Transformation

by Carol Berg

What made me decide to tell him the truth? Perhaps I had given up. Perhaps Llyr had left me in such despair I could no longer reason. Perhaps I had not the boy’s courage to put a knife in my belly, and so I would force Aleksander to do it for me.

  I looked directly into his face. “I am indeed afraid, Your Highness. Every moment of my existence carries such a burden of terror you could not imagine it. I fear I have no soul. I fear there are no gods. I fear there is no meaning to the pain I have known. I fear I have lost the capacity to love another human being or ever to see goodness in one. Among such fears as these, my lord, there is little room for you.”

  There was no one near us. The room was quite large and the householders were cowering by the doors awaiting a signal that they should send in another candidate.

  “I can make you fear me,” said Aleksander, with the quiet, deadly calm I had only seen once before—as he planned Lord Sierge’s execution.

  “No, my Lord. You cannot.”

  I felt the searing heat of his wrath as plainly as if the sun had fallen from the sky onto my head. And because I thought the end had come, and I wished to look upon the soul of my executioner, I shifted my senses and searched deep in the amber eyes ... and found something I had never expected to find.

  A glint of silver, shimmering in the silence . . . a frosty moment of heart-stopping clarity ... a thousand possible outcomes and one . . . Oh, gods have mercy, so brilliant was the light, my inner sight grew dim, blinded by its glory.

  Impossible! Not a Derzhi! Not one who had likely slain hundreds of men and women incapable of doing him harm, hundreds more who had committed no offense but standing between him and the object of his desires. Not the representative of everything I detested about the world. How could the gods play so vile a joke? I had lost my skill. It had been too long. My extra senses were not fed with melydda, nor had I ever been a Seer. It was as if I had discovered that somewhere in the bowels of a rotting, maggot-infested corpse lay a pearl of perfection that would ransom the world.

  I groaned aloud in desperate denial. I jammed the heels of my hands into my eyes, but the blaze of light was still burned into my vision, like the afterimage when you glance into the sun.

  “What in the name of Athos is wrong with you?”

  His irritation scarcely penetrated the peripheries of my other senses. The senses that could show me the traces of demons. The same senses that could show me the feadnach, the mark that revealed a soul of destiny, a soul of possibility, raw material that could be cut and shaped by time and fate into something of magnificence ... a soul that must be preserved at the cost of my life. My slave’s chains were as nothing to this new-forged tether that bound me to Aleksander, for in the moment I discovered the luminous possibilities hidden in his depths, I exposed the irrefusable burden hidden in my own. My Warden’s oath. For so long I had believed it buried in the ruin that was my soul, just another scrap in the rubble of honor and dignity, love and friendship and purpose. But that moment of my seeing was like the sweep of a giant’s hand, removing the debris to reveal that the foundation still held. My oath was the core of my being, the single principle I would not compromise, the point of honor I could never yield. It committed me to do everything in my power to frustrate the purposes of demons, and it demanded that I do everything in my power to protect and nurture those who carried the feadnach—to protect and nurture Aleksander, Prince of the Derzhi.

  Chapter 11

  “What’s wrong with you? You look as if I’ve already killed you. Is it some enchantment?”

  “Enchantment ... yes ... makes me talk wildly ... nightmares ...” I wanted to scream. To weep. To strangle someone. Curse my infernal pride. Why had I been so bent on taking his full measure? Only one trained to read souls as I had been could see the feadnach—perhaps one in a thousand even among my own people. I waved my hands before my face as if to clear away a tangle of cobwebs. “My lord, forgive anything untoward I may have said in these past days. I was seeking enchantments ... to protect you ... and this is a very complex working ... and only now ... only now have I come to my senses.”

  “Curse your lying tongue!” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my bones rattled, as if truth would fall out of my mouth and bounce onto the floor at his feet.

  Perhaps he was not going to kill me, but I was saved from finding out by a shout from across the room.

  “Your Highness! News! Ill news!” Mikael, the gaunt palace guard captain, was running toward us, his footsteps ringing on the sand-red tiles. A disheveled man followed him, more slowly, but with true urgency in his weary steps. “Your Highness, a thousand pardons for the interruption,” said the tall soldier, flicking a curious glance my way. “But we knew you would wish to hear Hugert’s tale immediately.” He gestured toward the messenger.

  The grizzled man, whose padded layers of wool and leather were stained and worn, genuflected heavily and began a harrowing tale of a town ravaged and set afire by a party of bandits. What citizens survived were left freezing and without food in the dreadful weather.

  I stepped away from Aleksander and began to pack my writing materials into their case. My hands, so steady in my mad confrontation with the Prince, were shaking so fiercely I could scarcely stopper the ink. I could not fathom what I was to do. How could I protect one who would likely kill me once he had a moment to do it? How could I nurture one who owned me, who considered me of no more value than a chair or a footstool? It was absurd. No oath could compel the impossible. I wrenched my mind from my madness and commanded it to stay on my task and nothing else.

  Just go. Just do. What comes, comes. You will survive it or not.

  But my well-worn chant did not work. It was no longer just about me. The instant of my seeing had crumbled my isolation as quickly and effectively as the Derzhi had overrun Ezzaria.

  “Prince Aleksander, I demand an explanation!”

  My head snapped up to see the Khelid, dressed all in white, sweeping across the red tiles toward the Prince. Chamberlain Fendular glided after him like a gilded boat upon a smooth river, an unending patter of self-abasement and apology dribbling from his puffy face. The kneeling messenger halted his tale when Aleksander glanced up in irritation.

  “I have just returned from Parnifour,” said the Khelid imperiously, “and my party was stopped at the palace gates and threatened with a search as if we were common criminals! Only the timely intervention of Chamberlain Fendular prevented this intolerable insult. I was assured by the Emperor that I was to be received here with all the respect he has shown—”

  “No insult was intended, Korelyi,” said the Prince curtly. “We’ve reports of bandit raids a short distance from Capharna, and the watch was properly alert. Now I must attend to the matter. Please allow the Chamberlain to make you comfortable and reassure you as to our continued welcome and high regard.” The Prince turned away from the pale-skinned Khelid.

  “Of course I would not intrude on state business, Your Highness,” said the Khelid, bowing politely, his anger evaporated like dew at mid-morning. His voice was again pleasant and smooth, just as I had heard it at the dinner party. “Only grant me one moment to present you with the gifts sent by my counterpart in Parnifour. His duties prevent his attending the coming celebration, but he has sent three of the finest Khelid magicians to entertain you, and he asked me to see that you received this from my hand at the instant of my return. Perhaps it may be of use in this crisis.”

  On one extended hand the Khelid held out a slender case of finely polished wood. With the other hand he opened the lid to reveal a magnificent bronze dagger, simply and elegantly shaped, a smoothly curved hilt inlaid with silver but otherwise unadorned, exactly to Aleksander’s taste. Its edge glinted in the firelight. As the Khelid expected, the Prince’s face lit up in pleasure.

  Remember, I whispered silently. Think, fool. Even without shifting I could hear the demon music from the knife. This Khelid was very serious about his dislike of Aleksander.

  The Prince took
the weapon from the case, hefted it, and twirled it surely in his fingers. “Fine,” he said. “Quite fine. My compliments to your countryman for his excellent taste.”

  As the Prince drew his own knife from the sheath at his belt and tossed it onto his chair, the Khelid stepped closer ... closer to the chair where he set the wooden box ... then closer to the hearth, wrapping his cloak tightly about his shoulders. “A bitter night in your summer kingdom, Prince Aleksander,” he said with easy amusement, and rubbed his hands together near the flames. “I think I’ll snatch a bit of your warmth to carry back to my apartments and leave you to your business.” He reached for a thumb-sized stick and lit its end.

  Look at him, I thought. Watch him and remember what I told you. You believed me.

  But the new knife was already sheathed, and Aleksander had returned his attention to the messenger. The Khelid bowed and turned to leave, pretending to warm his hand over his burning stick as he started moving the red tip in a circular pattern.

  There was no time to consider consequences. I no longer had choices. I nudged the stopper loose in the ink jar, set the jar on the desk, then bumped the handle of the writing case that lay beside it. The glass jar fell, shattering on the red tiles and splattering ink on the Khelid’s white robes.

  “Kasmagh!” screamed the Khelid in fury, for as he whirled to see what was happening, the tiny flame singed his fingers and went out. No one else likely noticed the instant of heart-stopping darkness when he spoke the curse—and I was grateful that his fire had gone out before he said it. I would have been unable to counter it and so would likely have burst into flames myself. It was a very nasty word. As it was, I dropped to the floor, making sure to prostrate myself in the ink to demonstrate my humiliation.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, for being the fool as I am. Please allow me to summon a physician. The great lord has burned his fingers on his branch. My clumsiness is inexcusable, my lord, especially after your warnings to be exceptionally careful around our guests.”

  Hear me, Aleksander, I added in silence. You are not stupid, so hear me. If you are what the gods have told me, then you must be able to listen with more than your temper.

  “Filthy cretin of a slave,” said Fendular after screaming for a chamberlain to fetch the physician. “You will need a physician for yourself when you reap your just punishment for this deed.”

  “Are you much injured, Lord Korelyi?” Aleksander’s voice was as cool as the tiles that pressed on my feverish face. “I’ll have Giezek, my own physician, see to you.”

  “Easily soothed,” said the Khelid, his voice smooth again, but no longer pleasant. “I carry our familiar remedies for healing. I’m surprised you Derzhi permit such incompetent servants so near your royal persons. In Khelidar this one would have never lived so long as to insult a royal guest in such fashion.”

  “Fendular, see to our guest’s comfort. If he should so desire it, bring him to the slave house in exactly one hour to witness this slave’s punishment.”

  “As you command, my lord,” said Fendular, oozing triumph and making sure to step on my hand as he passed.

  “And tell Giezek that I wish to have his personal report on Lord Korelyi’s injury within half an hour.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  I did not hear the footsteps approaching or see the soft leather boots until they stood right next to my head. The owner crouched down and lifted my face with the flat of a knife blade under my chin.

  “The warning should have been heeded, slave. One must always carry warnings in the front of one’s mind. The consequences of failure to do so are unfortunate.”

  The Prince stood up again and called, “Mikael, have this creature taken to Durgan. Tell the slave master fifty lashes one hour from now.”

  Fifty ... gods. For one moment I had thought he understood my warning. But as the guards dragged me away, I was left in complete confusion, for the new bronze knife lay abandoned in the pool of ink.

  Sometime in the long, cold hour after I was stripped and bound to the flogging post to await my punishment, a modestly outfitted Suzaini gentleman came into the slave house. He had a word with Durgan, who sat grimly beside his brazier at the far end of the deserted room. Durgan nodded and the stranger came over to me. From a brown leather pouch hanging from his belt, the slight, gray Suzaini pulled a blue vial, then opened it and held it to my lips. “Drink this. You’ll be glad you did.”

  “Who are you?” I said, pulling my head back as far as my restraints allowed. The stuff smelled dreadful. “And what is this? I try to avoid mysterious potions from people I don’t know.”

  He pursed his thin lips in irritation. “I was told to give it to you, but not to force you if you didn’t wish it. I was told nothing about answering questions from a slave.” He yanked open his pouch to return the vial.

  “Wait!” I said. “I’ll take it.” Faced with fifty lashes, I had to scrape up a bit of faith.

  It tasted as bad as it smelled—something like a mouthful of sheep entrails that had been boiled with pepper pods. But even as I felt a pleasant numbness roll out from my stomach and begin to deaden my extremities, I managed a soggy grin. “Giezek, the physician. Am I right?”

  He snorted and walked away.

  It was a party of twenty or thirty bandits who had raided the mountain town of Erum, only six leagues from Capharna. In most years, early spring was the best of times for bandits. When the narrow defiles through the wilder mountains began to open up, travelers and caravans started moving through them again. The caravans could move faster in the summer and a few outriders sent into the hills could protect the way. But in the spring, while snow still lay deep, wagons and horses moved slowly and bogged down easily, and those who were familiar with the snow-buried terrain could have their way with them, earning a year’s livelihood in the matter of a few weeks. The caravans bringing supplies or guests for the dakrah were heavily guarded, however, so that spring the raiders were forced to seek their profits elsewhere, a town that was lightly defended due to its proximity to Capharna.

  Aleksander, chafing at the inactivity of the Dar Heged and the endless consultations and fittings for the dakrah, decided that he himself would lead the troop of warriors dispatched to hunt down these latest offenders. He left orders that while he was gone, all his correspondence was to come through me, and I was to determine whether it made sense to risk a messenger to forward it on to him. It was an astonishing responsibility for a slave, and Fendular came near exploding at the news. His formidable jowls quivered in indignation.

  “Your Highness, pardon my forward speech, but I have many excellent scribes and assistants available for your service. It is unseemly for a barbarian slave, one punished just yesterday for incompetence and gross insults to our honored guests—”

  “You will not tell me what is unseemly, Fendular. I choose my servants as I please. Were I to make this slave my Lord High Chamberlain, who would dare dispute it save my father?”

  “But, Your Highness—”

  “This slave was chastised severely in your sight and in the sight of his victim. Now I require him to serve me and repay my trouble in allowing him to live.”

  Fortunately Fendular was not bright enough to question how I was able to walk or kneel after fifty lashes, or he might have guessed that the good Giezek had kept me well supplied with his blue vials throughout the previous night and morning. The physician had also given Durgan a salve that quickened healing, and though I was not comfortable, neither was I crippled, as I might have been otherwise. Mercifully I had felt little of the lashing itself, and I suspected that Durgan had been told to modify his strokes to make more show than true damage.

  Fendular bowed stiffly and left the room, glaring at me as if I had eaten his children. I did not look forward to the next time I would be required to submit to his direction.

  The guard captain, Sovari, was strapping Aleksander’s sword belt about the Prince’s waist. I wondered what had become of the Khelid k
nife. I had spoken no private word with the Prince since the incident. There were always two dozen people around him, and to summon me from the bare attic room I now shared with twenty other house slaves was difficult to do discreetly with a slave handler always posted at the door. The Prince must have noticed my glance, for he drew his knife and turned it in the lamplight. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with my old knife. Unfortunate that the blade the Khelid brought was unbalanced. I had the smith melt it down. Perhaps he can do better.”

  After some seven or eight days, Aleksander returned from his successful foray, leaving the heads of twenty-three bandits hung on the charred walls of Erum. The Prince was ebullient. “Athos’ balls, it felt fine to be on horseback again with a sword in my hand,” he said to a party of young priests three days before the dakrah was to begin. “The magistrate of Erum said I should execute only the leaders of the bandit troop, that the others were only hungry, desperate men. But I’ve been idle too long and could not stomach mercy. The villains picked an unfortunate time to be hungry.”

  While my own stomach turned in disgust, the five shaven-headed servants of the sun god nodded in sympathy. They had come to plan a footrace to the top of Mount Nerod for one day of the dakrah. It was a sacred custom in Capharna. I wondered if the sun god would shine on top of the cloud-shrouded mountain on the day of the race, for surely he never did any other day. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t notice the despicable habits of those who governed his Empire.

  “Surely your swift and forceful retaliation will make the passes safer for the dakrah guests,” said one of the priests. “Many of the new arrivals tell of the boldness of the raiders.”

  “At least three parties have reported attacks in the western passes,” chimed in another priest. “Two of them lost guards to the villains.”

  The mention of dakrah guests dimmed Aleksander’s sunny mood. “Seyonne, has there been any word from Dmitri?”

  I shook my head.

  The Prince scanned my face. His eyes narrowed, then he shoved me from the stool and told me to get out of his apartments. “They asked for it,” he shouted after me. “They should not have burned my town. And it is not your business.” I had said not a word.