Word ran ahead like the wind. As I walked, street sellers ceased their loud pitches to the crowd, advertising their wares, to stare and point at me. Their prospective customers also gawked, loudly exclaiming to their neighbors and passersby that there stalked the great Wolf. Waggoners reined in their mules, my name carried on the breath of the masses. I heard my name over and over, sighing on the hot summer breeze as the good citizens took in my presence among them. As I was well known and popular, people of the lower classes often tried to speak to me, for I was one of them. Even now, no few shouted to me or called my name, their excitement at seeing me running like waves though the crowds.
The upper classes, of course, would never deign to express their admiration to my face. They might turn their heads as they passed me, or eye me sidelong, as they might eye a wild tiger that freely roamed the streets. But speak to me? Absolutely unheard of. In the past, a few more daring nobles have demanded the City Watch haul me back to the Arena in chains, fearing what I might do if left to wander unfettered and unsupervised. The Watch, fearing the High King’s wrath should I be molested, politely declined to haul me anywhere.
“I won two pennies on you!” the kid said to me, trotting by my side. “My friend Vettar bet me Silas would kill you, ’cause he’s bigger than you. I told him he was a lunkhead and he hit me but I don’t care, I got his money ’cause I always bet on you and you never let me down.”
He rambled on more of the same, quoting this Vettar fellow several times. The kid was an avid fan, I supposed, but I ignored him. My eye caught sight of a line of naked slaves, shackled to one another behind a slaver on a gray horse.
Dirty, skinny, marked by whip and chain, they looked beaten and spiritless. I had no doubt they were men and women captured in some raid or border fight and enslaved. The High King’s constant wars created no end to the supply of slaves necessary for the running of his Federation. On the skinny backs of such slaves lay the economic foundation of Khalid. Should slavery ever end, I often thought, the whole Federation would collapse. Mores the pity, too.
The line turned a corner down a side street, where I knew the auction block and slave pens lay. Poor bastards, I thought, craning my neck to watch for as long as possible. Many would die before reaching the auction block and those that did would wish they had.
Disappointed his hero was not much impressed by his fervent admiration, the urchin finally waved at me once more and vanished into the crowds.
Not far from the palace, the busy street markets receded into the grateful distance, giving birth to the temple district. I eyed the huge six storied temple of Usa’a’mah, the Khalidian god of war and death, and its grotesque gaping maw. The Khalidians also worshipped Elana’hu, the goddess of fertility and life, but beside Usa’a’mah’s awesome black majesty, few paid much heed to her. Usa’a’mah never appealed to me and I never liked him or what he stood for. Like his High Priest and his worshippers, he seemed too repugnant for my liking.
A pair of huge iron doors guarded the spirit of Usa’a’mah, while big-muscled priests in armor stalked about the place wearing swords and carrying war axes in their fists. A few worshippers passed under their narrow-eyed scrutiny to enter. I walked on.
I passed several other temples sanctified to the gods of the kingdoms and provinces of the Federation, recognizing only a few. I paid closer attention, however, to a priestess of the Goddess Osimi dismounting her horse before a small, stone temple. She was rather attractive in a disdaining sort of way, with long black hair and slightly slanted black eyes. A simple white gown garbed her from shoulder to knees, with a plunging neckline that exposed a great deal of flesh over her bosom. A single white feather hung past her face, her horse’s mane also bore feathers tied into it. Her honor guards dismounted about her, eyeing me with distrust as I passed, following my Federates.
Osimi presided over the province of Zhou, far to the south. I knew because a few weeks ago I killed a Zhou with a feather braided into his hair in the arena. He told me a bit about his homeland and the fanatic religious cult of Osimi before the match. I remembered the fervent light in his eyes when he told me how Osimi’s sacred owl, symbolized by the feather in his hair, would convey his spirit unto her upon his death.
I had never been to the palace before. Although I spent much of my free time wandering the streets of the capital, I had never gone inside its walled grounds. Federal troops of the regular army in purple and gold guarded the walls around the palace. More soldiers dressed in burnished hauberks and the uniforms of one of Lionel’s other sons paraded on the grounds. I saw servants bearing the White Lion of Khalid badge hurry by with barely a glance at me. More collared slaves passed me by, several offering me a quick salute as they passed. The gate guards waved me through, their eyes expressionless as they took in my brand and jeweled collar. If they were rabid fans, or even casual fight fans, they kept their opinions behind careful stoic, disciplined expressions.
I followed my plumed escort up the great staircase to the palace itself. The stairs, as wide as a street, with a hundred or more risers, led to more royal guards at the gold-embossed doors.
I paused a moment, captivated by the spectacle of a magnificent fountain, centered in a great hall at the top of the stairs. Large corridors splintered off the hall, one left, one right and the largest one straight beyond the great fountain. Carved into the shapes of three sea creatures I had never seen before. Yet I recognized them from tales: dolphins. Taller than me by several feet, and built of pale gray and gold marble, it jetted water upward and outward from the slender mouths of each dolphin. At its feet, a large pool of the same pale gray and gold marble received the downward fall of the water. How did they get the water up here and how could it circulate like that? I paused, enchanted, at the sight and the musical sound of the water splashing. I caught flashes of gold as large fish splashed and played in the cool water of the pool.
One of my escorts hurried back, waving at me. I obeyed his impatient command, and walked past the wonderful fountain, though I kept it in my sight for as long as possible. Sometimes one might forget the Federation’s malevolence when it also contained such gorgeous works of her artists.
Once inside the larger corridor, the soldiers picked up their pace and strode quickly down the wide avenue. This time they glanced around, impatient, urging me with sharp gestures. As though we were late and it was my fault. I caught up, trying to look everywhere at once. Gilded statues and ornate paintings lined the white marble walls. Never before had I seen statues of naked men and women. Naked?
Paintings of past High Kings and Queens leered down at me from gold-embossed frames, their expressions cold and distant. These Khalidians certainly revered their dead, I thought haphazardly, rushing past to keep up with my escort.
In many corners stood sets of antique armor, the men-shaped metal mostly armed with swords, pikes, halberds, daggers, bows and crossbows. I gawked at a stuffed horse and rider in an alcove by themselves. The horse, a magnificent black stallion, reared back, front hooves raised to strike, its jaws wide, nostrils flaring red. The ancient knight in its saddle held a broadsword high in his right fist, his face hidden behind the steel visor, anonymous. The heraldic quarterings on his shield reminded me of home, although I did not recognize the family line. Who was he, to have his likeness here, mounted on his steed, in such a reverent display of heroism? I looked closer, just before I turned yet another corner, my face over my shoulder. The bend sinister snaked its way from the top left down to the bottom right, the distinct insignia of a bastard. Who was this silent knight, this bastard, that the Federates would so honor him, and so highly? Could he be the founder of the Federation himself? My eyes sought a caption, a name, but found none. The horse and knight disappeared from view.
I walked on, oblivious to the stares my presence in these hallowed halls engendered. Court functionaries with official-looking badges on their breasts, liveried servants, armed monks of Usa’a’mah wearing cloaks with deep hoods but left well-muscled ar
ms bare to the shoulder watched as I went by. Royal guards stood ramrod straight, their swords at their hips, halberds clenched in fists never moved a disciplined muscle as I passed. Their dark eyes followed me. I ignored their stares, too fascinated by the sights around me to care very much about the fuss I created by my presence.
Soon, the eyes that stared found their way into my consciousness. Several nobles in court clothing sniffed disdainfully as I passed them, simpering behind embroidered silk handkerchiefs at the hulking, scarred slave gawking with the innocence of a child. I saw myself through their eyes: the huge monster who fought in the arena, no doubt as stupid as my muscles suggested. Yet, I found I cared little for what they thought of me.
As my escort and I approached a small band of minor aristocrats, they ceased their low-toned conspiracies to gawp. One fop, wearing scarlet and yellow robes and a drooping green felt hat, stared openly at me. Slack-jawed, his eyes bulged with outraged indignation.
“What is that creature doing here?” he all but shrieked. “It belongs in the kennels; take it back there immediately, I say.”
As the Synn’jhani answered only to the High King himself, they ignored him.
His cronies giggled. The fop’s huge eyes, red and rheumy from the aftereffects of a wild tros party, continued to bulge in their sockets as I approached. “It belongs on a leash,” he screamed. “Why isn’t it on a leash and muzzled? Wolves don’t belong in the royal palace; it should be hided and turned into a rug for my feet. I say, leash it this instant. This instant, I say.”
Without making it seem intentional, I drifted off my direct path to walk closer to the scarlet fop. As I passed within a pace or two of him, I scowled down into his upturned and outraged face. A breathless shriek, so high-pitched as to be nearly beyond human hearing, erupted from his jaws. My ears cringed at the shrill screech. His mouth, already wide with outraged incredulity, widened further still in abject terror. I caught a glimpse of his unsavory tonsils behind his pale tongue and yellow teeth. His foul breath stung my nose, while genuine tears coursed down his pale cheeks.
A step more took me past him, but not before I caught the pungent stench of hot urine, acrid and salty.
I heard one of his cronies giggle with evil humor. “Tarn, did you just piss your drawers?”
More high-pitched giggles followed me down the corridor. “He did, he pissed his pants.”
The fop’s wavering voice reached my ears as I turned a corner. “Well, I never.”
More court hangers-on, less aristocratic and more earthy, gaped openly at me, pointing, excited at the prospect of seeing me so close. Their comments, some whispered and more spoken aloud, now sounded openly admiring. More ardent fans, I suspected. Still more slaves bowed to my brand and my jewels before hurrying forward on their appointed errands. The only respect, outside the arena, ever accorded me.
Exotic trees and plants in huge pots grew lushly. Colorful birds in large lavish cages chirped, sang or preened feathers, tended by collared slaves. Very civilized, very attractive, their simple beauty concealing the dark evil the Federation represented. I saw caged monkeys, sloths, deer with soaring antlers from far-flung lands, snakes, strange lizards with forked tongues testing the air. I took note of several lions, bears, leopards and tigers in steel cages covered in gilded gold. I even caught a glimpse of a silver-gray wolf, curled into a furry ball, sleeping. As I passed, it stirred as if awakened by a strange scent, or a haunting dream. Its head lifted, eyes blinking sleepily. For some odd reason, I wanted to pause, to speak to it…Speak to it? I hesitated, the wolf’s head coming around toward me. I felt drawn, somehow, under the spell of something very spooky and very strange. I took a step—
My escorts returned from around the corner, their gestures surpassing impatience and bordering on fury. The spell broke, the wolf forgotten. I turned the corner, following the plumes, and passed beyond its cage.
We walked past corridors branching off both left and right, also filled with the cages of birds, animals and reptiles, tended faithfully by slaves. The huge marble avenue seemed almost endless. The soldiers finally delivered me to a huge set of oak doors inlaid with gold and silver. Two more plumed guards in the livery of the High King’s personal army, the Synn’jhani, flanked them, but neither looked at either my companions or me.
One of my Sins opened the door and ushered me in. I ducked my head in a quick bow, and walked into the huge anteroom and stopped dead.
Rygel stood off to one side, just as surprised to see me as I him.
The door swung shut behind me. I turned, expecting to see the escort, but they were gone. Rygel and I stood alone in the opulence of the High King’s private apartments.
The uneasiness in my gut increased tenfold. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice low.
“Lionel has my—stuff,” he said, his voice just as low. “You?”
“He sent for me. Do you know why?”
Rygel shook his head, his wheaten hair cascading to his shoulders. The diamond in his ear flashed. “No. I never told anyone about—our meeting.”
I accepted it with a nod and looked about. The chamber contained the same opulence as the rest of the palace I saw. More lush plants stood in huge pots of black earth, a chattering monkey bounced up and down, screaming invectives at me, safely chained to his stand in the corner. I scented expensive perfumes, a hint of rosewater and strawberry and a large dash monkey shit. Velvet covered chairs with ornately carved wooden backs and arms. Stone gargoyles leered down at me from the heights of wooden pillars, tongues protruding obscenely. Rygel and I stood, neither of us comfortable enough to sit down.
“How did you become a gladiator?” Rygel asked, after a long moment of awkward silence.
“A trainer saw me fighting in the slave pens when I was still a boy,” I said. “He saw my potential and bought me. He saw to it I had the best training possible, and my reputation grew. Then Cephas, my Slave Master, bought me on behalf of the High King.”
“You accent is not that of the Federation,” he commented. “Where are you from?”
“Connacht.”
“Ah, you are far from home. How did you get here?”
I glanced away from his honest curiosity, fighting down the rising bitterness his question invoked. “Enemy hordes invaded my homeland, killed my family, sold me into slavery.”
I eyed his gold torque and the hilt of the fine sword he wore belted at his hip. “What of you? Where do you come from?”
“Khassart,” he said quietly, playing absently with the diamond at his ear. “I doubt you’ve ever heard of it.”
Indeed, I had not. He recognized my ignorance at a glance, and shrugged. “It’s a small country, far to the southwest of here. It’s an island nation. And nay, we are not under the Federation’s jurisdiction.”
“How do you, er,” I waggled my fingers much as he did the other day, “become a wizard?”
A small grin tugged at his mouth. “One is born to it. We are born with a power, an ability, to take the natural laws and break them. As an ordinary man makes a field grow with the use of his hands, we make the same field grow with the use of our minds. Like many, some have only a little strength, and are not much better than hedge wizards. Those magicians are not good for more than just parlor tricks. Others, like me, have a great strength, like a natural strength, such as you have in your size and your muscles. We also have our talents and specialties. Mine is healing.”
“And you are strong?”
He met my eyes with such a calm surety I felt awed, for just a moment. “I am the strongest there is.”
“Is that ego talking?”
He smiled gently. “One might think so, but nay. It’s the simple truth. I was trained by the very best magicians and my family line has created some very famous wizards.”
“Trained?”
“We are taken and trained, much as you are.” The grin twisted into something bitter. “We have schools that train the best of the best, and my family name brought me
the finest magical masters that ever lived. I surpassed them all. But there is a price—sometimes an unspeakable price.”
“We all must pay a price,” I said slowly.
“What is your real name?”
There he went with the name thing again. He was nothing if not persistent. I hesitated. I was superstitious enough to believe there was power in a name. My real name I held as close to me as I did my memories of my life before slavery. None knew it, nor cared to know, I was ever anything other than The Wolf. Giving it freely to Rygel was asking for more trust than I was willing to offer. Yet before I could respond and refuse, the main doors opened and Prince Brutal strode in.
Bejeweled and perfumed, his short hair pulled into a small tail at his nape, he smiled when he saw us. Pale, dead eyes lit slightly as what I suspected was friendship and a genuine liking for Rygel. Dressed in a plain green tunic and blue serviceable hose, his silk clothing rustled softly as he strode to Rygel, hands outstretched. We both bowed low.
“Ah, my dear lord Rygel,” he said expansively. “I’d forgotten you were coming. Please forgive my dreadful memory. Details, details.” He giggled shrilly. “You know how it is. My father has your beverage. You remember the way to Macha’s quarters? Yes? Come along, Wolf, come along.”
Without breaking stride, Brutal bustled past us in whispering silk slippers to another set of doors and swung them open. A faint hint of lilac wafted back on the slight breeze he made. Rygel followed, after a split second hesitation. I brought up the rear, irresolute. However, an order was an order, no matter how reluctant I was to enter the High King’s personal chamber. I would much rather face a pair of starving lions than enter that room.
Father and son did not look very much alike to my eyes. High King Lionel IV looked up from his daybed where he perused a piece of parchment. Where his son looked every inch the royal prince, Lionel wore a simple gray robe belted at the waist, no jewels, and bare feet. With gray hair and faded blue eyes, the High King stood a full hand shorter than the prince, who in his own right was not tall. He nodded acknowledgment to our bows and the Crown Prince’s abrupt greeting.
In a Wolf's Eyes Page 9
