by Alec Hutson
“Smart little creatures,” Irix says, straightening his surcoat. “They recognize me.”
“This place . . .” I say, still awed by the sprawling wonder of it.
“Yes, it is quite marvelous,” Irix replies. “The Orthonos are one of the oldest and richest families in Zim. It is said that even the gardens of the Purple Emperor pale in comparison to these grounds.” Irix begins walking towards the pillared entrance to the golden manse and I fall in behind him. “You will have complete freedom of the house and gardens, but if you wish to enter the city you must tell me or another of the senior servants. I hope we never have to activate the Zino Circle you are wearing, but if it does appear that you have abandoned the life debt we now hold, we will be forced with a heavy heart to do so.” He gives me a somber look. “I appreciate that the idea of slavery does not sit well with some – in my people, for example, the idea is considered monstrous – but I can assure you that the life of a Sword is not arduous, and after a few years your life will be your own again.”
“Explain to me what being a Sword is like,” I ask as we slip between the pillars and enter an airy foyer. Dust motes glitter like specks of gold in the shafts of light falling from the great windows above.
Irix paces across the gleaming floor, the ringing of his boots echoing in the vast space. “As I said, the Swords are vestiges of an earlier age. Back then, conflicts between the great houses were settled by proxy – champion against champion. If a matriarch headed a house, then their champions were referred to as Swords. If the house had a patriarch, his champion was called a Shield. Over time, the positions transitioned into something more ceremonial, and the . . . physical appearance of the Swords and Shields became as important as their fighting prowess.”
“So Auxilia chose me –”
“Because you’re handsome,” Irix finishes. “Though please call her ‘Mistress’. Only her daughters call her Auxilia.”
“Are all the Swords men?”
“And all the Shields are women.”
“Then are we really just –”
Irix turns to me with a sigh. “Yes, you are the newest member of the Orthonos harem.” He hurriedly continues when he sees my expression. “Believe me, there are worse ways to fulfill your life debt. The mistress is quite attractive.” His blue cheeks darken as he says this. “Unlike some of the other matriarchs and patriarchs. You are extremely lucky, to be honest.”
A harem. In the span of a day I’ve gone from slogging through sewers hunting monsters to the harem of one of the empire’s richest women. I can’t decide how I feel about this.
Irix continues to natter away as he leads me through great rooms and galleries stuffed with works of art and expensive furniture. Most of his explanations and advice wash over me in a wave, ignored and unremembered, as I struggle with the massive change in my situation. What is the same is the feeling of the metal circlet around my ankle – I need to remember that I’m still a slave. My cage may be gilded now, but it’s still a cage.
“And this wing of the manse is reserved for the mistress’s Swords,” Irix says, throwing out his arms at the entrance to yet another opulent room. This one looks more lived-in than most of the others: silver platters holding the remnants of lunches are scattered about on some of the low tables. A massive man with long black hair is sprawled on one of the velvet couches, his face deep in a book. Several other tomes are scattered around him on the cushions. When he notices us, he tosses down the book he’s reading and bounces to his feet, grinning. The furs he’s garbed in remind me of something I’ve seen before . . . particularly the vest of white hair that reveals the muscles etched into his chest and stomach.
“Irix!” he bellows, striding over to us. “Hast thou acquired what I asked of thee?”
Irix holds up his empty hands. “I have not, Romen. My apologies. I thought I would be able to stop by the Scriptorium today, but the mistress asked me to accompany her elsewhere.”
A cloud of disappointment passes over the huge man’s face. “Truly, a pity. I have been excited to read the poems of Gustavia ever since I saw them referenced in The Dawning Light.” Then his face brightens. “But you return with a stranger! Well met, friend. I am Romen of the gel-akon, fiercest of the northmen.”
“Sometimes called ‘The Librarian’,” adds Irix. “Romen, this is Talin, the newest of the Swords.”
“Truly?” Romen says as we clasp arms. His grip is crushing. “Then I am truly honored to meet thee, Talin. Though I’m afraid your name is unknown to me – are you a new fighter from the pits? Or from another city, perhaps?”
“Talin was a mucker,” Irix says, and the Northman’s eyebrows rise. “He was the one who saved young master Lupinus after he was kidnapped.”
Now the Librarian’s other massive hand claps my shoulder hard. “God’s blood, truly you are a hero! We were all worried for that wee lad when we heard what had happened. Welcome to the Swords of Orthonos, Talin of the Muckers!”
“Talin of the Muckers.”
We turn to look at the man who has appeared in an entrance across the huge room from us. He’s nearly as tall as Romen, but much leaner, his skin pale as milk. His yellow hair has been teased into spikes, and a spidery red tattoo covers half his face. Despite this, he’s still strikingly handsome. He leans against the doorframe, lathered in sweat, holding a pair of thin-bladed swords with ornate cross guards.
“Jalent! We have a new Sword!” Romen says, loud enough to make my ears ring.
“I heard, Librarian” the blond swordsman says, pushing himself from the doorway. “Talin of the Muckers. A new Sword for the mistress’s sheath.”
“Ha!” Romen laughs, though I hear a note of unease.
Jalent points one of his thin swords at me. “Can you fight, mucker? Supposedly that’s why we’re here, but some of us seem to have forgotten that.”
“The mind must be sharpened, just like the body! Irix knows this, doesn’t he?” the Librarian cries cheerfully. Romen steps closer to the little blue servant, bringing his arm around like he’s going to clap him on the shoulder. Irix cowers, raising his hands, and the northman hesitates.
“Quite, Sword Romen,” Irix agrees, peeking around his fingers when the expected blow does not come. “And Sword Jalent, I’m told that Talin here was the finest warrior the old soldier in charge of the muckers had seen in years.”
“The finest of the muckers,” Jalent says slowly with a smirk. “It takes impressive skills to keep the shit flowing in Zim, this is true. I look forward to testing my blade against yours, mucker.”
With that, the blond warrior saunters away, slipping through a silken curtain. The challenge of his final words lingers in the air for a moment, and then the huge northman guffaws, breaking the tension.
“Ha! That Jalent, always craving the drama! But do not worry, friend Talin, he is not as fierce as he appears.”
“No,” Irix says, straightening his tunic, “he is quite a bit worse. He has been the mistress’s favorite for a few years now, and he brooks no competition. If you submit, he will leave you alone quickly enough. But if you present a challenge to him . . .”
“I don’t care about being favored by her,” I say.
“That might only interest her more,” Irix replies with a sigh. “We shall see. Now, let me show you to your quarters.”
I bid farewell to the northman and follow Irix as he leads me down a passage decorated with vibrant wall hangings. We pass several closed doors – the rooms of the other Swords, he remarks – until we reach the end of the hall.
“And this is yours,” he says, unlocking the door and pushing it wide.
From the opulence of the rest of the manse I was expecting something nice, but still my expectations are exceeded. The furniture is intricately carved of gleaming red wood, golden sheets of shimmering silk cover a wide bed, and a silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall. Fresh flowers in vases patterned with swimming fish spice the air, and through doors of slatted wood I can see a balcony ov
erlooking the gardens.
The last few weeks I’ve slept on a thin pallet under a threadbare blanket in a cell with fifteen other muckers. I feel like I’m dreaming.
Irix is talking again, and I have to force myself to concentrate on what the little blue man is droning on about.
“ . . . and you are expected to make yourself look as presentable as possible,” he says, gesturing at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “In the closets you will find an assortment of clothes that should fit you. I have a good eye and will prepare something more tailored.” His tone turns lecturing as he wags a finger at me. “Remember, you represent the Orthonos now. If you are called before the mistress and she has guests, and you do not adequately impress with your appearance – or are, saints forbid, a slovenly mess – she will be angry. And what she gives,” – the little man indicates the contents of my room with a sweep of his hand – “she can also take away.”
“She’d send me back to the Department of Public Works?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps a worse fate. She is not usually fickle – but then again, few dare to disappoint her.”
“I understand,” I say, tossing my sheathed sword onto the silken sheets. The gentle breeze wafting in from outside stirs the flowers in their vases, and the weight of my exhaustion suddenly comes crashing down on me. I’m apparently not fully recovered from my ordeal in the undercity.
Irix seems to sense what I want. “Take a good rest, Sword Talin. You’ll be called upon soon enough.”
15
I wake with the dawn, the slatted screen leading to my balcony infused with pink. I feel reborn; the bone-deep weariness has vanished, along with the aches and pains I’ve accumulated over the last few days. I bury my head in a pillow, hoping to return to the dreamlands, but a songbird just outside my window has decided to serenade the rising sun. After a short while spent tossing and turning I throw back the sheets and slide from the bed.
The slight chill in the morning air licks my skin, but before I can reach for the tattered mucker uniform I wore to the Orthonos manse I catch myself in the mirror and pause. I haven’t seen myself since the Red Sword handed me a mirror when I awoke in her hidden fortress. At the time, the face staring back at me seemed to belong to someone else. Now, the high cheekbones and gleaming silver eyes are familiar, and the freshest of the scars lacing my body tell me stories I can remember. There is where the hooked horror of the red waste sliced me open, now a thin red blemish thanks to Valyra’s healing magic. And that cut is from when Valens in his guise as the Marquis scored my side, just before I dumped the Cleansing Flame atop him. And those inflamed crimson streaks are where the talons of the Pale Man nearly disemboweled me. The legacy of what has happened to me since I came to myself.
I take up my sword and toss its scabbard aside, examining the gleaming blade in the mirror. It looks the same as when I first drew it, as the howls of the Shriven were rising up from the wastes around me. Pale green glass, in places webbed by darker emerald strands. A dark hilt carved to resemble a bird with wings outspread. I cut the air with the sword, reveling in the lightness and perfect balance. The weapons I was given as a mucker had been ill-hewn lumps of iron compared to the grace and beauty of my green-glass sword.
The only thing I remember from my past life is how to fight, and I slip into one of the stances, my weight on the balls of my feet. My sword flickers out, carving a pattern in the air. I lunge, block, twist away, slash again, my body tingling with pleasure as I work my way through a few basic routines.
A gasp comes from behind me, and I whirl around, my sword upraised. A girl stands in the doorway, her face drained of color, a silver tray laden with food in her arms.
“Oh,” she murmurs, her wide dark eyes traveling from the sword I’m holding above my head, then down my body, pausing below my waist.
Then she whirls away, nearly spilling what she’s carrying. With jerky movements she slides the tray onto a nearby dresser and flees the room, leaving the door open behind her.
With a chuckle, I pace over to where the girl abandoned the tray and pluck a glazed pastry from the assortment of sliced fruits and baked delicacies. Sweet jam floods my mouth, and it’s so good I can’t hold back a little moan of contentment. Far superior to the lukewarm porridge we ate every morning in the mucker eating hall.
There’s a steaming cup of black liquid as well, and I take a tentative sip. It’s intensely bitter, but something within me seems to awaken at the taste.
Coffee. This is coffee.
Despite the unpleasant taste I feel a deep affinity for the drink – I’ve drunk this before, and my body remembers even if my mind does not.
I clean the tray with fastidious care, finishing every crumb and seed. My head is buzzing pleasantly after downing the strong dark coffee.
I am ready to attack the day.
My bare feet pad across the cool stone as I make my way over to the screen and slide it open, then step out on to the balcony. The sun here is warmer, and I lean against the wrought copper balustrade, basking in the beauty of the unfolding day. The gardens are spread before me, splashed by the morning light. Beds of brilliantly colored flowers hem the wending paths, and here and there tiny ponds sparkle and flash. I breathe deep of the crisp air, savoring the moment.
For a while I stand there, in a state of blissful contentment, as the light deepens and the creatures in the gardens below begin to stir. The waddling birds with iridescent feathers emerge from wherever they’ve been sleeping and start hunting for their own breakfasts. Elsewhere, a small furry animal scampers down the trunk of a gnarled tree and dashes across the grass. In the distance, the rosy light slides along the bricks of Zim’s towers, flashing upon the peaked copper roofs.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there when I hear a throat clear behind me. I turn to find Irix in the middle of my room, a set of clothes neatly folded across his arms.
“Good morning,” he says brightly as I step back inside. “You are looking much improved.”
“I feel better than I have in weeks,” I tell him as he sets the clothes down on my rumpled golden sheets.
“That is good. The salve does work wonders, though even I’m impressed with its apparent efficacy.”
I’d ascribe most of my miraculous recovery to having my sword returned to me, but I don’t bother trying to explain the properties of the blade.
“Those are for me?” I ask him, indicating the folded tunic and breeches.
“Indeed.”
I step closer to the bed and pick up the tunic, studying it critically. It’s a blend of garishly bright colors – the arms are a deep azure, while the body is a striped pattern of orange and red.
“Am I being dressed in motley?” I ask him, and Irix covers what I think might be a laugh with a quick cough.
“Ahem. No. Bright colors are the style in Zim.”
“Hm,” I grunt, eyeing the emerald green trousers critically.
“You’ll have to wear something, at least,” he says, regarding my nakedness with a frown. “I hear you’ve already traumatized one of the maids.”
“Well, she shouldn’t come barging into rooms without knocking,” I reply.
“Quite. I’ll have a word with her. But while you’re welcome to revel in the glory of your body in here, I do need you to get dressed before you leave this chamber. And not in those mucker rags you were wearing yesterday.”
“You make it sound like I have to go somewhere.”
“Which you do. Our mistress is hosting the patriarch of House Juventa and the matriarch of the Yeshil for lunch. She has informed me that she wants you present.”
“Why?”
“To show you off, I assume. You are the newest addition to her collection. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do much except look intimidating and handsome. So wear what I’ve brought you, glower, and keep your hand on the hilt of that remarkable sword. That one,” he says, pointing at my green-glass blade, as if he needs to clarify.
Then the
head servant turns on his heels and departs, closing the door gently. With a sigh I flop back down on the bed, sinking into its luxurious softness. Handsome and intimidating? Am I pet or a protector?
I try to push this thought out of my mind before it can taint my excellent mood. Instead, I burrow back beneath the sheets, hoping for a few more watches of sleep before I’m summoned. That might be difficult with the coffee coursing through my veins, but I’ve certainly strained myself enough over the last few days and the bed is so soft and the sheets so cool . . .
A tentative knock on the door awakens me.
“Sword, it is time.” The voice trembles nervously, and I have a fair idea of who has been sent to fetch me.
“I’m coming,” I reply loudly, throwing aside the sheets and quickly dressing in the ridiculous outfit Irix has left for me. There really should be a pointed cap with bells on it to complete the whole ensemble.
I strap my sheathed sword to my belt and cross the room, this time careful to avoid seeing myself in the mirror. The slight knock comes again just as I pull open the door – it is indeed the same maid, a girl with pale skin and red curls. Her cheeks flush deeply, and she seems to be staring at some point beyond me.
“Let’s go,” I tell her, and she gives a quick nod before hurriedly turning away.
She leads me through a dizzying series of galleries and chambers, and I have little confidence that I’ll manage to find my back to my room without help. The ‘manse’ is actually several buildings of golden stone linked by passages entirely constructed from interlocking panes of glass. Creepers and vines spotted with flowers wrap the outside of these walkways, in places so thick that we are cast into shadow.
At last she pauses at the entrance to a vast chamber, larger than any I’ve seen before, and motions for me to continue on alone. Tentatively, I step inside, awed by the grandeur of what’s before me. An artificial lake fills most of the space, dotted by lotus blossoms and lily pads. An arching silver bridge extends to an island in the center, where I can see several figures, some sprawling on divans and others standing stiffly at attention. There’s a low table as well, mounded with food and glinting dishes. The whole scene is bathed in a panoply of colors, as the high ceiling is inset with a great mosaic arranged from stained glass.