Tara was weeping freely. Her body could undergo far more injury before it lost its ability to self-heal quickly. She knew that he could make her suffer, that he would make her suffer. “Do what you will, King Acher,” she spat at him, “I will be your whore no longer. I’d rather die than share your foetid, barren bed again!” The king braced her against the floor using one knee and wrapped her hair around his fist. He began to pull her up by it. She kicked out in reflex and the boniest part of her knee made rapid contact with his crotch. He buckled instantly, eyes shutting hard against the light. He could do nothing to prevent his hand from releasing her hair, and she was free. Tara sprinted past an agape Suhla to the apartment doors, and threw her weight against them. They parted lethargically at first, but then they began to slide more rapidly upon their bearings. She glanced behind herself, observing King Acher was not close, and ran through.
King Acher lay on the floor amidst the sparkling pieces of vase for a moment as he considered his own anger at her foolish decision. At least Suhla had remained; loyal little Suhla. She was trying to soothe him, though he found it rather irritating and unnecessary. In a few more seconds he would be recovered and able to resume his planned activity with her. Just a few more seconds of agony. When the pain was gone he would call the guards and have them track down Tara. It wouldn’t take them very long to find her. Then, he thought, it would be time to make an example of her.
Chapter 5
Fold upon fold of blue cotton fabric descended from her broad hips to the grey marble floor, swaying as she moved around the bed. A simple tune purred along her lips in time with her movements. She was too plain to be beautiful, and too wide for Morghiad’s taste, but her dark yellow curls were rather glossy and fluid. Caala arranged the bed sheets with her usual forceful vigour. The woman reminded him of stories of Queen Garhel of Orta, an indestructible woman of robust proportions who fought off twelve invasions in a single century. The kahr suppressed a grin and closed his book, standing. He paced over to the nearest window and examined the heavy clouds outside. “I’ve asked another servant girl to assume your duties. Her name is Artemi, has she mentioned this to you?”
The broad woman jumped as soon as he spoke; it was not often that more than a nod passed between them during her visits. Morghiad kept his position, hands clasped at his back while she turned slowly and inclined her head. Her face was plump and a little pink from her exertion, and Morghiad could see from her eyes that she was old, though quite how old he could not have guessed.
She cleared her throat. “I have spoken to her about it. Unfortunately she has a backlog of cleaning to do from the blood- er, the feast day. She will be along when she has completed it, my lord.”
That really wasn’t good enough. Artemi needed to learn as much as possible about her power in a very short time. It was far more important than scrubbing ball dresses! He would have to go and speak to her directly. “Where can I find her at this hour?”
Caala’s eyes bulged, which could have meant Morghiad’s inquisition was giving her entirely the wrong impression. “Er, my lord? Does my work not please you?” Immediately she realised the impudent manner of her question and bowed awkwardly, reddening further. “You may find her in the servants’ cellars at this time of day, I believe. If not, she may still be in the linen rooms.”
Morghiad nodded and glanced back at the clouds. He had never been down to the cellars before, though it was a trip many of his men had made. “I have no problem with your work.”
He heard her sniff in response, though he ignored it. The sky appeared to be darkening by the minute. “I hear the cellars are something of a maze. Will you help me find her?” The kahr had little time to waste wandering around those caverns. Perhaps he could ask Artemi about Silar; it was his business, in a way. He had to keep everyone safe from her and he had to protect that flaming hair woman, too.
“Of course, my lord.” Caala curtseyed with surprising elegance. “Will you allow me to complete my duties here before we depart?”
Morghiad grunted in agreement and collected his sword, drawing it partially from its scabbard and examining the engravings at the top of the blade. It was a deceptively simple weapon: heavy but perfectly balanced. Artemi might have had the skill to use it in her past lives, but she would need something better-suited to her height and hands while she learned. Having a woman’s sword made would be a difficult secret to keep, though it would be a conundrum for sometime in the future. For now she could train with a cadet’s wooden practice sword.
He slid the blade back into its casing and hooked it onto his belt. Caala was still hurrying around the fog of pure, white sheeting when he strode into his bathing room and thrust his face into a bowl of water. It could probably do with a wash.
After a minute or two, Caala presented herself at the doorway and announced that she was ready to leave. The kahr roughly scrubbed the water from his features with a towel and proceeded from his rooms with her.
The pair wondered down the wide galleries, hallways and, eventually, tunnels of the castle without urgency, the taller man eating the ground with easy strides and the shorter woman swaying at her measured rate. Caala maintained her silence until she reached the entrance to the cellar steps, where she rounded on him like a mother would do to an errant child. “Excuse me, my lord, but... I’d always thought you were a better man than this. Better than the rest of them.” Her shoulders remained stiff. “Artemi’s a good girl, my lord, but her looks can get her into trouble. She doesn’t deserve-”
Morghiad felt his eyebrows demand that they should rise about three inches up his forehead and immediately set about arresting them. “I am not here for that.” He compressed his lips a little. “Could we please continue?”
Caala harrumphed but said nothing more, turned and continued down the steps.
The chill of the underground caverns worked deeper into his clothes with each yard he descended; the tunnel seemed to become more enclosed. Some of the lamps had either been extinguished to save fuel or had been left to burn out altogether, leaving the steps perilously dark in places. This would have to be fixed. The gritty treads wound round another full circle before the light from the main cellars filtered in, and Morghiad was glad for his cloak as he observed his breath misting in the biting air.
The servants’ vaults were quiet presently, and the only noise was the low chatter of some distant inhabitants. Odd. He was sure he had been told by one of the sergeants that they were a noisy place to visit. Two blue-clad, male servants squatted to the side of the main chamber, eyeing him closely as he walked past. It was highly unlikely his father came to this place very often, meaning that royalty must have been something of a rare occurrence down here.
Caala rolled ahead of the kahr, leading him through a curved arch in the sculpted mud walls. He found he had to stoop considerably to avoid hitting his head; the place appeared to have been made by a species of incredibly short people. Conditions inside the chambers curtailed his idle thoughts, however. Every fireplace sat empty or full of dust, many of the floors were damp, few candles illuminated the darkness and scant, tatty belongings lay in each tiny room. At least the people in the poor quarter of the city had some privacy. There was none of that here. He couldn’t help but feel as if his heart had sunk even deeper into the earth.
Morghiad kept his silence and his eyes to the ground as he followed the large woman, twisting through the rooms of sleeping maids. Finally, Caala slowed her pace and motioned for the kahr to wait. His tarrying place seemed to be someone else’s chamber, which was a little awkward. He overheard Artemi’s voice and the rustling of skirts from the proximate room as Caala made her introductions.
The broad serving woman moved aside, allowing Morghiad a view of the room beyond. For some reason he had expected it to be different from the others, but it was the same: cramped, cold and bare. Artemi stood before a rumpled red blanket and curtseyed gracefully. The soft glow of the chamber’s two candles illuminated the young woman’s featu
res enough to demonstrate that she was attractive, or at least enough to make him swallow hard. He hoped neither of the women had noticed his reaction and stepped forward, nodding to Caala as she made her departure, and he moved to take a seat on the floor of the hollow. Artemi hovered uncomfortably for a moment, unsure if she should join him on the floor. Morghiad motioned for her to do so.
“I was not aware that the servants lived like this,” Morghiad said, examining the compacted floor and the two battered books that lay upon it. A wilted rose lay just beyond.
“I’m sorry I could not provide you with a more impressive reception, my lord.”
Morghiad was unable to fathom if she was being humorous or simply lambasting his ignorance. He suppressed his confusion as much as possible. I hardly mattered. He met her eyes; deep, dark-brown eyes. “There is no need for this ‘my lord’ business. ‘Captain’ is the rank I work for, if you really must use a title. Ranking officers in the army call each other by their first names. Perhaps you will be a part of that one day.”
Her eyes widened a little. Of course, she would not yet know that she greatly outranked him in terms of experience and birth, many times over. It seemed utterly ridiculous to have a hero of legend call him ‘my lord,’ though he would have to be careful not to treat her too differently. Morghiad continued, “Why are all the fireplaces empty when it is so cold here?”
Artemi looked longingly at her own grating. “No one can afford to buy firewood and, even if they could, the chimneys were filled many years ago.”
Morghiad nodded and considered the problem. Firewood was cheap enough to obtain, but unblocking the chimneys would be more of a challenge. The flues from a network like this could extend for mile upon mile. He would have to consider a more inventive solution to this… inhuman situation. He rubbed at the stubble forming under his chin. He probably should have shaved before coming to see her. “I have come here to ask that you commence your duties with me as soon as possible. You must come to my rooms tomorrow. I have an afternoon free.”
Artemi’s eyebrows rose as her eyeballs bulged from her head. She struggled to keep her speech to a whisper, “Do you want everyone here to think that we are lovers? Either keep your voice down or choose your language more wisely. Captain.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “And as for visiting the cellars like this, it is something your men stopped doing very recently. I haven’t slept so well in months! Do you think this is a good example to set them?”
The kahr was taken somewhat aback by her, albeit restrained, outburst. He had not considered any of this; he was always terrible at social situations with women. It just had not occurred to him at all. “It may serve you better if they think you are... if we...” He cleared his throat. “I’d rather they thought I was... with you.”
She folded her arms in frustration. “And how this reflects upon me - did you consider that? I suppose I don’t have the right to any self-respect after your... discovery.”
Morghiad kept his voice low. “I’m sorry, Artemi. I was concerned about your absence and marched down here without a second thought. There is no reason for my concern, I trust?”
Her face softened visibly, though she kept her arms folded. “I made a commitment to help clear through the laundry from Gialdin Day. It’s taken longer than expected. It was not a commitment I could easily escape from. No one has... troubled me.”
“And what of Silar?” Morghiad felt a touch of guilt asking that question, but it had to be asked.
Artemi blinked in surprise, and it was possible her cheeks reddened slightly. It was hard to tell in the low light. “He approached me at the feast day. I spoke to him for a minute or two. There was nothing more.”
“There must not be anything more. He is a good friend and otherwise intelligent, but he is an utter fool around women.” Especially pretty ones, he thought. Perhaps if she tied her hair back it would be less noticeable, hide some of her beauty. Though doing that would only reveal more of her blasted, handsome face. Morghiad stayed as calm as he could, given his internal conflict. “You will find other passions in your life. I am sure of that, Artemi.” He hoped that sounded reassuring; it was what he had promised himself, after all.
She gave him a weak smile and huddled against the wall.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head. “I fear what is to come.” She was shivering.
“That is a feeling I know well. Here.” He unhooked his black cloak and put it around her shoulders. “You can give it back to me when the cellars have heating once more.”
“You think you can fix this?” Artemi pulled the thick fabric around her, savouring its warmth.
The kahr immediately felt the cold air of the underground seep through the thin fabric of his summer coat. He ought to head back to his rooms before he regretted giving away items of his clothing. “I will do what I can, my lady. It may take some time,” he warned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nodded in response. Morghiad rose, gave her a bow and made his goodbyes. He was fairly sure he had memorised the route through the cellars accurately. Perhaps Artemi would come and rescue him if he wasn’t in his chambers tomorrow, or perhaps not…
Artemi’s eyes flickered open in the dim sunlight that oozed from the ceiling well. She looked down at the cloak that covered her shoulders. It was incredibly warm - made to fend off the winters of the highest Kemeni mountains. The kahr had shown appreciable kindness for a man seemingly carved from the very masonry of the castle. She ran her fingers through the soft fur lining and over the rich, green embroidery at the edge. She could not quite establish what the outer fabric was; it was incredibly light and very tough. Artemi fought off the urge to remain wrapped in its warmth and sat up on the bedroll. She folded the cloak inside her red blanket in the hope that it would be concealed from covetous eyes, and began to dress herself.
She wondered if her neighbours were gossiping about her, or if Caala suspected that she had gone against her word. It wasn’t something she could lie about, but then... how was she supposed to explain their relationship? Perhaps friends would suffice: a shared interest in reading had brought them together. Given the kahr’s manner and complete absence of interest in women, it was believable.
She was getting better at lacing her own bodice when Caala was not there; it was almost as tight as the other woman could tie it! One just needed to hold one’s breath for a little longer… She knotted the cords at the base of her spine, perhaps too many times, and ran a comb roughly through her hair.
Her walk through the cellars came with only half the chagrin she had imagined. A couple of the other linen girls gave her a sly wink but most kept their eyes to themselves. He had not been in her chamber long enough for them to assume much had happened, she supposed. Perhaps the gossip would not be so troublesome as she had feared. There was some time left to tackle the remains of Gialdin Day washing before her impending appointment, and she intended to do her best with it. Besides, she needed to bathe, and jumping into a spent washing barrel would be just the thing.
***
Artemi’s arms had turned pink from the sting of the soap. Of course, the skin would recover within a few seconds, but it was irritating nonetheless. She could tell from the darkening light wells in the linen room that the sun had passed its zenith at least an hour ago. It was time to attend to Kahr Morghiad. She shook the fine silk underskirt, still soaking from the water, and placed it on the drying rack. Some very fine clothing had passed through her hands today. A part of her enjoyed handling the silks and gossamer dresses, imagining how it would be if she could wear them. Earlier she had jumped into a large vat of soapy water with a couple of the other girls, chatting excitedly about the finest clothes. Her hair was just about dry from that now.
Caala had been giving her stern looks all morning, though no words had gone between them. That had been awkward. The woman almost glared at her, as she made her leave taking, which was more than a little uncalled-for.
Artemi stepped out of
the steam-filled room, and the cave-like tunnels echoed with Artemi’s footsteps as she walked towards the captain’s chambers. The castle had taken on a much quieter nature of late, which was something Artemi relished. She stopped short at the giant moth sculpture in one of the larger corridors. Truly a hideous thing, its artist had even gone to the trouble of depicting the hairs on its back. The granite statue stood at least as tall as she did, its wings spread only partially so as to distinguish it from the beauty of a butterfly. Millennia of servants rushing past had seen the carving sustain a few chips here and there, but it still retained its imposing character.
Artemi moved on quickly, soon reaching Morghiad’s door. She raised her hand to knock, only to have the door opened before she could complete the action.
“You walk like a newly shod horse,” was the welcome from the kahr, “You ought to learn to walk like a Tegran tiger. It would serve you better.” He stood back from the entrance and waited as she proceeded past him.
Whatever was wrong with her walk? It was how she had always walked. How many different ways of putting one’s foot in front of the other could there be? She decided it would be wise to keep her silence rather than balk at his comment. He had allowed her to live, after all.
Morghiad pushed the door shut and took a seat on a desk chair, now positioned opposite the worn armchair. The new item of furniture must have been recently dragged from another area of the room. Artemi hoped he had done it with some subtlety. The kahr was not the sort of man to have visitors.
City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) Page 11
