by Giles Carwyn
Brophy reopened his eyes. Compensating for the balance of the bed, he hopped to the floor, leaving it rocking behind him. The floor was cool and pleasantly rough on his feet. He stood for a moment, testing the strength of his legs. Except for his bandages, he was naked as a dolphin.
The room was small and circular like the bed, with a writing desk and a wardrobe on opposite sides. Both pieces of furniture were exquisitely crafted. He approached the desk, absently traced a decorative carving of a rat on the front of the drawer. He didn’t recognize the wood. It was sage green, burnished to a mirror shine.
There was a single door in the room, with no handle and no visible hinges. Brophy pushed at it. It moved slightly, but wouldn’t open. Brophy imagined breaking it down, but laughed at himself. He could barely stand, let alone beat down doors.
The walls were decorated with vivid murals. A giant bird, a crocodile, and a tree full of apes caught his eye. He glanced up at the faint square of light above. The sun was up there, somewhere, but he couldn’t see the top of the chimney. If he had been healthy, Brophy could have moved the desk over and tried to climb up the shaft, but not with his ruined right hand.
So, he was a prisoner in Physen. Had Scythe betrayed him? Had that been his true motivation? To sell Brophy to Ohndarien’s enemies? Brophy had no idea what a Child of the Seasons would be worth to the King of Physendria.
Brophy tried to remember that fall day with Baelandra in the Hall of Windows. He tried to remember what it felt like to be home, to belong, to be loved. The feeling wouldn’t come. Everything he treasured had been taken from him in the last few days. Ohndarien, Bae, Shara, his freedom, his hope. Even his pants were gone.
Brophy shook his head and snatched the quill off the writing desk. He wanted something in his hand if they came for him. The sharp point would be worth one good thrust. He opened all the drawers of the desk. Three were empty and the fourth contained a neat stack of parchment. He crossed the room to the greenwood wardrobe, but it was emptier than the desk.
“I’ve ordered fresh clothes for you,” a dark, beautiful voice said behind him.
Brophy whirled around, hiding the quill behind his thigh.
A tall, svelte woman entered the room holding a golden tray. He couldn’t tell her age at a glance. She moved like Shara but spoke like Bae. Her raven-black hair glinted blue in the light and was cut just below her ears like a boy-soldier from Gildheld. Her white gown flowed down from a golden necklace around her neck. The dress was belted at the waist by a matching chain. The delicate gold links hung to the floor, drawing a line between her legs. He could almost see through the sheer material. Her bare arms were smooth and sun-browned, strong and graceful.
She held a tray with a golden bowl atop it, tendrils of steam rose from the greenish liquid inside. She had not come through the door, but had appeared through an opening in the wall on the opposite side. With the slightest touch of her hand, the heavy stone door swung shut behind her. Once it was closed, it was indistinguishable from the wall around it.
Brophy looked for a way to cover himself, but there was nothing.
She raised a thin black eyebrow. It was so dark and perfect, it looked as if it had been painted there.
“Are you going to stab me with that?” She inclined her head to the hand he hid behind his thigh. “Or write me a love letter?” She paused, then said, “I suggest you stab me. I despise love letters.”
Blushing, he brought the quill into view but didn’t let go of it. He looked down and cursed himself the moment he did it. The woman’s gaze followed and she studied him with a half smile.
“I wasn’t…I didn’t…”
“You wasn’t? You didn’t? What? We call that device a pen. Should I send for a scribe to teach you how to hold it correctly, or shall I send for a poet to help you speak in complete sentences?”
“I know what it is.”
“Well then, that’s something.” She paused. “As striking as you look, standing there naked and swollen in all the wrong places, I suggest you get back into bed.”
Brophy hesitated. He looked at the pen in his hand, at her, at the wall that had once been a door. Brophy set his little weapon on top of the wardrobe and went to the bed. He hopped up and pulled the red feather blanket across his lap. He had to know how that door worked before he could risk an escape. It would also help to know what was on the other side.
“I came to feed you,” she said. “But you’re awake now. Feed yourself.” She placed the bowl on his lap, running a finger down his leg. He took the bowl, and she slowly withdrew her hand.
There was no spoon. He sniffed at it and tentatively stuck his fingers into the green mush, tested it on his tongue.
“We don’t poison our guests in Physendria; we drink their blood. It’s good for the skin.” She smiled sweetly. “Eat. I’ll get you some real food tomorrow.”
“Am I a guest, or a prisoner?” he asked, forcing himself to swallow a mouthful of mush. It actually tasted quite good, despite the bitter aftertaste of some kind of medicinal. Hungrily, he scooped more into his mouth.
“You’ve obviously never visited a Physendrian prison.”
She shrugged, and the thin fabric rippled over the curve of her breasts. He focused on his bowl of mush. “As I was saying,” she continued, “I’ve ordered fresh clothes for you. They will be ready by the time your strength is up.”
His mouth full of food, Brophy stared at her. She regarded him calmly, waiting. He swallowed, paused.
“Don’t stare,” she said. “Ask a question if you’ve got one.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ossamyr.”
Brophy stopped eating. He stared at her.
“You’re the Queen of Physendria!” he spluttered.
Her lip curled, and she looked down at her hand. “Yes. I suppose where you come from that is a reason to spit,” she said. She scooped a fleck of mush from her hand with a golden fingernail and flicked it away.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“As you should be. Yes, I am Queen Ossamyr, only wife of Phandir III, King of Physendria and Lord of the Summer Sea.”
None of this made any sense. Was he a hostage? Would they try to use him against Ohndarien? Brophy swallowed hard, then said, “May I ask another question, my lady?”
“See how polite now? Much better. What is your question?”
“How did I get here?”
“A good friend of mine asked me to look after you.”
“Scythe?”
“I believe that is what he calls himself now.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is rare to survive a scorpion sting to the neck. Scythe must have acted very quickly. But then, he was always quick.”
“Quick to sell me to you, you mean.”
She leaned toward him, and her dark hair swung forward like strands of black silk. Her eyes narrowed even further. “And here I thought you were recovering your manners. That very small man carried you a very long way. You would have died if he hadn’t brought you here.”
“You’re right, my lady,” Brophy mumbled. Assuming he didn’t put that thing on me in the first place, he thought to himself.
The queen ignored him. “He asked me to extend my hospitality, a great boon that I am starting to regret.”
Brophy wondered if he might have wronged the little man. But why would Scythe save his life twice, and then deliver him to the queen of his enemies? It made no sense.
“I just don’t understand what is happening.”
“Don’t whine. Ill-mannered boys outrank snivelers by a long mark.”
Brophy took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Why did you take me in?”
“Scythe is an old friend, and queens don’t have many friends.” She looked down for a moment before looking back at him with a half smile. “Besides, you have a handsome face, a strong body. I’m told you have a keen mind, though I’ve yet to see proof of that.” She pursed her lips. “All of that aside, I took you in beca
use I am your queen. I owe you justice and security. And in return, you owe me your allegiance.”
“But I’m not Physendrian.”
“The city you were born in lies on the extreme northern tip of the Physendrian peninsula. My kingdom. Three hundred years ago a few brigands built some walls, called it a city, and claimed it for their own. That does not change the fact that you are still a part of Physendria. The crown has not seen fit to knock down that wall and bring justice to the brigands within. Not yet. But we will soon.”
Brophy narrowed his eyes. “I…thank you for your hospitality.”
“Never thank me. I despise thanks.”
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
“So you can be polite, you’re just forgetful when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Of course not.”
He scooped out the last of the porridge and swallowed it. She reached for the bowl, and her hand slid across his thigh. He jerked as if she’d stung him. With a faint smile, she put the bowl back on the golden tray.
“Now get some sleep,” she said. “I want to see you compete in Nine Squares soon. The local boys have been a weedy lot this year. They could use the competition.”
“Nine Squares?” The Physendrian blood sport was brutal and barbaric, a senseless waste of life and limb. “I can’t—”
Brophy fell silent as the queen placed a single finger against his lips. She opened her mouth a little, watching him. He could see her tongue for a scant instant. Her dark eyes looked directly into his. “Sleep well.”
She left the room, and the thick stone door closed quietly behind her.
6
BROPHY AWOKE in Physendria for the second time. The feather blanket tickled his nose, and he pushed it away, sitting up on the suspended bed. He jumped to the floor, compensating for the rocking movement. His legs felt stronger, his eyes were clearer. At the edge of the bandages, his hand was still sallow and sickly, but the swelling was going down. His neck felt smaller as well.
Carefully, he unwrapped the bandages, wincing as he saw his puffy hand. He flexed, and it responded weakly. Shaking his head, he stripped the bandages from his neck and tried not to look at his hand.
Brophy made a circuit of the room, touching the wall where Ossamyr had entered. He dug his fingernails into the seam, but he couldn’t find a way to make it open. Trailing his finger along the wall, he searched for any other hidden doors but found nothing. The normal door was still locked. He leaned on it, pushing as hard as he could. It wouldn’t budge.
Brophy tried the wardrobe next. He pulled open the doors, finding neatly folded clothes within. The simple white robe was the same type Scythe had worn to ward off the sun. Beneath the robe was a pair of wildly colorful pants and river-reed sandals.
He took everything out, closed the doors, and laid the clothes on the bed. He wanted a bath before he got dressed, but there was no helping that, so he slipped on the pants, robe, and sandals. The fit was perfect.
After pacing the room a few more times, Brophy fell to thinking about Nine Squares. He didn’t know the rules of the game, but he knew enough. It was a kind of military contest based on the nine sacred animals, the nine gods of Physendria. Brophy couldn’t summon the details, but his aunt Jayden had once described it as “a senseless game for those who think little of human life.” It had something to do with scorpions and beetles and crocodiles. The fifteen great families of Physendria sent champions to die for the crowd’s amusement. He couldn’t believe anyone would willingly do such a thing.
Martial games were prohibited in Ohndarien. Soldiers from Kherif were even forbidden from practicing their traditional sword juggling. Ohndariens did not consider war a game, and human suffering made poor entertainment.
But that didn’t matter. Brophy had no intention of playing Nine Squares. He planned on being long gone by the time the queen or anyone else returned.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the square of light overhead.
HOURS LATER, Brophy paced around the tiny room, massaging his aching hand. With a growl of frustration, he kicked the bed. It jerked sideways, swinging back and forth. He’d never been confined before. He couldn’t stand it.
Brophy flopped on the rocking bed and stared balefully at the square of daylight above him. After stacking the wardrobe upon the desk, he had been able to reach the tin-lined chimney, but it was impossible to climb. The metal was oiled to protect it from the elements and was as slippery as raw eggs. Brophy fell twice trying to wedge his body into the damn thing and had almost broken his arm. Obviously he wasn’t the first person to think of escape through that route.
The door was hopeless. He threw himself against it once. His shoulder still hurt. The hidden door proved just as immovable. He spent an hour looking for a secret trigger, but it just wasn’t there.
Brophy stared at the ceiling and hatched plot after plot, each more wildly ridiculous than the last. He finally fell to idle fantasies and was deep into his favorite one about cutting off Krellis’s head when he heard a scraping noise at the wooden door.
He jumped to his feet. The desk and wardrobe were still stacked in the center of the room. There was nothing he could do before the door swung open. Ossamyr stepped through.
Brophy almost leapt forward and knocked her out of the way, but the hallway beyond the queen was full of armed men. Ossamyr arched an eyebrow at him as he stared through the opening. She calmly closed the door and turned to face him.
Her gown was similar to the one she’d worn before, baring her arms, but this one was slit down the center to her navel, linked by three thin gold chains. The border of the plunging neckline was embroidered with different animals: crocodiles, birds, snakes, apes, and more. Brophy forced himself to look at her face.
The queen stepped into the room and glanced at the stacked furniture. The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile. “Did you get a good night’s rest?”
“No, my lady.”
“Don’t pout, child. It’s tedious,” she said.
“I’m not pouting. I’m angry.”
“Good,” she purred, running a finger along the wardrobe’s carved doors. “That will serve us well in the arena.”
Brophy didn’t say anything. He would have to play along until he could discover how to escape.
Ossamyr crossed the room and stood in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. She smelled of mint leaves. He looked down at her and tried to muster the same fury that had consumed him a moment ago.
“Your anger is wasted on me, Brophy,” she murmured, taking his hand, never letting go of his eyes. “Save it. There are others more deserving.”
Brophy swallowed. He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but they kept straying to the curves of her breasts.
She turned his palm up and looked at his puffy hand. “You are healing well. Physendria must agree with you.”
“I’m a prisoner.”
She had large, dark eyes. “None of us can do all that we wish, when we wish it,” she said. “I can help you, if you let me. Don’t turn from the only friend you have in this country.”
Brophy’s lips tightened. “Yes, my lady,” he murmured.
She released his hand and walked toward the door.
“Come, Brophy. I will show you the city. You can decide whether to trust me along the way.”
Pausing only a moment, he followed her through the door.
Four sun-browned young men hunched in harnesses in front of the two-wheeled chariot. Their dark, curly heads were bowed, and they stood remarkably still. The underground hallway was as wide as a street.
Ossamyr’s troop of heavily muscled swordsmen stood at a distance, their brass armor glinting dully in the light of the lamps. Each of their right arms was covered with a gray, hairy pelt that ended in a thick-fingered glove. It took Brophy a moment to realize that the glove was actually the severed hand of an ape. He wrinkled his nose as she led him to the cart.<
br />
“Is that—?”
“Come along, Brophy,” Ossamyr said. She stepped into the chariot and looked back at him. “It doesn’t do to keep the queen waiting.” She took the reins in hand, her arm flexing as she tightened her fist. He stepped into the chariot, and his gaze moved from the guards to the men in the harnesses. “Is this what they do for a living, my lady?” he asked.
“You might say that.” She arched an eyebrow. “They are slaves.”
“Oh.” He hesitated.
She shook the reins, and the slaves took off down the hallway at a trot. Half of the Apes sprinted ahead, half followed behind.
Brophy hated the idea of slaves. Slave trading was forbidden in Ohndarien, but he could not deny that those traders were allowed through the locks just like anyone else.
The chariot rattled down the hallway, which opened into a deep trench with the sky above. A stone stairway was cut into the walls on either side of the sunken road. Four guards sprinted up one staircase and four sprinted up the other. Flanking the road, they matched pace with the chariot as it sped along below.
“This is the King’s Road,” Ossamyr explained. “Only the fifteen families may travel it. All others must use the surface.”
The depth of the trench shaded them from the morning sun. It was carved from the same gold sandstone as Brophy’s room. The sides were lined with cavelike shops. White-robed merchants stared at them as they drove past. Everything was rough and jagged, so unlike the smooth blue-white marble of Ohndarien.
“That underground place we just left was the Catacombs?” Brophy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s the king’s palace?”
“There is no true palace in Physen. The king owns the entire city and everything in it. The underground Catacombs are simply the most desirable place to live. Someday the entire city will be carved into the ground, but work like that takes time.”
There were many other slave-drawn chariots traveling the King’s Road, but all of them pulled to the side as the queen approached. Several times Brophy saw the dirty faces of children peer over the edge of the trench, but the Apes ran them away as soon as the chariot drew near.
