The Sword and the Slave

by Michelle Levigne

  When they stopped to eat at noon, Hialatus sent a healer back along the long column to request Adon join him. Adon turned his horse to go to the front of the column. It occurred to him that he would probably see General Istrak. Adon smiled at that thought, which made no sense. True, his father admired her, but she was a woman of power, and not to be trusted.

  Adon knew what his father would say if he confessed the revelation that had come to him. Naqueron would remind Adon that his beloved mother had been one of the most powerful and respected women in all the valley kingdoms. Then again, Adieri had never desired power, and only used her influence and riches to enforce the dictates of the Healer Prophet. She was nothing like Taisha. The question, Adon supposed, was how much General Istrak was like his mother. Did she seek power, or just use it for the greater good?

  Those thoughts still filled his mind when Nillio let out a pitiful moan and crumpled as he slid out of his saddle. The two soldiers nearest to him leaped out of their saddles and went to see what had happened. Four hostages close to Nillio shouted and dug their heels into their mounts’ sides and raced away.

  Adon's first thought was that they were fools. There was nothing but desert, stone and sand and heat, for a day in any direction. They had no water except the ration given to them at every rest stop. No food. No supplies—their few permitted possessions were carried in one of the supply wagons in the middle of the column.

  His second thought was to wish that he could flee, take his chances while their captors were distracted.

  His third thought was to wonder how he ended up on the ground, halfway under his horse's belly, with a throbbing ache in his head and all his extremities tingling. The hostage collar felt hot and tight, as if it had shrunk suddenly. He could hardly swallow. He looked around, blinking the haze from his eyes, and saw six other men lay on the ground, unconscious.

  "What happened?” he asked the healer who stood over him, holding out a hand to help him to his feet. “The collars?” he guessed, before the young woman could respond.

  "You thought about escaping, didn't you? Strongly enough to want to do it.” Some sympathy gleamed in her eyes, but amusement outweighed it.

  "Can't a man even wish for something without being punished for it?” he grumbled.

  "What's the use of hostages if they are too much burden to keep under control?” She shrugged and gestured for him to follow her.

  Adon looked back once as he mounted his horse and rode up to the front of the column. The four men who tried to escape still lay where they had landed when they fell off their horses. Nillio sat hunched over, holding his hand to the back of his head. Adon learned later that someone had hit Nillio with a stone to cause the distraction.

  Hialatus explained the magic of the collars while he and Adon worked on a belly wound gone bad. They had to cut the stitches, re-open the wound where it had started to heal, clean out the rotted flesh and find the debris still residing in the wound.

  "If you get lost or kidnapped, the guard stones help us find you. If you try to remove the collar without tripping the spell in the guard stones, you will lose consciousness. If you ask someone to remove the collar ... well, neither you nor your friend will like it.” Hialatus shook his head. “I agree with those precautions. A very benign way of keeping all of you under control, without resorting to shackles and chains and yoking you all together in a line. Those who are troublemakers will be assigned to households that will be stern with them. You aren't slaves to be sold, but you will be given to households and nobles where you will have duties that fit your talents and dispositions. And ... well, some of your companions have likely already figured this out.” Hialatus snorted. “Your prince has quite a reputation, and I imagine he was mightily distressed last night, when the Four Furies took him off for some sport."

  Adon's stomach dropped when several anomalies suddenly fell together into a full picture in his mind. “We're not able, are we? You've made us eunuchs."

  "Not permanently. The magic allows you to perform if you give pleasure to others, but you'll get no pleasure out of it. Any pain you deliberately cause will reflect back to you."

  Despite the horror of what he had learned, Adon chuckled. He imagined the terrors and frustration Eber went through last night, with those four women making demands of him, and him unable to dominate.

  "Why are they called the Four Furies?” He had to know.

  "Downright brutal, they are. One of them can wear a man out. Four of them, teamed together, giving a man no rest, and taunting him in quite ... imaginative ways, when he can't live up to his boasting?” Hialatus shuddered, but mischief gleamed in his eyes. “I think your prince is finally learning some humility."

  "It's about time,” Adon muttered, and that was all either of them said on the subject.

  That bit of information was both a relief and a matter for quiet irritation. He understood why he didn't react to General Istrak every time he encountered the graceful, somberly lovely warrior over the next moon of travel. It was a diabolically clever means of punishment and restraint for the brutes and womanizers, but did all of them have to suffer for it?

  Despite the niggling seed of resentment, he looked forward to his regular encounters with Istrak every day. She took a personal interest in the welfare of her soldiers, coming to the healers tent every evening and morning to check on the injured. The soldiers adored her, in the worshipfulness of a boy for a favorite teacher, or his mother, nothing romantic or lecherous in the gazes of most of the Parsadi soldiers as they watched their leader walk among them.

  In her turn, Istrak expressed her gratitude for Adon's care for her soldiers and made small gestures that eased the journey for him. When she came upon him and Hialatus playing Draktan one evening, before Adon returned to the hostage tent, she was delighted.

  "What she is too gracious to say is that I'm not much of an opponent,” Hialatus explained when Istrak suggested they play a three-way game of Draktan the next evening.

  General Istrak laughed, and Adon felt something go hollow inside him at the musical, low chimes of her voice. The collar obviously didn't prevent him appreciating a beautiful woman. Was that a problem laying in wait in the future?

  Did he even have a future? Adon imagined Eber remaining a vassal nation long after he had gone to his grave. Several times during the long journey, he contemplated leveraging his friendship with General Istrak, trying to earn favors for his nation and his father. Each time, Adon tossed the idea away. He refused to toady to a powerful woman. Look what had happened when he tolerated Taisha's demands. He didn't want to be tricked into a friendship with General Istrak and learn that he had signed away his life without gaining anything.

  * * * *

  L'istra hated the grand processional when the victorious army returned to Parses, even as her body and soul ached with joy to be home again. Maybe the weight of her wolf helmet was part of the ache. Maybe it was the certainty that all those who adored her as the victorious military leader would laugh if they knew that deep inside, she was still the frightened, angry, stunned little girl who survived a journey through the wastelands, on foot, to escape home, her ragged clothes still carrying the stain of her murdered sister's blood.

  That's long ago, and you have justice, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Gohl was a vassal of the Parsadi Empire, their crown prince gelded and flayed and left for the carrion crows to pick his flesh. She, L'istra, the helpless child, had grown strong and knew her sister's ghost had been appeased.

  L'istra wished she could peel off the shell of General Istrak right this moment and retreat to her private garden for a moon. No, two moons. But she couldn't. The long procession of victory down the main thoroughfare of Parses lay before her.

  "Move thirty more soldiers to shield the hostages,” she ordered Meer. “I don't want them arriving at the palace covered in garbage.” A tiny smile caught one corner of her mouth when Meer snickered and turned his horse to ride back through the procession and carry out he
r orders.

  L'istra thought of Adon, bruised by thrown garbage or rocks, and something inside her twisted with regret. She had liked the father from the moment Naqueron brought her King Eber's crown in surrender, and during all the negotiations. She liked the son, too.

  Life is full of regrets, her mother used to tell her. We can fill our minds with them, and poison our days, or we can pick the delights and blessings from among the rubble, and wear them as jewels to heal and gladden our souls.

  No regrets, L'istra promised herself. Again. And turned her head toward the palace. Soon she would be home and she could lay aside her armor and her mask of General Istrak.

  But what about Adon? something deep inside whispered. L'istra fought to ignore the voice. She had learned long ago she couldn't silence it.

  Ceremony, her father had taught her when she was still small enough for ponies, was the glue that held together civilization. L'istra chafed against the formality of handing over the peace hostages to the stewards of the palace—eunuchs, even though the Parsadi Empire had stopped taking females as peace hostages in her grandfather's reign. What did it feel like to ride through a foreign city and know some cheered because they were prisoners? Or worse, to know many of the cheering people couldn't have given a fig for the presence of the prisoners?

  L'istra allowed herself one backward glance as she rode away and the hostages walked into their new, temporary quarters. She hoped they enjoyed their baths and shaves and pampering. How soon would they realize they were being prepared like brides for political marriages? How many would resent it, and how many, like that odious Prince Eber, would take every advantage handed to them?

  L'istra sneered as she rode into the inner courtyard of the palace and fought not to laugh aloud as she remembered overhearing some of Eber's boasting. Did that licentious fool honestly think he could win the favor of the Emperor and claim a royal daughter in marriage? L'istra was the only daughter left to Oprak, and he had vowed, with the wounds of her journey still fresh, he would tear Parses to the ground before he handed her over to a man she did not desire. The last man L'istra would ever consider as a husband was Eber. She had heard he wept in frustration while the Four Furies took turns with him, when he got no pleasure out of bedding them. Did he still cry? He never refused when the Furies sent for him to share their tent, every night of the journey. Maybe Eber hadn't known that he could refuse. L'istra didn't inquire. She knew it was cruel to do nothing to help Eber, but she didn't want even the slightest rumor to begin that she cared about his comfort. For the same reason, she had avoided Adon whenever possible. The fact that Hialatus had sent for the Eberian healer every day, bringing him up to the head of the column, made that hard to do.

  L'istra managed to avoid thinking about Adon, wondering how tonight's ceremony would affect him, until she had reached her quarters. Nona, her nurse, met L'istra with a broad, proud grin and hugged her hard. Chattering faster than twenty magpies, as if she had to tell L'istra everything that happened in the palace before she even got into her bath, she led the princess into the only true sanctuary left to her since her mother's death.

  Her bath steamed and smelled of lemons, and soothing oil lay on the surface of the water. A feast waited on a low table next to the oval tub, so L'istra could reach what she wanted. As usual, Nona had brought enough food for five girls, all sorts of confections, as if her princess were still a little girl and not a warrior who sometimes left the battlefield covered in the blood of her enemies. L'istra grinned and thought about the celebratory feast she had with her commanders after Eber fell. Half-raw meat, warm beer, bread that was either half-dough or half-burned. She had enjoyed it just as much as she always enjoyed being cosseted by Nona.

  The luxury of lying in the deep bath and nibbling on sweets didn't last half as long as she would have liked. L'istra flinched when she heard the blast of horns from the roof of the palace, calling the nobles of the empire to the celebration feast—and before the feast, the ceremony to dispose of the peace hostages. That was her signal to prepare as well. She closed her eyes and counted. On ten, she opened them and heaved herself out of her bath.

  "Never thought I'd live to see the day,” her nurse sighed as she helped L'istra don her jewel-encrusted tunic and leggings for the feast.

  "See what day?” L'istra murmured.

  "I came to the palace to be nursemaid to a sweet little girl, all bubbles and flowers, and I end up helping her dress for war."

  "This isn't war.” She tugged her belt straight and stepped up to the sheet of silver set into the wall that let her check her reflection.

  "No, this is all the frippery and foolishness and mask-wearing of High Court, and that is a thousand times more dangerous than war."

  "True, but I've heard it's twenty times worse in other kingdoms. Father hates double-talk and time-wasting rituals and political knot-tiers."

  "Thank the Unseen he's the most sensible ruler in this half of the known world,” Nona muttered, and brusquely turned L'istra around so she could check her appearance once more. She nodded. “Go have a good time. And be careful of Lord Chancellor Viklo. I heard he's been ransacking the bazaars for love potions again."

  "He's going to get himself thrown into prison on poisoning charges again, too,” L'istra said with a sigh.

  Viklo was her oldest brother Inak's friend, an entirely sensible man with a good sense of humor, quite skilled at games of strategy, pleasant-looking, who had enough common sense to know that declaiming poetry and dousing himself with perfume wouldn't win him L'istra's admiration. His only flaw was that he insisted on trying to win her affections. L'istra had confided to Emperor Oprak and to Inak that she might have considered marriage to Viklo if he had been content with being a good friend. What was wrong with a man that he thought he had to hold a woman's heart, as well as the right to enjoy her body?

  Musing about the idiocy of Viklo, and whether she should confront him with her distaste for courtly talk, got L'istra to the doors of the throne room. She took a deep breath, braced her shoulders, and nodded for the guards at the doors to open them. The gray-haired men, retired soldiers who had been her first tutors in swordplay, grinned in encouragement and pushed hard on the panels. L'istra winced as the trumpets blared to announce her entrance. She only had to endure the celebration until midnight, then she could retire to her rooms.

  She planned to keep the doors closed and allow no one inside with her except Nona for at least two moon-quarters. She had won the war and toppled the Empire's enemies, punished the vassal kingdoms and returned in victory with riches and slaves from ten kingdoms in a year's time. She had earned the right to solitude and to laze in bed for half the day, hadn't she?

  * * * *

  Adon decided to trust Healer Hialatus’ assertion that all the peace hostages would be placed into the custody of nobles and officials who would oversee their labor in service of the Empire. Scholars like Nillio would, for example, be employed in the royal library or serve the royal advocates and law keepers. Adon hoped to be given into Hialatus’ custody, to work with him in the royal infirmary. He had a vested interest in following through on the healing of the soldiers he had tended on the journey to Parses.

  The servants tending the hostages fed them ridiculous stories of their disposition, to terrify and confuse them. Adon noticed after only a short time that no one teased him, and he wondered if he had his friends among the army's healers to thank for that. Prince Eber, of course, had decided that he was destined for a royal marriage. Frantic demands for cosmetics and hair styles and fancy clothes only earned him more teasing from the servants and the other hostages.

  No amount of cosmetics could help Eber. The moment he opened his mouth, he would doom any chance with the princess. Unless, of course, she only cared about outward appearances and she was as hedonistic and class-conscious as Eber.

  Adon fought down a flutter of excitement as they were led into the throne room. What was there to worry about? When midnight came, he would be settle
d in a bed in the dormitory for the student healers under Hialatus, and other than being a stranger and too far away for meals and games of Draktan with his father, his life would continue as it had for the last ten years.

  A long aisle led from the door to the dais where the Emperor and his four sons sat. The aisle itself was wide enough for three war chariots to ride side-by-side without the spikes on the hubs touching. The palace of Eber could have fit inside the throne room, with perhaps two towers poking a short distance through the ceiling. Adon shivered as he glanced around the massive room. The hostages were the last to be brought in. He decided to be grateful for that bit of mercy, not forcing the hostages to sit for an hour or two while all the royals and nobles and officials and military leaders and heads of guilds in Parses filed past them.

  Adon studied the occupants of the platform in short glances, sensing it might not be taken well if a peace hostage was caught staring openly at the ruler of the strongest, largest empire in this half of the world. Emperor Oprak sat two steps above everyone else on the dais. Two sons sat on either side of him, with one empty place directly on Oprak's right hand. All four princes resembled their father. Tall and heavily muscled, with the look of warriors who handled the huge armored horses that led in stampede attacks. Sharp cheekbones, skin the shade of wheat bread, thick masses of black hair held back in a short queue at the nape of the neck, and dark blue eyes. There was something familiar in their features, but Adon couldn't figure out what it was. Unless one of the royal sons had come in disguise to Eber and had been injured and required his services as a healer, he didn't imagine he ever had a chance to meet one face-to-face.

  The Emperor stood and spread his arms, and silence flowed through the room. The double doors at the far left end of the dais opened and a figure stepped out alone. Adon noted the sleek figure, the elegant stride. General Istrak had entered the feasting hall to receive the Emperor's praise. That empty place next to the Emperor was obviously reserved for her.