by Lisa Daniels
She remained quiet, since she knew she'd get irritated having to constantly get her information in an underhanded manner, and instead allowed her eyes to rove, taking in the details of the bathroom. Soaking in warmth, and letting the servants now wash her hair and sponge her down, Kiara considered how intimidating she found Kanthus so far.
Not as bad as the rumors had it. Not as bad as Bethany thought. She had stared after Kiara with that heavy melancholy which suggested that the journey to Kanthus might be Kiara's last. Her mother and father seemed to believe they sold off one of their daughters into a cruel, brutal life, where she'd probably be sacrificed on her wedding day or something.
Still possible, but surely if the Kanthians sacrificed all their women at a wedding, then there wouldn't be any women around. At all. Kiara almost tried asking if Winifred or anyone did happen to practise ritualistic killings or something, but refrained at the last moment.
The thing that intrigued her most, however, were the yellow eyes. Humans just didn't have that. They had black, brown, blue, green, sometimes shades between, and sometimes going right down to that rare gray. But yellow? Unheard of.
Something odd was happening in Kanthus. Not just with the way people treated her, but in general with how some of the population possessed yellow eyes, and some did not.
The servants rubbed a soothing oil over her skin, which carried the scent of roses. At the bottom of the pool lay a kind of mural that showed the image of two spheres side by side—the sun and the moon. Emphasis was put on the moon, which Kiara knew to be smaller than depictions of the sun, yet appeared almost twice as large in her pool.
Well, whatever happened, she was about to find out more of the Kanthian culture. To see what all the fuss was about, and just why no one was allowed to talk to her before this Dome of Delights business.
Smelling clean, feeling refreshed, Kiara let the servants wrap her up in new clothes—gaudy yellow, with a white frill around her bust to emphasize the cup size. This came along with a white petticoat to balloon out the dress, so that when she twirled, it created a mesmerizing effect. They also gave a special kind of frame for her necklace, so that the lights became distorted, like ghost tails around her body, instead of the speckled firefly effect she automatically conjured. She preferred the speckles, but decided not to make them panic when she directly addressed them to say otherwise, and allowed them to wedge on yellow gloves, white leggings, and high, pale brown boots.
She didn't like the small heels such boots offered, but she couldn't have everything.
Well... she'd lost everything, coming here. Plunged into an alien world where people didn't talk to her, it already left her melting into a frenzied boredom. The kind that made her want to do stupid, impulsive things. Like dance on a rooftop or something, or interfere with some of the light displays so that instead they showed hands making obscene gestures.
Best not to embarrass her kingdom in this new place, she realized glumly. One issue with sending her here—somehow, she became the sole representative of Fjorn. And what a poor representative she made. Why didn't Father just send Bethany? She was pristine and princess-like. She knew how to behave diplomatically. Kiara dodged all of those lessons.
Now, these Kanthians had dressed her up in more finery than even the royals of Fjorn managed. Fjordans preferred utilitarian clothes, relying on the lights to show their might. The Kanthians loved their clothes. The more extravagant, the better. And they adored their lightweavings, bending their magic in ways that were wasteful, rather than useful. They even managed to thread the darker swamps with sickly greens to give an uneasy vibe for anyone trekking through.
These people have a flair for the dramatic, it seems. Interesting choice for a nation that apparently beat back the night hordes on a regular basis. She would have expected them to be militaristic, focusing on life on the front lines, not putting any stock in their colors or the beauty of the world around them.
She found herself missing the Forest of Light as she followed Winifred towards the so-called Dome of Delights. The servant, however, needed to stop about one corridor before, and gesture for Kiara to go on. So again, Kiara went on alone, witnessing two fully armored guards standing at the entrance to the Dome of Delights, which consisted of a thick glass set of double doors. The material shimmered, again showing the strong lightweavings, and the guards revealed not even one millimeter of skin. There also seemed to be no slot upon their armets, which made Kiara a little suspicious as to how they were supposed to be able to see.
They let her pass without incident. Entering the domes at last, she feasted upon that ecosystem promised from her glimpse of it from the outside. Glowing palm fronds, tapered bark and teak. Moist soil and special regulators in the soil that kept it a fluorescent, mellow warmth, allowing such plants to thrive. Most plants were roped off, and visitors and guests were restricted to white gravel paths, which twisted and curved towards a large kind of court or ballroom, where individuals talked or danced with one another, or performed upon an elevated stage.
Flute and violin music traveled through the air, along with the gentle plucking of a harpsichord. One thing she noticed instantly about the men she saw was that they wore masks. Wolf masks. Furnished in brass, steel, or iron, painted over with a myriad of colors, some of them enchanted so that their eye sockets glowed yellow, red, or orange. These “wolves” stalked the women there, most of them clearly from high society, probably the “Highborn” they referred to. Many of the people here had yellow eyes.
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 yo
u 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 set 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. “Tha
nks 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.
