hand on top of the girl’s head and moves his other hand to rest on my head. The girl’s head barely reaches my shoulder. She doesn’t move; Wynn continues to speak. The weight of his hand strains my neck.

  Finall
y, Wynn stops talking and removes his hands. The girl bows to me in a submissive way that makes me feel uneasy. But, the bow is nothing compared with what happens next. As soon as the girl finishes her bow, Wynn cuts the girl’s cheek. The blade is sharp and slices through the skin easily. The girl doesn’t cry out, and neither do I. I stand, frozen in place as Wynn works. His fingers move nimbly, quickly, as the knife slices into the girl’s skin until a red, bloody mark is on her face. It looks like it could be a letter, but I don’t know. Her head stays down, but I can see tears glisten in her eyes.

  My gaze goes down to the floor and I feel utterly helpless. My whole life I’ve been taught to respect and protect women, but today I stand frozen in place.

  Wynn moves to the right cheekbone. He works quickly on this side, but this time I recognize the mark he makes. It’s the same mark that the men servants have on both cheeks.

  Wynn finishes, slides the knife back into his robe, and faces the table. The men applaud, but I don’t. Instead, I stare at the girl standing in front of me with blood running down her face. The cuts look deep. I grab my robe and reach up to wipe away some of the blood.

  Something cold touches me from behind and my legs buckle under me. As I fall to the floor, Wynn claps and two servant men take the girl away. Her blood drips across the floor as she leaves. I do not stand again until she’s gone, and then Wynn sends me back to my seat.

  Wynn and the men converse. Stars shine through the windows, and a cool breeze floats through the dining hall. The night drags on. I don’t nod when the other men nod. I don’t chant when they chant. I sit and stare at my hands, the table, and the bare stone walls. I look anywhere that is not at the man in magenta or the trail of blood leaving the room.

  ✽✽✽

  As we approach the door to my room, Buen enters an adjacent room, leaving me in the hallway alone. The ornate carving on the door to my room is beautiful. Buen told me that it says Karu.

  In the starlight, I study the first letter of my name. The letter that would make the K sound.

  I’ve seen this letter before. Tonight. It’s the letter Wynn carved into the girl’s face.

  Am I supposed to knock? Buen did the first time we came. I push my ear to the door, but I don’t hear anything. I don’t know if the girl is even in there. I knock softly, quiet enough that Buen won’t hear from his room, but hopefully loud enough for the girl to hear if she’s inside.

  Nothing happens.

  I push the door open a crack. Dim light seeps through the crack from the same torches the girl lit earlier today. I hope she isn’t in here. I’m not sure I know how to deal with seeing her again tonight.

  I push the door open and step inside. The girl stands in the center of the room, as if she was watching for me.

  I push the large door, and it clicks shut behind me.

  The girl meets my eyes momentarily, and then lowers her gaze to the floor. I take a few timid steps toward her. She hasn’t washed her face. Her clothes are covered with blood. As I thought, the mark on her face matches the mark on the door. I shudder as I think about what that might mean.

  “We need to get you cleaned up before the cuts get infected.” I point at her face. Her dark eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t say anything. She probably needs stitches, though the cuts aren’t as deep as they looked in the dining hall. She’s going to have some nasty scars.

  She shakes her head and says something softly. I shrug, frustrated with our inability to communicate.

  At least this time she doesn’t look at the floor. Her eyes are as wide as the light of the lanterns flickering across her face. She’s questioning me, I think. Asking me what I’m going to do to her. But, I have no intention of doing anything to her. Especially if she doesn’t want me to help her get cleaned up.

  “I’m tired,” I say. “Do you sleep in there?” I point to the closet I saw her in earlier. Her eyes follow my hand and then come back to my face. She doesn’t move, though she does say something quietly.

  “Karu,” I say. I might as well introduce myself.

  She nods and repeats my name. She kneels on the ground with her head on her knee. I reach down and grab her elbow, pulling her back up and shaking my head. Her arm is soft. I let go.

  “Who are you?” I point at her. She says nothing, and so I repeat the gesture several times.

  She bows her head submissively. I almost think I see her smile. “Za’an,” she finally says.

  She has a name. Za’an.

  “Za’an, you’re not my slave,” I say. Slavery and sex trafficking exist in my world. I work in genetics—I’m not ignorant. Still, I’ve been able to live my life ignoring these issues, and I intend to do so tonight.

  Za’an reaches for my arm, and I recoil at her touch. “I don’t want you here.” I point to her room.

  She nods and bows submissively. I walk to my bed and stand there. Crickets chirp outside. The place feels peaceful, like things should be good or happy. But things aren’t good, and they aren’t happy. I have a woman in my room with my name carved into her face.

  Za’an’s hands touch my waist and I jump away. How did she get back here without me hearing her? And why is she touching me again? But, before I can say anything, she unties my sash and retreats, her eyes on the ground as she backs away. She throws the sash in the laundry and hides in her closet.

  “Za’an.”

  She comes back out, her dark eyes meeting mine.

  “You really need to clean up.” I make a motion of showering and point over to the shower. I don’t want her to sleep with all that blood on her.

  She says something quietly.

  “I insist,” I point to the shower again.

  I repeat the process a few more times until she bows her head and walks to the shower. I watch her until she slips off her shirt. I blush at the sight of her slender back and shoulders and hurry into my bed to stare at the dark ceiling. The sound of the running water fills the room, but I don’t look over again.

  There is too much familiarity between me and this stranger I can’t talk to. Are we married? There was a ceremony, with Wynn as the officiator. I’m glad we don’t carve our names into our wife’s face when we get married back home.

  The water stops. Za’an’s bare feet pad around the room, and she extinguishes the torches. When the room is dark, she stops beside my bed. I feel her standing there, but I don’t move. I don’t know if she put on her clothes or not, and I’m not going to open my eyes to find out. Eventually, her feet pad over to her closet and all is quiet.

  ✽✽✽

  Rain falls most of the night. When the sky starts to lighten, I get out of bed and stretch.

  Za’an immediately comes out of her closet. She lights a couple torches and says something to me. One word. She says it again, and I repeat it back to her. She nods and glances at the floor submissively, suppressing a small smile. It feels good to see her smile. It makes her seem human. I say the word again.

  She points to the shower area. I repeat the word and head over there. She follows me over. I shake my head and wave her back—I know what I’m doing now. She follows me anyway and motions for me to disrobe. She helps me get the robe over my fat body, her face expressionless at seeing me naked. She waves for me to stay put, and then returns with a small stool and a knife with a sharp, flat blade.

  I point at the knife, and she says a word. I repeat it back slowly. She smiles and nods. She comes up next to me, and I take a step back. She shakes her head and puts the stool down and motions me back. I eye her nervously, but she smiles. Her smile is kind, so different from the smile Wynn had last night.

  I stand next to her. She speaks softly and starts to shave my beard.

  Of course. Everyone I’ve seen here has been clean shaven. Except for the man in magenta. I haven’t seen a mirror in this world, so there is no way I could have done this myself. So I stand, awkward and cold in the cool morning air while this slave girl shaves my face. She coos softly while she works, and I almost feel comfor
table. Well, I might feel more comfortable if I wasn’t fat and naked, towering over a small girl wearing skimpy clothing.

  Whisker by whisker my beard falls to the floor. I didn’t shave while I was in graduate school. I had planned to shave when I defended my PhD thesis. But then Tara, a first-year student who I thought was my girlfriend, set me up with fake data and I had to run for my life from a big blond man with a ponytail—that run landed me here. For so long, I looked forward to the day when I would shave all those years of school away. This isn’t the day or the place I had planned.

  After I bathe and get dressed, I rest on my bed a while longer until a knock interrupts my thoughts. Za’an answers and bows with her face on her knee as Buen comes into the room with boisterous words and a smile on his face. My stomach rumbles. I hope we’re heading for the dining hall.

  Instead, Buen takes me to the palace gardens in the center of the castle’s three towers and starts jogging.

  “No way,” I say. “I don’t run.”

  Buen motions for me to follow. I shake my head. Buen returns to my side and gives me a hard shove in the back.

  I don’t move.

  Buen pulls out a knife and places the tip of the blade on my back.

  I start running.

  I haven’t run since middle school—for good reason. Athletes waste their brains on mindless tasks like running. I always have better ways to use my time and my mind.

  Until today.

  Apparently, there is a right way to run. Buen stops me over and over to teach running techniques. They don’t make a difference. I don’t get into a rhythm, and each step is torture.

  While we jog, Buen says words and points to things. I grunt and ignore him. The only word I’m learning right now is the word for “run.” I spit it out like it’s a swear word. It might as well be.

  We jog forever. We jog until I’m so tired my legs wobble with each step. Then, we jog more. The sun is high in the sky by the time we stop. I’m famished and tired and completely soaked in sweat. I probably wasn’t supposed to shower before this.