Transformation

by Carol Berg

  “Answer my question, Seyonne.”

  “I was clumsy in my duties. I deserved—”

  “And what duties are those?”

  “Whatever is needed to serve you, my lord.”

  “You have spoken frankly with me in the past, and I require the same of you now. I just found out that many of these gifts have not been catalogued because Fendular has no scribes to spare, yet you have been given ‘other duties’?”

  “I am given the same duties as the other household slaves, Your Highness. Nothing else.” Whatever it was he was offering with his quiet anger, I wanted no part of it.

  His boot of golden leather was tapping on the floor like a flicker’s beak. “Can you even see properly?”

  “No, my lord.” No use in lying about it. He was going to find it out if he wanted me to read or write anything. “A day or two will mend it.”

  “And lashes, too. Have you eaten today?” What was his point?

  “No, my Lord.”

  “I’ll have their heads for this.”

  “Your Highness, please don’t.” I could not believe the words from my mouth. “It is no matter.”

  “Aleksander, isn’t it time to be off?” called one of the young men from across the room. “The dancing begins at midday.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming.” The boot stopped tapping. “Tomorrow I want the rest of these gifts examined and catalogued. I’ve been feeling ... odd ... these last two days.”

  “As you command, my lord.” I bowed, and because I had no certainty that I would see him before his birthday, I added something else. “May your gods shower you with glory and wisdom on the occasion of your dakrah.” The wish I gave him was a strange melding. The prayer for glory was Derzhi, of course; the prayer for wisdom, Ezzarian.

  “You may go, Seyonne.”

  On my way to the door I saw the Lady Lydia standing only a few paces away, beside a suit of ruby-studded gold armor where Aleksander could not have seen her. Our gaze met square on before I could pretend I hadn’t noticed. Her great green eyes were full of unabashed curiosity.

  I spent the rest of that day and night in the same laborious fashion as the previous ones, but on the next morning, Boresh gritted his teeth in annoyance and dispatched me to the gift room.

  It was a pleasant interlude to sit in the quiet room. Except for the regular rounds by the guards and an occasional visit by Boresh to check on my progress and complain of my laziness, I was left alone with my ledger and my writing case. The windows were covered by heavy draperies to keep out the cold, so the place was lit by candlelight gleaming on burnished metal. I found myself getting drowsy as the afternoon passed, until voices outside the door startled me alert. Women’s voices.

  “Wait at the door, Nyrah. I want to see the Kuvai bow again. My archery master says they are the finest in the world, and I thought to have one made if I can string it. And I’ll permit no knavish eyes to witness when I try doing so.” It was the Lady Lydia. There was no place to retreat. I glimpsed flowing green on the other side of the room beyond the laden tables. Perhaps she wouldn’t see me on my stool in the shadowy corner. I fixed my eyes on the ledger and convinced myself I was working.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  Even half expecting it, I jumped when the voice came from behind me. I slipped from my stool and genuflected. “My lady. May I serve you in some way?”

  “Only to sit down again and tell me what you are.” Her green riding skirt, rust-colored tunic, and long leather boots suited her far better than her flowing court dress. The red curls had been released to billow about her narrow face. On her shoulder she carried a well-used bow, and she held the long Kuvai gift bow in her hand.

  I returned to my stool and fiddled with my pen and ink. “I am the Prince’s writing slave, my lady. Nothing else.”

  “A great deal more than that, I think. I cannot quite believe what I saw and heard yesterday. It’s why I had to come.” She sat herself on a gilt chair that was crafted in the design of a snake—a gift from a Manganar village chieftain—set her elbow on the gift table, and propped her chin on her hand, calmly watching me fidget. “Who are you who can request Aleksander of Azhakstan to control his temper and have him do it? His own mother and father, who overlook his every fault, have found such a thing impossible. His uncle, who adores him, despairs of the possibility. No one else in the world would even bother to attempt it. Yet a soft-speaking slave tames him like a horse master calms a colt. It’s something I would like to understand.”

  “I can’t explain anything, my lady. I should not speak of—”

  “Of course you should not speak of him. You might accidentally mention that he is a despicable, vengeful, bloodthirsty child. But there is no one to hear you say it but me, and you cannot be unaware of the Emperor’s intentions with regard to me. Consider that I may be your mistress someday.”

  Even for one of the strong-willed Derzhi, she displayed extraordinary determination. It was very hard to refuse her. But I did. “That consideration can do nothing but assure that I adhere strictly to my place, my lady. I would do nothing to merit my mistress’s concern. She would not allow me to speak of my master without his permission.”

  The candlelight grew brighter with her smile. “He said you spoke with frankness. I hear some hint of it ... and sense and wit that are extraordinary for one in ... your circumstances. So, well enough. Say nothing of Aleksander. Instead, say something of Seyonne. You are Ezzarian?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “A sorcerer. Perhaps that explains everything. I’ve heard it said that Ezzarian sorcerers can cure madness. Is that what you’ve done?”

  “I’ve been through the Rites of Balthar, my lady. It is impossible for me to do anything of sorcery.”

  “How long have you served the Prince?”

  “Only these last three months.”

  “Three months to breach a bulwark of stubborn self-indulgence built over twenty-three years. I am more impressed than ever.”

  “My lady, my last wish is to displease you, but I should get back to—”

  “No, Seyonne, you will not put me off so easily. My serving woman will warn me if anyone comes.” She retrieved the Kuvai bow that she had laid on the gift table. “So what do you do besides scribe’s work?”

  “Only what I am commanded to do: reading, writing, household work. It would not be of interest to a lady.”

  “Hmm.” She ran her fingers over the polished sweep of the bow and frowned. “How long have you been in bondage?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “So long? Well, if you will not speak of the present, tell me of yourself seventeen years ago. What has made you into a person Aleksander holds in a regard he shows no one else?”

  “Please, my lady, I cannot. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “I insist. I know nothing of Ezzarians, save the rumors of sorcery and that they were intelligent enough to allow a woman to rule them. Enlighten me.”

  I could not allow it. Not even for one with so engaging a manner. “Please understand, madam. I did not exist seventeen years ago. I did not exist three years ago, nor even one hour ago. A slave can exist in no moment but the present one. I beg your gracious pardon, but there is nothing more to tell. I am a slave who reads and writes, and who is honored to serve the future Emperor of the Derzhi.”

  “I see.” I regretted the chill in her voice just as I ached when the sun would set after a rare sunny day in Capharna. “So only one more question, then. Who was your master before Aleksander?”

  I would rather not have told her, but she could find it out very easily, and I didn’t want to offend her further. “The late Baron Harkhesian, my lady.”

  “Has the Baron died today? I’d not heard it. I saw him just last evening.”

  I was somewhat flustered. The Baron’s physician had been sure he would not survive the change of the year. “No. I mean ... he was very ill when I was sent away. I assumed . . .”

  “He is
noticeably feeble, but not dead yet. He was lifting his tankard well into the night with every other warrior. I don’t think he missed a toast or a song.”

  I couldn’t help but grin at the thought. “I’m glad to hear it. He always said that Suzaini brandy and strong ale would preserve him beyond his physician’s prediction.”

  “You see ... even now you give lie to your own words, Seyonne. We will continue this conversation another time. For now I suppose I must let you get back to your work.”

  She rose from her chair, and I bowed to her. “Please excuse my frankness, my lady. I have no intent to offend.”

  “Your frankness serves you well, Seyonne. I’m not in the least offended.”

  It was a long time before I could summon up enough concentration to get back to my work. I spent a great deal of it wondering how so perceptive a man as Aleksander could fail to recognize a prize more magnificent than any lying in his treasury.

  Chapter 13

  On the same evening as my talk with Lady Lydia, after I had eaten a bowl of greasy stew with the other slaves and was being given instructions as to the evening’s duties, I was summoned to the Prince’s apartments. He was wearing white satin breeches and white silk hose, but no shirt. His body slaves were hovering about him, offering a filmy white shirt embroidered in gold, black boots, three jeweled rings in a velvet box, pearl windings for his braid, and a fur-lined cape, but he was pacing restlessly and came near pouncing on me when I entered.

  “Skip the bowing and write a message. I want it dispatched instantly by messenger bird to the Chief Magistrate of Avenkhar. I’m tired of waiting and no one can give me any information. And Korelyi keeps asking me when my uncle will come, as if I hadn’t thought of it. The damnable Khelid is like a scorpion in my boot.”

  His eyes spurred me on as I set out the materials and sharpened a pen.

  Rozhin,

  I require immediate news of Dmitri zha Denischkar, brother to the Emperor. He is five days overdue in Capharna. He was to complete business with Demyon, the swordsmith, and proceed straight here. If you value your position and your balls, you will have a report to me no later than midnight on the seventh day of this month.

  Aleksander, Prince of Azhakstan

  “Curse all stubborn Derzhi. Where is the man?” said the Prince as I rolled the scrap of paper in its leather covering. “Punishing me, no doubt. Decided he can’t thrash me anymore, so he’ll get his revenge another way. I swore I’d not ask after him, but almost half the dakrah is past. He should be here.”

  “The message will be off within the hour, my lord,” I said.

  I wanted to ask him more about Korelyi’s goading. What interest could the demon Khelid have in Lord Dmitri ... or was it only to spur this fever in the irritable Prince? But before I could get close enough to ask discreetly, one of the slaves finally caught his arm and helped him on with the shirt. As the rest descended on him like flies to a corpse, he called after me. “You’re to stay at the aviary to wait for the reply. Otherwise they’ll try to send it through Fendular, who won’t dare interrupt anything important, but you’ll come straightaway, no matter what I’m doing: even if I’m at table with my father or in bed with a woman. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course, my lord. The Chamberlain ...”

  “The Chamberlain will be told. Now, off with you.”

  Though it was impossible that the messenger bird could return from Avenkhar before two days, I obeyed the Prince’s command and spent every hour, awake and asleep, in the shed where Leuka the bird keeper nurtured his valuable little flock. Messenger birds were used only for the most urgent messages. They were expensive to train, and only Derzhi nobles were allowed to own them. Commoners were hanged if caught with one. People got nervous if crows flocked to their fields with any regularity, afraid the magistrates would accuse them of training the birds to bear messages.

  After several hours of maddening idleness—I hated being so far from Aleksander now Korelyi had returned—I offered to help Leuka with his unending chores of feeding and watering the birds and cleaning their cages. He, in turn, regaled me with the names and personalities and exploits of every one of the fifty birds under his care. “Nybba is a Zhagad bird. Can find her way there in five days. Made the trip some forty-six times. Been kissed by the Emperor himself. Of course my favorite nestlings, the ones I trained myself to come home here, they’re scattered all about the Empire. Not one of ’em ever strayed. I’m forever wondering which one will show up next. They always come first to the chimney. I hear ’em gabbling ...” I learned a great deal more about messenger birds and their role in Derzhi exploits than I had ever wished to know.

  Sure enough, two days later, about the time the sun was setting somewhere behind a miserably cold rainstorm that looked to have settled in permanently, a gabbling at the chimney announced the arrival of Arello, a fat, sleek gray messenger. Leuka kissed the bird and crooned softly to it while he unfastened the leather from about the bird’s leg and exposed the bit of oiled paper.

  “I’m off,” I said. “It was a fine two days.”

  “Any time,” said Leuka. “The birds like you. You’ve a gentle hand.”

  I hurried through the courtyards, where the ankle-deep mounds of crusted snow had been replaced by ankle-deep puddles, skimmed with ice.

  “Where will I find the Prince?” I asked Boresh, who was marshaling the armies of slaves and servants for the evening duties. “I have the message he’s been waiting for.”

  “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll see he gets it. You’ve three days’ work to make up.”

  “Master Boresh, the Prince left orders that I’m to bring him the message from Avenkhar with my own hand, no matter where he is or with whom or at what time. Dare we disobey his command?”

  Of course the under-chamberlain dared not disobey, not now that twenty others had heard me recount my orders. Grudgingly, he revealed that the Prince was attending the evening’s entertainment in the ballroom. It took five more confrontations with Fendular’s underlings before I was climbing the winding stair toward the curtained-off loge where the royal family and their selected guests could look down on the ballroom.

  As I entered the long gallery that girdled the ballroom walls, I caught only a glimpse of the festivities below. Chairs of gilt and velvet had been set up on half the shining wood expanse of the ballroom floor. They were filled with a glittering crowd of guests. Colored lights flared from the vast open space in front of them, but I had no time to stop and observe. The music was odd, dissonant harp melodies that set my teeth on edge and seemed to accompany changes in the lights. Periodically I would hear applause or murmurs of awe and appreciation from the crowd.

  The closer I got to Aleksander, the more uneasy I became. I could not explain the creeping shudders or the cold fingers up my spine. Maybe it was the grating music that so unsettled me. It seemed to crawl up the steps behind me and tangle itself in my legs and my arms and my vision while I waited in the dim light for the guard to whisper my name to the Prince.

  I told myself that it was only the prospect of being so near the Emperor that gave me the megrims. A flick of the imperial finger could have a man burned alive or make him rich enough to buy an entire heged. Ivan’s word could destroy a kingdom, could wipe out twenty thousand lives of grace and beauty, could rape a sweet land ...

  ... a land of thick green grass ... of rolling meadows and open forests of oak and ash and pine, laced with clear, cool streams, a land of balmy breezes and tender, starlit nights. . . . The starlight on the circle of white marble columns was bright enough to give light to the forest glade. Why was it always night when the call would come? Nights were for walking moonlit paths to meet friends gathered around sparkling fires. To engage in long talks about the universe that made no sense in the day. To put your arm around warm shoulders and follow the music that wafted its way through the trees like wood smoke ... inviting . . . welcoming. But that night I walked the path away from friends and fire toward the
circle of white, where Ysanne would send me out to do battle....

  Verdonne, what was I doing? Desperately I cast my eyes downward and memorized the lines of my trembling hand. Not yet. Not yet. I pushed the vision away ... walled it up again ... and waited for the guard to return.

  “He’s coming out. I hope you’ve got something as he wants to hear.”

  Well, he wanted to hear it, but he wasn’t going to like it.

  Aleksander stepped through the heavy velvet curtain. His high-necked black tunic was trimmed in silver; silver bands set with amethyst bound his full sleeves and his neck. Black did not sit well on him, but left him looking pale and ill in the lamplight. He grabbed my arm before I could kneel. “What news, Seyonne?”

  I read him the message from the rolled scrap of paper.

  Your Highness,

  The Lord Dmitri and five companions rode eastward on the Jybbar Pass road ten days ago. The weather has been moderate. I have dispatched a search party along the route, and the House of Marag has sent its finest scouts to aid us. I will send news as soon as I have any.

  All glory and honor be yours in this time of celebration, and may this message find you rejoicing in the company of the Marshal Dmitri.

  Your humble servant,

  Rozhin, Chief Magistrate of Avenkhar

  “Damnation!” Aleksander slammed his fist into the gallery wall. “Ten days. He should have been here in four.”

  The crowd in the ballroom let out a great sigh as the remaining lamps flicked out and were replaced by whirling green and purple and blue. The sickly light made Aleksander’s complexion look dead and his eyes sink into dark pits. “Hang all this foolery. Tell Sovari to pack my gear and have ten of my men ready to move in one hour.”

  “As you command, my lord.”

  “Your Highness, what keeps you? The entertainment is reaching its climax.” The man who stepped through the velvet curtain was in a rich purple gown, sewn with gold thread. Though his purple cape was lined with gold and fastened by a massive gold clasp, he was not the Emperor. His flaxen hair was not braided, the shoulders were too slim for a Derzhi warrior, and the soft, accented voice was not the speech of the man who ruled most of the known world. His pale face was indistinct in the strange light, but I could see that he was a Khelid.