Mordred-Night Wolves

by Lisa Daniels

  So. Being Highborn had something to do with this particular eye color, it seemed. Meaning that anyone with Highborn blood would likely show their traits in the formation of their irises. She half expected some heinous ritual to be going on, but so far, the people in the dome court were disappointingly normal. Aside from the wolf-men playing dress up.

  As soon as she stepped into the central court, a woman dashed up to her instantly, as if she wanted to pounce. Her yellow eyes fixed onto Kiara's dark, and she grinned widely. “You,” she said. “You're the princess from that foreign nation, Fjorn.”

  Well. Since she had directly addressed Kiara, and no one wanted to lop her head off for the effort, Kiara gave her what she presumed to be a noble expression. “Yes. I am.” At this point, if she happened to be Bethany, she'd probably be trying to figure out what sort of rank this woman occupied, why she'd bothered to speak first, and so on. But since Kiara knew nothing about that, she strived instead to make a confident, willful first impression. Best not to lie about who she was. She wouldn't be able to hold the lie for long.

  “You're shorter than I'd thought you'd be,” the woman said, squinting. She ran a hand through her glorious flaxen hair, the kind some might kill for. Matched her yellow eyes, anyway. “People always speak of you barbarians as being tall, thick, and muscular. They say that because you're surrounded by mountains, you've had to grow tall to be able to see over their tops.”

  Kiara snorted at this. “Really? Well, I'm fairly certain you won't want to hear what we say about your people. I must ask—are you a sensitive person? I'm trying not to completely mess up relations here, but I undoubtedly will. I'm not really a very good princess. But as long as you won't execute me for speaking out of turn...”

  “It can't be any worse than what we've heard,” the woman replied. “I'm Vasha, by the way.” She didn't hold out a hand, and Kiara didn't bother offering hers.

  “Kiara. So, we more or less think that you guys are monsters, sacrifice babies, practise cannibalism, and worship heathen gods. And that's just the start.”

  Vasha laughed uproariously at this. “Seriously? You Fjordans are such darlings. We don't do anything of the sort. And our gods aren't heathens. They're the reason why we're able to hold back the minions of the Endless Dark!” Vasha shook her head, as if Fjordans were like ignorant children.

  Slightly disappointed, Kiara said, “No ritual sacrifice?”

  “No ritual sacrifice,” Vasha confirmed.

  “But you do remove the tongues of those who dare to address chosen brides, right?”

  “Ah, well. It's not been done for almost two decades,” Vasha admitted. “People know better than to go against the rules. Come. You must not understand what happens here, so I can show you around. In return, I wish to hear about your barbaric nation. If we're to be allies in the future, information is essential, right?”

  Not sure of Vasha's angle, Kiara decided to play along anyway. She could really use some people to actually talk to. Even if they thought her nation was childish. She flushed at the notion, imagining their society, the meetings and people they put so much importance on... as children.

  She's wrong. “So what about these ‘gods’? If they're not heathens, what are they?”

  “Well, they're not really... gods. But that's the title we give them, to elevate their importance to the commoners of our kingdom. They're Highborn, like us. But a very special case of Highborn. People with another power beyond lightweaving.” She winked at this, thick red lips now smirking. Some of the women paid attention to Kiara now, noting her foreign features. She had paler skin than the others, darker hair, since most women here had shades from light brown to red. In reflex, Kiara sucked in some of her power, a few swirls of light disappearing through her mouth, before leaking out of her fingertips in that familiar pulse of orbs.

  Vasha noticed the impulsive lightweaving and nodded appreciatively. “You see the men there, the ones wearing the masks?” Not all men wore masks, but some did. Kiara pointed at a black wolf mask.

  “That one's pretty cool.”

  “They're our gods, Kiara.” Vasha grinned at Kiara's raised eyebrows. “They mingle with the other Highborn, often to chase up news, but until they choose a female, they're required to wear a mask. So any unmasked men you see are either regular Highborn, or gods that have chosen someone. Or gods living dangerously, pretending to be human.”

  Interesting. Also odd. “And what's so special about them?”

  Vasha smiled again. “They can change their form. They can become something more than human. A werewolf. A creature of the night that thrives in the darkness—especially now that the moon is the dominating sphere in the sky. And everyone knows the werewolves draw their power from the moon.”

  “Hang on. Wait a second.” Kiara put up her hands, demanding Vasha to halt. “You mean to tell me that there's special transformation magic? But lightweaving's the only kind that exists!”

  “Look at my eyes,” Vasha said. “I have part of the magic in me. It's a diluted form, and doesn't serve much use—except I do have better eyesight, smell, hearing, and health than the average human. And I will live longer than an average human as well. Let's say your lifespan is eighty years. Mine will be up to one hundred and twenty. Barring any nasty accidents or unfortunate incidents.” She then grinned. “Most of the Highborn here can almost certainly hear every word that's passing between us now.”

  Kiara frowned at this. She wasn't even aware any other form of magic existed. Everyone talked about the lightweavers, of the wondrous existence of light and heat woven together to keep them living on in the days of Endless Dark. But transformation...

  It sounded like something of the night hordes. Something monstrous.

  Perhaps it was. And somehow, these monsters had integrated into a society, and they conducted themselves under the expectation of treating members of the night hordes as gods.

  Her eyes settled upon a poem. Good thing the Kanthians shared a language, or interactions might be more awkward. She recognized it as a famous one, and walked over to the small area with a pond, bowls stuffed with smoky light, and a few trees that bent over enticingly, helping to shield those who went here from view. The poem itself was written upon the wall. In fact, this poem, Kiara remembered, was where they got their definition for the Endless Dark from. Her father had the poem in the gardens, dotted upon a little stone bench concealed within a clump of rose bushes. Not a particularly good poem, Kiara privately thought, but court philosophers often wondered just how much the ancient poet did know about the world before.

  And the sun went out

  And the stars were gone

  And the moon moved in

  And the world went wrong

  So the day was lost

  The warm turned cold

  May the dark soon end

  And we claim our souls

  Trying too hard, she thought. Way too hard. Vasha suddenly made her excuse and left Kiara alone, and before Kiara could ask why the speedy disappearance, she saw someone in a wolf mask watching her, arms folded. Perhaps waiting until she noticed.

  Kiara's heart began beating faster. He wore a white mask upon a black and white suit, with eye slits that shone a wicked red. The mask itself covered his entire face, with the snout partially open in a snarl. The sight made her step back slightly, then consider running for it. Except, she was supposed to be stalked by these mask people. That was the whole point of her being here. Not to be married to one specific person—but to be married to one of the Kanthian gods.

  “Do you like this poem?” the man said. He had a rather pleasant voice, one that carried over the other sounds. Low and mellow, like he knew how to hit the right notes, and to serenade a lady right out of her clothes.

  Except, with that creepy mask... she had no idea what sort of monster lurked behind it. “Not really,” Kiara said. “Over-dramatic, and only a vague sense of hope at the end. But things don't get done just by praying. So in my opinion, a pointless s
et of words strung together.”

  “Hmm,” the man said, now unfolding his arms and stepping forward. Beginning that sinister, circling movement she'd seen happen to the other women. Like he was sniffing her out. “I'm inclined to agree. But what hope is there in a world taken over by darkness? When the only thing we have left is our own light, which is but a pale imitation of what existed before?” He stopped close, the mask now leering over her shoulder from the back. She resisted the urge to slap at him and remained as still as possible, though her knee jerked of its own accord.

  “Well, for a start, we could try to figure out how it happened,” Kiara said. “Combine all the lightweavers together, make a new sun, or locate the old one, if it's so important.”

  At this, the god laughed. A low, incredulous chuckle, which made Kiara's cheeks flush. “You think we can just locate the sun, like it hasn't been taken from the sky?”

  “Sure,” Kiara said. “But it's not like we need it, is it? We seem to live just fine. Don't know what all the fuss is, with the world ending. Last time I checked, world's still turning, and we're still living.”

  “You may be right about that, Fjorn princess.” He prowled in front of her, giving her more time to inspect his fine form. He did have a rather interesting scent to his body, a kind of heady aroma that made her take in deeper breaths. She also had that prey feeling, like this man deliberately hunted her, and now sought her weaknesses, for a way to drag her down to the ground.

  She hated that feeling, and it made her stand taller. Admittedly, that wasn't a whole lot of height to stand for, but she refused to be cowed. “What's the big deal with you and your masks, anyway? Why not just walk around with normal faces like normal people?”

  “A custom,” the man replied. “Perhaps an outdated one, but one that many Highborn cling to, and many Kanthians swear by. Structure. Society. We need rules. We need our customs. They make us who we are.”

  Kiara sighed. “That's stupid. Customs don't make a human.”

  “No. But they do make a society, for a select group to fit in with, to feel kinship...” The man's hand reached out for her. It appeared tanned, smooth, without a single blemish. She moved away from the touch, and his hand stopped, before he nodded. “Most of the women we get from other places, for those who wish to spy into our culture, learn our secrets as to how we fend off the night hordes so effectively—their women are shy and demure. You appear to be ill-trained.”

  She pursed her lips, throat now tight. “Thanks for that observation. But not every woman on this planet can be a docile mouse. Some of us have better things to do. I don't even want to be here, but my dear father decided it best to send me off.”

  Again, the man chuckled. “I see. Well... my name is Mordred. You might see some more of me. But I must depart now.”

  “Wait. What? Already? You've barely spoken to me for a minute!”

  Mordred ignored her protests, and he moved off, now threading himself through the crowd that Kiara could see. Some women preened themselves, trying to stand out as much as possible, and they had several masked gods taking an interest in them.

  Few took an interest in Kiara. She did get more prowlers, however. Unlike Mordred, they prowled in silence, with black and gray and gold masks, sometimes brushing close by so that their snouts touched her clothes, other times gliding a hand over her skin. It bothered Kiara, though they didn't touch any sensitive regions, like her breasts, rear, and between her legs. They always went for the arm or her upper back.

  Kiara also seemed to be the only one finding this uncomfortable. The other women positively shivered if one of the gods touched them, as if it was the greatest honor bestowed upon their worthless lives.

  Vasha sought out Kiara again—the blonde-haired woman didn't get any of these “gods” stalking her. Kiara wondered why. “So, I see you've garnered some interest for yourself,” Vasha said, smiling rather smugly. “Which is quite the miracle, considering you're doing absolutely nothing to attract people to you.” She indicated one of the Highborn women, who was now tearing off the outer layers of her dress to reveal little more than a night shift underneath. Kiara found herself blushing at the wanton display of flesh.

  Obviously, in her final consummation, she was fully expected to strip down and please whatever man she ended up with. She just preferred not going to that stage in her mind. One of the gods reached to the near-naked woman, and she thrust her chest towards him, forcing him to touch her there. With this encouragement, he moved closer, that masked face draped over her shoulder, hands roaming.

  “Oh, please don't tell me they're going to have sex in front of everyone!” Kiara exclaimed, her face burning.

  “They won't! They won't!” Vasha laughed at Kiara's embarrassment. “But they might end up taking it somewhere else if they act like that. It won't make for a good relationship, though. Some of the women are always mistaken like that, thinking all they need to do is show off some flesh, and they'll get their god. What actually happens is that they'll get the wrong sort of suitor. One that doesn't know how to respect someone, who sees us as little more than baby carriers. So I pity that one.” Vasha shook her head. “Even our gods are flawed. Some are here for the hunt and the thrill, and not because they intend to settle down, like they should.”

  “One of them gave me a name and a few sentences,” Kiara said, realizing that none of the others who stalked her had held much of a conversation.

  “Oh! Lucky you.” Vasha nodded at her with a big smile. “Looks like you have got someone interested. The gods don't usually hand out their names unless they're seriously considering you.”

  “Wonderful, I guess.” Kiara's lips wrinkled like a prune. Vasha acted delighted about this fact, but Kiara didn't feel the same—mostly because she didn't want to end up hitched to anyone. Except, well, she was here for her country. Here because they sent her over Bethany, for some absurd reason. Bethany was the one with the correct training. Kiara was more likely the one who got herself executed for accidentally disregarding some culture's sacred laws or something.

  She took in everything. The circling wolf mask wearers, the peacock dressed women, and the distant song of one of the women as she went onto stage to sing. Not a powerful enough voice to carry. “Is it like this all the time?” she asked. “You just all gather here and... have the mask people circle around?”

  “Not always. The gods tend to visit the court about one week out of every month. Depending on how many of them are around and single. Highborn men will be there otherwise. So it's always cause for excitement when it's that time of the month again.”

  Kiara stifled a snort, before nodding sagely. “There seems to be a lot of gods. I count about eight. Why so many?”

  “Oh, there's more of them. But I guess they've had a pretty lonely year...” Vasha grinned.

  Still taking advantage of the fact Kiara finally had a woman who could talk directly to her without dissolving into a blubbering mess of fear for having her tongue cut out, she asked, “Why isn't anyone going for you? Do you have someone?”

  At this, Vasha's eyes clouded over. Her body language became tight, defensive. “No. I don't have anyone. But I'm also... not interested. I come here a lot. Most people know by now that I'm not here for the courting.” Her expression recovering a little, she leaned over in a conspiratorial way. “We have to collect gossip somehow. It's better than sitting around at home doing nothing.” She waved at a small group of women who waved back.

  “You could visit the city or those creepy glowing swamps or another city,” Kiara said. She wondered what had bothered Vasha so much. Had she lost someone? Did she think herself unlovable? Some women did. They lamented about that issue for weeks, never doing anything active to change the outcome. Vasha didn't seem like someone who went and sulked in a corner about the miseries of life, but Kiara couldn't know for sure. Not without some more time spent with her.

  “Oh, no, dear. I wouldn't want to go to a barbarian city. I have everything I need right here,
thank you very much!”

  Kiara frowned at this comment. Not that she could exactly advocate travel, since the most extensive traveling she did was in the Forest of Light outside the castle, and sometimes to the lower city, though she preferred to put on a disguise to do so. Fjorn only traded with two other nations, and one of them had recently closed its borders, cutting off trade. Clearly allying with Fjorn's aggressors, the Tarngol people.

  The Tarngol were said to be a low-tech, savage human civilization that relied exclusively on conquering foreign nations and pillaging their light to survive. Even with the world plunged into near absolute darkness, people squabbled and caused unnecessary tensions, just like in the past.

  Part of that threat was what propelled Father to try and make an alliance with Kanthus for months. The kingdom was notoriously rejecting of outsiders, perhaps trading a little, but otherwise keeping themselves aloof. He offered his daughter to cement a trade. And although the ambassador acted like her being here was a great thing, she didn't feel like she was a great thing.

  Just a person at the court, watching as the men stalked her. No special ceremony arranged for her to go into marriage. So did these Kanthians not take the idea of an alliance seriously?

  A bell rang through the court, and people instantly started heading for the exits. “Time to go,” Vasha said. “You'll be here tomorrow, right?”

  “Wait. It's ending already?”

  “Yes. The gardeners need to tend the biomes, make sure everything's healthy. We can't hang around them all night.”

  Inwardly, Kiara sighed, though she tried not to show her discomfort too obviously. Why couldn't they just do things normally? Why all this pointless ritual?

  She found herself hating Kanthus when she went through the exits, making her way to her rooms. Winifred met her about halfway, but again, the servant didn't talk to her, leaving Kiara bored and lonely.