Once the music ended, the dancers babbled excitedly until a blast of fanfare drowned them out. All eyes, including Ariss’, were drawn to the entrance of the great hall. Palace guards dressed in finery marched into the room, flanking into two lines on either side of the door. Their massive bodies created a hallway of protection for the new empress.
Ariss held her breath, curious as to which House had won the most coveted position in the entire empire. Crimson House had ruled the empress line for so long that none could remember a time when they didn’t. Below her, the masses waited, too, their eyes gleaming, their mouths pressed tightly to hold back any excited utterances.
Sensing a problem, Ariss narrowed her eyes, as if that would help her see beyond the entrance. Her sensitive hearing picked up several voices whispering in fury. Suddenly, a sour-faced young woman stumbled into the path between the guards. Ariss sensed she’d been shoved by the way she struggled to keep her balance.
A collective gasp erupted.
Before she could stop herself, Ariss lifted a hand to her mouth, as if to block her strangled shock. Clad in crimson, the tawny-skinned girl with black hair was clearly related to Kas-miri. Older, but obviously her sister.
The whole reason for the empress challenge was that Kas-miri was illegitimate. As the product of an empress and an unofficial consort, Kasmiri had renounced her throne before Ambo could impose death or exile upon her. As an only child, Kasmiri’s stepping down meant that Crimson House’s claim on the throne ended with her. Yet, here was a young lady who simply had to be the sister of Kasmiri and the daughter of Empress Clathia. For her to even compete in the empress challenge, her claim must have been validated. She had to be the legitimate offspring of Empress Clathia and her official consort, but where had she been kept all this time?
Ariss scanned the crowd. They seemed as stunned as she did, with wide eyes and hand-covered mouths. The empress challenge was conducted in secret, shrouded in mystery, and obscured by ritual, so none here would have had foreknowledge of the outcome. Now that one had been chosen from the many, their daughters would be returned to them. Ariss’ sister had failed early on in the challenge, as the competition was conducted in stages. Darabelle had survived the initial test of proving she was of an elite House; however, she’d failed the next round that judged them on beauty. Ariss felt a twinge of sympathy for Darabelle despite her petty behavior, but she’d not been allowed to see her sister before she’d left the palace in shame.
Similar in several respects to the Harvester competition, the apprentice empresses had to compete in a layered challenge involving six areas. The last level was the most secretive. The four who entered would have been secluded until one was chosen. Or so Ariss thought. She honestly had no idea, as her attention had been otherwise engaged in her own pressing issues.
Frowning at everyone, the new empress darted her pale blue gaze among the guests as if all of them were against her. Her enormous pile of black hair glistened in the light. Displaying an utter lack of grace, the extremely tall woman lifted her skirt and stomped toward the raised platform.
Ariss bit her lip not to erupt in laughter. Whoever she was, she was clearly upset about something. Probably the elaborate crimson dress. In her fists, she grasped handfuls of the fabric so it wouldn’t impede her steps. Annoyance oozed from every glance, every breath, and every step she took.
Behind her, in the doorway looking on, the protocol officer, Undanna, openly cringed at the spectacle the new empress created. As the young woman threw herself into her throne, heedless of the way her dress twisted around her legs, the entire room of people fell to their knees. She might be a petulant, ill-mannered child, but she was still the empress.
“All hail Empress Bithia!”
A snarl darted across Bithia’s face at the mention of her own name. Ariss guessed she preferred another name other than her given one. Although, with a name like Bithia, Ariss couldn’t really blame her. Bithia was a name no longer used, as it hark-ened back to the time of the ancients. Perhaps Clathia had given her daughter such a name to show their lineage went back that far. Clathia’s name was of the same era.
Everyone in the great hall called out her name as they lowered their faces for a moment of silence. Ariss followed suit, but cracked her eyes open to observe Bithia.
Upon her throne, Bithia glowered down at her people; then to Ariss’ utter surprise, she rolled her eyes and exhaled a long, rather loud sigh as she tossed one leg over the armrest!
Small wonder there wasn’t a consort throne; what man would willingly become this woman’s partner? Another snarl twisted her face. Bithia lifted her hand to scratch at her hair. If the woman would stop scrunching up her face, she was actually quite pretty, especially with her light blue eyes set in tawny skin. As she scratched at her head, the mound of hair swayed dangerously from side to side. Ariss realized she wore a wig. What had possessed them to put this creature on the throne? Was it because she was a descendant of Crimson House?
Ariss’ neck grew stiff from having to hold her head so still. As she longed to reach up and rub the knotted tension away, she appreciated Bithia’s blithe dismissal of convention. If her neck were bothersome, Bithia wouldn’t care about protocol; she’d do what she had to do in order to make herself comfortable. Ariss wished she had that much courage.
Once the moment of silence ended, the crowd lifted their heads, but none commented on Bithia’s sprawled position. Eyes went wide, but none uttered a breath of disapproval.
“Oh, grandathall,” Bithia said, swearing in a language Ariss didn’t understand. Waving her hand dismissively, she bellowed, “Let the celebration begin.”
Music blared into the room, compelling all to dance.
Kerrick leaned close to Ariss’ ear and murmured, “She certainly knows how to make an entrance.”
Ariss did her best not to laugh, less the woman hear her, but a small giggle erupted despite her best efforts. She hadn’t laughed in so long, and sharing something lighthearted with Kerrick lifted her spirits.
“You, you there,” Bithia said, snapping her fingers and pointing at Ariss. “Are you the god’s yondie?”
Only those closest to the platform heard Bithia’s comment. Ariss felt them straining to listen without appearing obvious.
Lifting her entire upper body, Ariss turned in her seat to face the empress more directly.
Staring straight into her eyes, Ariss proudly declared, “I am the vessel of Tavarus, god of the Harvesters.”
Blinking back her surprise that Ariss met her challenge without flinching, Bithia shrewdly considered her for a moment. Her face broke into a wide and amazingly charming smile. “You, I think I will enjoy.” Flicking her chin to the people below, which tilted her wig even more precariously, she said, “Them, I will tolerate.”
Her grammar was atrocious, but there was something poignantly endearing about her. Ariss forgot all about why she was here, and instead, fell deeply into conversation with Bithia. Her life story was amazing, her spirit indomitable. She hadn’t even known her origins until recently.
“’Bout the last thing I ever wanted was to be tarted up and paraded around for a bunch of overdressed peckards.” She rolled her eyes again with a shake of her head. Ariss didn’t know exactly what a peckard was, but it certainly wasn’t complimentary. As Bithia’s wig timbered to the side, Ariss reached out, even though she knew she was too far away to catch it. Growling in frustration, Bithia reached up and yanked at the pins holding it in place. Once she freed the enormous mound of hair, she tossed it into the crowd, knocking a man off his feet. His scowl of annoyance disappeared when he realized who had caused his downfall. Plastering a wide grin to his face, he bowed repeatedly as he brushed nonexistent dust off his deep blue clothing and melted into the swelling crowd.
Bithia’s laughter rang through the room, causing several people to look up and quickly away. Her laugh was big, brash, almost a force of nature. Ariss had never heard its equal in volume or length. Bithia’s real
hair was extremely short. Black as ink, but the strands were no longer than the length of one of her stubby fingernails. Ariss had never seen a woman with such short hair, yet Bithia’s face was strong enough to wear the odd style well.
She brushed her hands quickly through her close-cropped locks so they stood straight up from her skull. Then she leaned over, yanked her high-heeled shoes off, and tossed those into the crowd as well. “Grandathall! Now I can relax!” She snapped her fingers at a passing servant. When he approached, she snatched not one, but three drinks off his tray, settling the extras beside her throne.
A gaggle of female servants stealthily climbed up the back of the steps, carrying her wig and shoes, clearly determined to set her royal person to rights.
Bithia winked at Ariss conspiratorially, then lifted her hand, halting them in midstride. “One more step and I’ll have you all …” she trailed off, trying to find the right term. “Put in the stone? Covered with stones?” She turned to Ariss, and said, “Help me out here.”
“Put to the stone,” Ariss supplied. Crushing wayward inhabitants below a massive stone was the preferred death sentence on Diola. Several times, Kerrick had been threatened with just such a horror. However, Ariss knew that Bithia wasn’t serious, she simply wanted them to leave her be. And the threat worked; slowly but surely, the servants backed away.
Ariss admired the young woman’s spirit, for most would be far too worried about appearances to ever be themselves around the elite. They would put on airs and demand the finest of everything. Ariss had a feeling the empire was in for quite a surprise with Bithia’s rule.
“So,” Bithia said, tossing back an entire glass of wine in one gulp. Pointing the empty glass at Ariss’ belly, she asked, “That brat gets half my empire?”
Ariss darted a quick glance up to Kerrick’s eyes, but they were clear green. If Tavarus heard Bithia’s comment, he either didn’t care or didn’t understand the derogatory nature of the term.
Softly, Ariss returned, “When he comes of age he will rule beside you.”
“Is that so?” Bithia grabbed the last glass of wine and swallowed her drink in one mighty gulp. Carelessly, she tossed the empty glass behind her. “What if I don’t want to share?”
15
Kerrick stood still beside Ariss’ throne, letting Bithia say what she would. None of her blather mattered. This child would rule beside her, or she would be cast aside. The most ancient of prophecy decreed that the very gods had chosen this child, which made him far more important than the empress herself. Nothing this silly girl did or said would change that. Bithia could no more alter the future than Kerrick could change the truth of his position.
In the temple, on his knees before Ariss, he’d been so angry that he swore he would master her. Visions of her on her knees begging for his touch fueled his passion and gave him the strength to continue. When she pulled him to his feet and wrapped her lovely legs around him, encouraging him to fill her slick passage, his heart relented, but only for a moment. He had no choice but to stay by her side. However, he would not become a slave to her body. She commanded him as her servant, but he refused to share her bed. He was her protector. To that end, he shared her rooms, but he slept on the floor. Ariss had tried everything to get him to share the massive bed, but he refused.When she put soft pallets beside her bed to please him, he pushed them away, refusing to take her charity.
Anger still filled him that he hadn’t walked away when he’d had the chance. He’d stayed to protect Ariss. Bitterly, he reflected that he truly was her protector now. In the temple, he knew that Tavarus commanded him to be her champion, not Ariss, but Kerrick found it difficult to focus his anger on a god without form. It was so much easier to focus his rage on the woman he was sworn to protect.
From his height, Kerrick scanned the crowd, but the elite gave little notice to him, Ariss, or even the new and startling empress. He didn’t fear any would dare to attack because simply everyone was terrified of Ariss. To her face, they showed the deference a demigoddess was due, but behind her back, they whispered about her and the child she carried. None of their comments was complimentary. Besides, the elite were far too enchanted with themselves to bother with harming Ariss. They danced and drank, babbling about their worthless lives, gorging themselves on expensive treats and sexual perversities. Kerrick despised them. Even when Kerrick was at a greater height than they were, the elite still managed to look down at him. He noticed when they looked at him their gazes went through him, as if he were not worthy of being noticed. Kerrick speculated this was due to what he wore and years of indoctrination; brown was the color of servants. Ironically, the brown showed off the rich gold of his hair and enhanced the green of his eyes. He’d caught sight of himself in Ariss’ many mirrors and was satisfied by what he saw; he might be a lowly slave, but he’d never looked better.
Kerrick turned his attention back to Ariss and Bithia, grudgingly pleased that Ariss managed to hold her own against the decidedly different empress. Kerrick didn’t sense any ill will in Bithia, only a need to test boundaries, like a child poorly reared. Soon enough she would learn to share the mighty burden of her position, not only share, but also she would welcome additional support. Right now, everything was parties and pageantry, but very soon, it would be petitions and pacification. Once she realized that a thousand myriad details would demand her attention every day, she would welcome all the help she could get.
“Besides, you have eighteen seasons to get used to the idea.” Kerrick hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until both women stopped talking and glanced in his direction. Mortified by his breach of station, for a servant should never speak over his master, Kerrick hung his head in abject apology. His hair flopped over his gaze, shielding him from Bithia’s penetrating glare.
After a moment, she laughed that massive booming laugh of hers, and said, “I think I will enjoy you, too.”
Hesitantly, Kerrick lifted his gaze to her.
Her fingers smoothed against the arm of her throne, and he knew she wished to brush the strands of hair out of his eyes. He smiled inwardly. Even as a slave, he still appealed to women. In the greater scheme of things, this knowledge was immaterial, but to his battered pride, knowing lifted his spirits.
Flicking his hair back with a toss of his head, he bowed low but said nothing. He could only speak to Bithia if she asked him a direct question. Such was the case with Ariss, too, but he often broke that rule with no censure, which caused his slip in this situation. For the rest of the evening, he would have to be on his guard.
Bithia called for a passing servant. This time she took the entire tray of drinks. She offered one to Ariss, who declined with a shake of her head and a hand to her belly.
“Tadenta fa!” Bithia slapped her palm to her forehead. Slowly, she lowered her arm, considering their baffled expressions. She then translated, “It means, ‘I’m stupid for forgetting’on Beserrah.” She put the tray near her throne, then held a cup out to Kerrick.
By protocol, he wasn’t supposed to drink, but Bithia didn’t seem concerned with adhering to strict etiquette. After a quick glance to Ariss to confirm her permission, he took the offered cup. Before he could withdraw, Bithia stroked her finger along the back of his hand. He would have dismissed the caress as an accident but for the quick lifted brows she flashed him.
Ariss noticed but said nothing.
Without acknowledging her flirtatious behavior, Kerrick saluted her with his drink. In addition, he took a perverse pleasure in watching Ariss have to hold her tongue for a change. She noticed Bithia’s interest but could do nothing to chastise her. One simply didn’t correct the empress’s behavior.
“To the child of the gods,” Bithia said without malice, lifting her cup on high. “Long may we rule in harmony.” She tossed back her drink, then tossed the cup over her shoulder, where it shattered. “Well, in eighteen seasons, anyway.”
Her grin was infectious. Kerrick found himself returning her smile, which earned him a
slight, almost imperceptible frown from Ariss. Bithia’s face was unlike any he had ever seen. Sharp cheekbones lifted the oval of her face out of the ordinary and into something extraordinary. Her close-cropped black hair only accented the pale blue of her wide-set eyes and deepened the tone of her tawny skin. Someone had artfully applied makeup, but her constant wiping of her mouth with the back of her hand had smeared it, revealing the true dusky color of her lips. On most women, the effect would be comical, however on Bithia, such disarray echoed the honesty of her nature. Whatever trappings they slapped on her, she quickly eroded. Disorder made her far more interesting than studied perfection would have.
When she caught him staring, Kerrick dropped his gaze. If he wasn’t careful, she would take the absolute wrong meaning from his interest. Just about the last thing he needed was to encourage the attentions of the new empress. Ariss had been fairly tolerant about his breeches in servant behavior, but he didn’t think she would forgive a tryst with the empress. Not that he would actually do anything with her. Bithia was cute in her odd way, but she didn’t stir his lust. Not the way Ariss still did, despite his best intentions to remain aloof.
Kerrick had thought Ariss was staying true to him as well, but he’d seen evidence of her passionate encounters with someone else; rug burns marred her palms and knees, fingertip-shaped bruises dotted her hips. Whoever her lover was, he was unbelievably aggressive. Kerrick told himself he didn’t care. Ariss could fuck every man in the palace if she wanted, and there wasn’t one thing he could do about it. But the truth was, it chafed his already decimated pride. He thought that by denying her, she would beg for him. Still, he had visions of her on her knees in supplication for even the smallest kiss. Apparently, she’d turned to another rather than waste her time on him.
“Tell me about your home planet of Beserrah,” Ariss asked.
[The Onic Empire 03] - Sinful Harvest Page 19
