by Carol Berg
“Of course, Your Highness,” said the man, pursing his full lips into a disapproving pucker. “As you please. But may I ask why? We have need of every hand to keep your house fit for the glory of these days.”
“Ah, but you see. It’s exactly that.” The Prince sat on a stool with his arms outstretched while his body slaves oiled his back and chest and arms, and laced sandals on his feet for the procession through the city. The race would be run barefoot, of course. Derzhi warriors were nothing if not respectful of their traditions. “I have decided that the tale of my dakrah must be written down for my sons to hear. I don’t trust these singers and lore masters to get the story right. The Ezzarian has the most pleasing hand of all the palace scribes, so he must write it. Then I shall hear it read and judge if it has been recorded correctly.”
“But, my lord, should it not be our own Derzhi scribes who write this tale, rather than some sneaking barbarian?”
Fendular’s protest was scarcely aired when Aleksander began screaming at him, accusing him of treasonous insolence. The torrent of abuse was a very model of a princely tantrum. The Chamberlain escaped the room before the wineglasses started flying, and Aleksander dissolved into laughter that his nervous servants and gentleman attendants did not understand. I think he was relieved that he had only acted the beast and not turned into one.
We had agreed that it would be unwise for me to attend the dakrah ceremonies. The presence of a slave would be too noticeable. I would remain in the Prince’s map room writing, and Durgan would keep watch on the kitchen garden. The slave master would send for me if Aleksander ... or whatever Aleksander became ... arrived there. The Prince was certain he could make it so far, if the change came upon him again.
As Aleksander made ready to leave his apartments, one of his bustling gentlemen called to him, “Shall you win today, Lord Prince?”
He answered, “A race encompasses my entire being. I can fix my mind firmly on it and think of nothing else. I will not lose.” His eyes met mine, and he grinned.
It was the tenth day of the dakrah.
Aleksander did win the race, whether because of his true prowess or because no one would dare surpass him, I wasn’t sure. Though I had no doubts of his strength and speed, I suspected the latter. He had commanded his attendants to bring me hourly reports for the “history” that I was writing, so I learned that he drank only nazrheel at the victor’s banquet, and ate only dakhfruit, claiming that during his run with the god, Athos had told him to purify himself before the day of his anointing.
Many hours later he returned to his apartments to be bathed and dressed for the evening. I remained in the map room as would be expected. Before leaving again, he stepped into the room, followed by two attendants frantically trying to put the final touches on his five resplendent layers of green and gold brocade and silk. He looked over my shoulder, where I was diligently transcribing the latest reports of his activities as told me by the scowling under-chamberlain, who sat on a stool beside me. “So the work progresses,” said the Prince.
“Indeed, my lord. Besides writing of today’s victory, I have also begun the account of the first day’s events, from the recollections of your servants. I pray that my work will honor the trust you’ve given me.”
“I will judge your work when the dakrah is finished. As for now, proceed as I’ve told you.”
I bowed my head. “As you command, Your Highness.”
Just as he walked out of the map room, he called to another slave. “Make sure my fire is built up. I’ve been cold all day.”
I smiled to myself, which drew a puzzled stare from the irritated under-chamberlain. “Pardon, sir,” I said. “I was distracted. You were speaking of the first night’s menu ...”
It was quite late when a clamor of voices, boots, steel, and glassware from the nearby rooms announced the Prince’s return. “Just go,” he said, his words running over each other, stumbling over a thick tongue. “I need nothing but to get out of these gaud-rags and find my bed. Get out, all of you. Hessio can do what’s required.”
After a flurry of honorings and farewells, the noise died away. The quiet, fair body slave Hessio, a Basranni youth gelded before he reached manhood, as were all those destined for such intimate service to the royal family, soon followed the others out of the door. The lamp girl had already snuffed out most of the lamps and candles. I had been sitting in the dark for half an hour, and only after I was sure that no one remained in the rest of the Prince’s chambers, did I venture out. Aleksander was sprawled across his bed, only half undressed, sleeping the sleep that was the image of death, a blue vial clutched in his hand. I removed the vial and slipped out the door through the candle room. No one was there to see me. Aleksander had dismissed the guard earlier in the day, sending him to march about the walls until dawn as a punishment for being ugly, and had issued no orders for the man to be replaced.
One day gone.
The eleventh day of the dakrah festival saw a watery sun rise over Mount Nerod. If it was an omen, I had no way to interpret it, but the day started out badly. A search party arrived from Avenkhar with no word of Dmitri. The five soldiers sent by the magistrate of Avenkhar had followed the southern route to Capharna in case the Marshal had taken a detour from the dangerous Jybbar road. The party Aleksander had sent into the Jybbar had not yet returned.
I watched the Prince carefully as he listened to the report. If the demon enchantment was triggered by strong emotion, I guessed it might happen with the news of the fruitless search. Anger, exasperation, impatience, guilt—all made their appearance to a watchful eye, but the Prince showed no ill effects.
The day’s ceremonies were to be more formal than those of the past ten: a series of rites and blessings leading up to the solemnity of the anointing on the next day. As on the previous day, I retreated to the map room while the slave master kept his watch in the kitchen garden. From the household gentlemen who came to give me their hourly reports, I learned of ceremonial wine cups and burnings of incense, of recitations of Derzhi history so interminable they would bore a doorpost, of kisses exchanged and symbolic wooden sticks broken. At sunset, Aleksander would surrender his sword and his signet ring to his father as a final gesture of submission, then he would drink away the evening with the other young nobles who were still under the age of majority. The Emperor and Empress would host the older guests in a separate dining room.
I was finishing up the transcription of the most recent report, when a guard dragged in Filip, the albino boy from the slave house. “Says he’s got a message for the writing slave,” said the guard, holding the scrawny child at arm’s length. “I didn’t trust him to come into the Prince’s chambers on his own. Fryth steal whatever’s not nailed down.”
Hoping that the pounding of my heart would not alert the guard, I nodded.
“You’re wanted,” said the boy, picking his nose and gaping at the splendor. “By Master Durgan.”
“Of course. Right away,” I said, pushing the child aside and starting to run, not pausing to stopper the ink or wipe my hands.
I could not get through the interminable passages fast enough. I had to be with Aleksander before the change was complete. “Ezzarian!” A high-pitched voice called out to me as I ran through the door into the cloisters. Boresh. I dodged into a dark doorway and struggled to silence my breathing as he passed. The prune-faced under-chamberlain stood in the columned passage frowning, looking this way and that and fingering the small whip he carried at his belt. “Where have you got off to in such a hurry, slave?” he murmured to himself. It seemed an eternity until he strolled back the way he had come. I streaked through the cavernous washhouse and the billowing heat of the kitchens, across the bustling kitchen courtyard, past storehouses and workshops, and through the iron gate that led to the winter-blighted wasteland of the palace kitchen gardens.
A single, sharply angled beam of sunlight escaped the dome of heavy clouds, casting an eerie, orange light on the bleak landscape, while the f
irst cold spatters of rain fell from overhead. Dirty snow lay in crusted patches in the corners of the herb garden. Mats of dead plants carpeted the wood-squared sections, and overturned barrows and rolls of rotted netting were abandoned alongside the path. The far wall, lined with trellises supporting a year’s dead growth, separated the herb garden from the larger main kitchen garden. Thunder rumbled in the blackening east as I followed muddy boot prints into the walled enclosure.
Ranks of ancient fruit trees, gnarled and barren, divided the garden, and it was from behind the trees that I heard a soul-chilling cry of agony. I ran toward the sound and almost crashed into Durgan, transfixed in horror, holding his sword in one hand and clutching a spreading tree branch with another.
The Prince was on his knees in the mud, his back bent forward, his clenched fists drawn tightly to his face. As if the worsening rain blurred my vision, the outline of his body wavered: the curve of his back stretching, his head swelling, his torso thickening, his long legs bending into impossible shapes. The green and gold of his clothing pulsed and swirled into a uniform golden tan. For an agonizing span of time the two images wavered—the man and the beast—and such a wave of bitter cold swept through that garden that I thought we must be frozen where we stood. Aleksander stretched out his arms and cried out ... his groan taking on a fearsome, guttural fury as the images shifted again.
By this time I was but an arm span away. I dared not touch him, but I called out as calmly and evenly as I could. “Aleksander, Prince of the Derzhi, hear my words. Though you feel yourself consumed by pain and enchantment, you are not lost.” The words flowed from my tongue as though I had practiced them only hours before, instead of lifetimes. “The enchantment controls your body, but you are in control of your mind. Listen to my voice. Take hold of it. Though I cannot come with you into that fearful place, you will not be alone. Our joining will bridge the barriers of this vile spell and prevent the doors closing on the life you know. You will remain in control of your actions and your thoughts, and you will yield no victory to those who have brought you to this pass.”
The change was almost complete. As the last beam of the distant sunset was swallowed by the oncoming night, I glimpsed a last flicker of green satin and red hair and heard a last brief cry of anguish ... and before me lay a shengar, a rock lion, the vicious wildcat native to the Azhak mountains. It ... he ... leaped to his feet and confronted me, teeth bared, roaring in pain-racked fury.
“For the love of Athos, Ezzarian, come away.” The trembling slave master laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Prince Aleksander will not harm me,” I said. “He is in full control of himself.” I hoped.
The beast, its weight twice that of a man and its length from head to tail half again Aleksander’s height, writhed its head and emitted a long low snarl that grated fearfully on the nerves. It moved slowly to the right, then to the left again, never taking its eyes from my own. I remained kneeling, unmoving, gazing into the wild amber eyes that were yet so much of Aleksander.
“I will stay with you, my lord, and we will talk. I will talk, I suppose, though I have no idea what I’m going to talk about. You’ll have to forgive me if I rattle a bit, and I’ll have to hope that you’ll forget much of what I say when you change back to yourself. It has been a very long time since I had much conversation. As you have observed so frequently, a slave does not speak openly to his Derzhi masters. And whatever conversation I had with other slaves, in the early days when I indulged in such foolishness, is perhaps not suitable for my lord’s ears. Not very flattering to the Derzhi or their Empire.”
The beast lowered its head and screamed such fury into my face that the heat of it warmed my cold fingers. Durgan raised his sword, but I laid my hand on the blade and pushed it aside.
“The Prince will not thank you for sticking him, Master Durgan. You see how he chastises me for my insolence. But I know who is there beneath this illusion. And I have told him several times that he does not frighten me.”
“Can you read his thoughts?” whispered Durgan over my shoulder.
“No. I can only guess his thoughts from what I know of him. Can’t you see him here? I say the least word insulting the reputation of the Derzhi, and he tries to intimidate me. He is a bully ...”
“The gods silence your tongue, Ezzarian! He’ll have your head.”
“... a rogue, and an arrogant beast. But there must be something more to him, something finer buried beneath his skin, else demons would not need to spend this much trouble on him. He has only to seek it out and pay it heed ... which, in the end, may be much more trouble than this enchantment.”
The Aleksander-beast circled us, gliding smoothly on its dinner-plate-sized paws, powerful muscles rippling under the tawny coat. I stayed still and hoped I had not gone too far. If I angered him too much, he might break off his connection with me and become imprisoned in the small mind and passions of the beast. I doubted Durgan or I would survive such a resolution. If it happened too often, neither would Aleksander.
Hot breath steamed on the back of my neck. I did not move. “You are in control, my lord,” I said. “You will do only as you please. But you must not ignore wholly what this body demands of you. If you thirst, you must let it drink. If you hunger ... you must judge ... and eat what is fit without shame or disgust. If you need to run, you must do it, combining your own caution and skills with those of the beast to avoid danger. Attend to the senses you have been given, for they will protect you, but use your own mind to understand those things the beast cannot ... like hunters and bowmen and innocents who will fear you and suffer from your strength. Your people, my lord. Those the gods have given into your charge.”
He moved away from my back and circled the garden restlessly. If my tunic had not been drenched with the rain, a torrent of sweat would have made it so.
“Do you think he hears you?” asked the slave master.
“I hope,” I said, feeling suddenly weak and chilled, shivering in the steady rain. “Did he say anything when he came?”
“Only to send for you, and to get my sword.”
“To get your sword?”
“He said, ‘Get the Ezzarian ... the sword.’ So I thought I was to get it.”
“I don’t think he meant for you to kill him, though.”
While Aleksander continued to lope about the perimeters of the garden, Durgan asked if we dared move, as he needed to be off for a few minutes.
“Go ahead. I’ll stay here.” I didn’t expect him to return. Shengars were vicious and unpredictable.
The burly Manganar was back in five minutes. I knew he was come when he laid a scratchy wool cloak over my bare shoulders. Blessedly dry. “Thank you,” I said.
“It’s only right. You’ve no call to help him.”
“I’m not helping either of you,” I said, drawing the dry warmth around me and indulging the bitterness that often welled up when I found myself grateful for the pitiful scraps that should be a man’s right. “Never think it.”
“But you are one of the guardians? You fight the darkness, as my gran told us?”
“In the only way left to me.”
“Does the Prince know what you are?”
I watched the great cat roam the vast garden, stretching its long muscles.
“I am only a slave with a bit of knowledge,” I said. “And I will never be anything else.”
Unwilling or unable to argue the point, Durgan moved back toward the fruit trees and settled himself to watch the garden entrance.
After a time Aleksander came back to me. He growled softly and circled. I gathered that he wanted me to talk again. “Shall I speak gibberish to you?” I said, drowsiness and the proximity of enchantment leaving me fey and careless. “Shall I tell you tales? Or sing? Or shall I speak of women or books or the life of trees? Or tell of the stars in the southern skies ... if there are still stars somewhere? Too bad. Once I knew something of those things, but no longer. Perhaps I will speak of cleaning tile floors and
the places I have seen cracks in your foundation, or I’ll tell you that your pen maker is cheating you because the reeds he uses are not the best.”
I cared nothing for Aleksander. His few kindnesses had been only more scraps. Give the slave a bite of meat without gristle. Give him two cups of water. Ah, yes, a hand under his arm when I’ve kicked him half to death. Only one lash today, Ezzarian. No matter that we’ve taken your life and your soul and crushed them beyond repairing. No matter that if you were set free this very hour, you could never go back. Never. I rolled onto my hands and knees and vomited up bile.
Aleksander shied away, hissing at the foulness I left on the ground. “Come back,” I called wearily. I tugged the sodden cloak about my shoulders, then, shaking and empty, turned my face to the sky, letting the rain cool and wash my face. “I’ll not leave you. Kastavan and his evil twin will not be rid of either of us so easily.”
I spoke of the weather and the land, mostly how the weather in Capharna was so different from what I had grown up with, though we, too, had a great deal of rain. It was the only thing I could come up with that was not bitterness or horror or implacably dull because I had shut off the well-springs of thought while I existed in the Derzhi world. And while any memory of Ezzaria was painful, geography was about as distant as I could get from anything truly important.
For more than three hours I talked and soothed the restless lion prince, until my eyelids were sagging and my words stumbling. Then the shengar screamed, and it startled me awake. I was confused and groggy, and fell backward into the mud, my heart drumming like a smith’s hammer.
“Aleksander!” I called, afraid I had let him slip away.
A blast of heat like that of a dry pine bough thrown on a fire threatened to set my wet hair on fire. A flash of green and red. A shapeless form—two entwined images—writhed in the mud battling with itself. A wrenching groan escaped amid snarls and growls, as if a living man were being devoured by the maddened beast. I scooted backward, slithering through the mud so the battle could not touch me. Fifteen minutes it took for the enchantment to wane and leave the long, lean figure sprawled facedown in the mud, rain spattering on the red hair and green satin. No sooner had the last trace of the shengar disappeared than I heard a hoarse whisper through chattering teeth, “A bully, am I?”
