by C. K. Rieke
This had two effects on the weak and hopeless of Voru before and during the storm— Most considered this woman’s beckoning a trap, and avoided her clear blue eyes, yet some— sought her out, and took her up on her offer. There was a chance they all remained with her because her promise held too wonderful of food and rest, but there was always the chance the opposite was true. In Voru, as in all the three cities of the Arr on the Great Oasi, if something was too good to be true— it was.
As the homeless tucked under piles of refuse in the alleyways, and families tucked their loved ones in tightly to weather out the storm, in the Pyramid of Erodoran, the day and night went on as if the storm were nothing but a gentle breeze. Behind the thick, carefully constructed walls of the pyramid, no sand could enter. Once the windows were closed and locked, the only breath of the storm was felt when the front gate and door was opened. Hence, the door wasn’t opened except in emergencies. That was one thing the Queen Lezeral was insistent about— she hated seeing sand within the castle walls, as she left the pyramid infrequently. Most assumed she despised the desert, so the pyramid was to remain as if no desert existed outside. It was a different world in the interior.
Along the west wall of Erodoran, was a rectangular room with burning fireplaces at both ends. From end to end it would take a normal man five minutes to walk. The room was brightly lit with many candles on long, wooden tables that stretched down the length of the room. And along its walls, were books— thousands upon thousands. Their tattered spines and covers were of every color imaginable, albeit most were weathered from the long years. In the room, at the tables, were a mix of scholars, enthusiastic readers, mages and occasionally the type that always stood out like a sore thumb— one of the Lu-Polini. This night was one of those nights.
Sitting alone at one of the long tables sat a man in light armor, made of dark metal. His long black hair fell down his back like a horsetail of silk. His pale skin and widow’s peak reflected warmly from the candlelight. Eyes drifted over to him curiously as everyone in the room, dozens of them, knew who the man was. Yet, he acted like he didn’t notice the wandering eyes. He sat with his back straightened and his chin high, as he examined each of the books in front of him. Holding each up, he inspected the front and back covers. He appeared to be a proud, strong commander. Not one person spoke a word to him, he may be living in the pyramid under an invitation from the queen herself, but as the commander of the Scaethers, Veranor was always to be an outsider, after all, he was born with the curse of his skin-color just as all of his disciples were.
The last book he scanned he laid down in front of him, squarely, as he ran his index finger down the edge. He then reached into his bag to the right of his chair and pulled out an old looking book, with the title long worn away from its cover. He placed this book from his bag next to the book in front of him on the table and compared the two— the size, the approximate age, and color. He then turned the covers and compared the first page of each text. The two were written in two distinctly different languages. The one from his bag was written in their modern tongue, the other in a much older dialect. There weren’t many that could read such an old language, but he was one of them.
The book from his bag, the book he referred to as The Book of the Unknown, because of its missing title, was a book he’d read through from cover to cover countless times. It held stories and histories long forgotten through the ages. It held secrets that had been hidden for generations, and it held prophecies of things to come. From this book, Veranor studied the ways of the old world, as knowledge in the Arr was power. The unfortunate thing about the book was the years had done their work, and many of the pages were faded blank or missing entirely. Veranor had been scouring the library for the length of his stay in the pyramid, looking for another copy of the book, and as a smirk crept across his face as he leaned in close to the new book before him, he said softly, “There you are.”
Once he was fairly certain he’d found a more preserved copy, he first looked again at the title on its cover, still legible-
Ur Anum
Sua Ven Unandun Mag Deun
Translated to modern tongue—
Over Time
Soft Winds Move Great Dunes
He flipped quickly through the book, stopping roughly halfway through. He knew exactly which part he wanted to find, but then— he felt a presence in the room. As he lifted his head to look around, he saw the dozens of other patrons of the library shuffling from the tables and moving to the exits all at once— even the mages. He closed the book and grabbed his copy from the table and slid it into his bag smoothly. He stacked the books on the table before him, with the new book at the bottom. He sat back with his arms crossed in front of his chest and let out a sigh. He folded one leg over the other and sat patiently with his head down.
As the patrons folded out of the doors in a rush, a figure in a long white dress walked elegantly through the line of tables, her fingers gliding along the tops of the chairs. In the openness of the library, not one of her footsteps produced a single echo. She was a serpent winding down the dunes.
He shifted in his seat and turned to face her and nodded. “Gorlen, I wasn’t expecting you.”
She gave a simple, “Hmpf,” then walked gracefully behind him, and put both her hands on his shoulders. “I know.”
He uncrossed his arms but couldn’t help but tense up as the god had him in such a vulnerable position.
“Your shoulders and back are tight,” she said. “You need to relax, Commander. You exert far too much effort in your days. You know, I’ve watched you. Your training in your room, alone. I’ve seen you wander the aisles here, day in and day out. Your discipline is unmatched among men. I know what you seek,” she leaned in next to his ear, and whispered, “you reach out for perfection.” The wind from her voice tickled the hairs in his ear and he shivered slightly. She stood back up and walked out before him again. “I can appreciate that, in fact I like it. I wish more of you would strive for such a thing. To become more like us is what more of you should be. Yet, there are too many vermin, too many insects in your herd. It’s sickening if I’m to be quite honest. It’s a disease that plagues you. But, that’s what makes you so special.”
Gorlen, standing directly in front of Veranor with his arms at his sides, looking up at her, saw her lit in the glowing candlelight. Her long, flowing blond hair glistened like gold, and her eyes were an enchanting ocean blue. The thin, white dress of silk hung from thin straps like twine from each side of her neck and as she sat on the table before him, she crossed one leg over the other, and the dress fell to both sides from a slit up to her upper thigh. She leaned forward, towards him and her hair fell from her back to hang down, framing her bosom.
Veranor sat back casually, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands before him, as if in a contemplative gesture. They sat there a few moments in silence together, each watching the other. Waiting for the other to speak, or perhaps, communicating without the necessary words.
Then Veranor opened his mouth to break the silence, “Gor—”
“Lovely evening,” Gorlen interrupted. The howling winds could be heard even from the inside of the pyramid’s thick walls.
“I suppose so,” he said.
“Makes you appreciate the cities we erected,” she said, uncrossing her legs, then moving her other leg on top. “Who of these men could really ask for anything better?” He nodded. “What’s the matter, Commander? Cat got your tongue?”
“Oh, I suppose my eyes are just weary from reading. I’ve been down here a few hours now. Nothing some rest won’t help with.”
She reached over casually to the stack of books piled neatly next to her. “I see,” she said as she read the titles and pushed the books off the pile one by one onto the table. As she neared the book at the bottom of the pile, Veranor almost unnoticeably began to bounce the heel of his boot on the floor. She looked up at him, with her fingers hovering over the second to last book. “I’ve been enjoy
ing my time among these people in the city, Veranor. I must admit— it’s been far too long since I enjoyed the mortality of man. I rather like watching their day to day meaningless struggles. Yet— I suppose they aren’t meaningless. As any day could be a last for anyone of them. Any one wrong— coincidence— I guess you could call it, or interaction may be a better term. Any interaction with a person or place could be their last decision they have to make in that life.”
“I’ve heard rumors of those last interactions becoming more frequent in the alleyways of late,” Veranor said in a firm tone.
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be wise with me,” she said, but then leapt up to her feet on the table, standing high over him. “But you’re right— they’re right. I’ve been helping the less fortunate— at a cost—” she said with a smirk, her blue eyes began to glow a sky blue. She lifted her bare arms up and touched a brass chandelier of eight lit candles and began to spin it slowly. “Do you enjoy watching death, Veranor? After all, you are not without your predatory instincts? A man who has killed so many you would think would at least have to enjoy— just a little.”
“I think we may enjoy it in a certain different way,” he said.
“How so?”
“I would explain my joy in the honor of doing the will of my gods. I can relish in the completion of my duty,” he said. “I don’t presume to know your pleasure in death.”
“Oh, come now,” she said, now dropping to both knees on the table before him, and leaning towards him. “You’ve seen me. You know me now. You, as a man, know me better than any other . . .”
He didn’t respond, but she was only inches from his face then. He didn’t look away, yet he didn’t move in. That moment could be compared to that of either a panther facing down her prey, or a black widow approaching for a mate. Either way, Veranor was not the predator, and he knew it.
“Of all these experiences down here,” she said in a delicate voice like the satin, “all the men and women I’ve touched, tasted . . .” She leaned in next to his ear. “You . . . I see in my dreams.”
Veranor didn’t move but kept his hands in his lap with a stoic expression.
“They’re weak down here, no spirit, no soul. Just vessels of skin, blood, and bones. But you— you’re like me. You’re strong. You’re a hunter.” She ran her nails up to the back of his head, and through the hair. “I dream of what you taste like.” She pulled his head towards her, and smelled the side of his neck, and gently kissed it one time, pulling back as if she was savoring the kiss. “I know you think of me as well.”
She yanked his head to look at her, and then pointed his head down at her towards her breasts and hips. He couldn’t look away, he was stuck at her mercy.
“I know you think of me, when you’re all alone. Tell me, what do you do when you think of me?” She pulled his head closer.
He didn’t respond.
“Tell me what you think about,” she said. “I want to hear it.”
“I— I think of your beauty, and your power,” he said, his voice not quivering, but it was weaker than normal.
“That’s not all you think about. What else? What else do you think about me?”
He paused, seemingly unsure of what to say. “Your divinity . . .”
“No,” she roared like a lioness, her eyes glowing brighter, and her nails gripping his head tighter. He winced in pain slightly. “What do you feel when you think of me?”
“I— I feel— fear . . . Fearful of you.”
She leaned in and inhaled deeply at the side of his neck. “Yes . . .” She lavished his response. “That’s what I wanted to hear you say. You should be afraid of me. All men should. But I will not harm you, Veranor, in fact, I want you to feel pleasure, not pain from my hand. She grabbed him by the wrist and brought his hand up to the front of her chest, laying his callused hand flat on her soft, tan skin. He pulled his hand back slightly, but she pulled it in again flat. “Do you enjoy that?” She ran his hand down under her dress, which she seemed to enjoy by closing her eyes and letting out a deep breath.
Then a creaking sound came from the corner of the room, and an elderly man and woman entered the library. They didn’t seem to notice the two at the table, but when they did, they saw the icy cold gaze of the Witch Queen and they fumbled out quickly without any words.
Gorlen looked back down at Veranor with his hand frozen under her dress, and his gaze was at the closed door the two had exited the room from.
“You want to leave?” she asked.
“We may not want to do this,” he said. “We, may— maybe should focus on the task at hand.”
She shoved his hand back out to him, her strength made him rock back in his chair. “You are a son of a bitch, you know that? A beautiful woman comes and lets you put your hands anywhere you want on her, and all you’re probably thinking about is that rat Lilaci. You’d rather her be here for your pleasure than me. Well, you’d better get those thoughts out of your head. There won’t be skin on her bones left to touch soon. But I’ll be here, I’ll always be here.” She grabbed his wrist forcibly again and held it up to her neck, and leaned in, pressing her lips to his.
It was an awkward moment, as she kissed his unmoving lips. He sat still like a rock, and her like a hummingbird trying to suckle nectar from a flower. She grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up to the table and pushing the books to the side with a sweep of her hand, she laid him flat on his back.
“Gorlen, I—” he tried to say, but she was already untucking his shirt and lifted it up, exposing his stomach. “I’m not worthy of this, this gift— I . . .”
She leaned in and threw her neck to his lips. “Kiss it,” she said in a cold tone. He began to kiss it, although devoid of passion. “Kiss it!” She began to grow frustrated with the lack of enthusiasm from him. “You know, I could just make you do this. You probably wouldn’t enjoy it at all then. You’d just be a puppet, but I wouldn’t enjoy it any less.”
He hesitated for a moment in contemplation, but then began kissing her neck with more vigor. He slid one of her straps from her shoulder and kissed at the swell where her neck met her shoulder. She grinned.
Under the warm candlelight at the center of the library, the two were soon fully bare and moved together like a pair of serpents winding around each other. The howling winds blew outside the library walls as sweat glistened and poured off their two bodies as groans of ecstasy came from the god.
The winds continued their battering of the vulnerable city that long night. Sands found their way past door and windows lined with linens. There was never any escape from the sands in the Arr, they always found their way to where they wanted to go. That was the way of life of living in the desert— to find a way to a place rampant with fresh water, and safe from the reaches of biting, sharp sand— was nothing short of a miracle in these lands.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The storm’s force had faded with the rising sun, and its warm glow glided down onto the newly formed sandy deposits of the city. They sat heavily against walls and ran thick down alleys. Thousands were bustling through the city streets, many with shovels and linens ready to fill with the heavy sand. In the middle of the streets were dozens of carts strapped to the backs of Ioxi, ready to cart the sand from the storm back out into the desert.
From high above in the pyramid— watching— was Commander Veranor. His eyes were bloodshot and yearned for slumber, which he received none of the night prior. After his ‘encounter’ with the Witch Queen in the library, he took that one book back to his room, and read it cover to cover in its old language, which took the entirety of the night.
A knock came to the door then, and he visibly jumped from being startled out of his trance of watching the people in the warm sunlight below. He went over and opened the door inward, his voice sturdy and strong. “Yes,” he said to the young woman at the door.
She curtsied. “The queen wishes an audience.”
“Let me gather my things, and
draw a bath,” he said. “What time later?”
“Now,” she said. “You are to accompany me at this time.”
He scowled. “Let me get my boots,” he said in a rough voice. Afterward he followed the young woman, she was in a light blue dress with a white apron.
They wound around the pyramid, not leading in the direction of the main throne room of the palace, but towards the west wall, on a lower level than where her throne rested on the top floor. The girl reached out to a latch to the room Veranor knew as one of the dining areas, usually reserved for royal guests. The door was opened, and the brilliant light of the sun lit the room from wall to wall. Along the west wall was the clear glass the pyramid was known for and at the center of the room, seated, was Queen Lezeral Serinaas. Her long, wavy auburn hair flowed out of her golden crown and down her shoulders. Her expression was difficult to read, she almost seemed . . . Fatigued.
Behind her, in the corner of the room, standing by the glass, looking down at the busy city streets, was probably the last person he wanted to see at that time, Gorlen.
“Commander Veranor,” the queen said. A servant came in from the open doorway behind him and poured two glasses of fresh water at the table the queen sat at.
“My Queen,” he said with a low bow.
“Come, drink,” she said. Veranor walked over hesitantly, with his eyes lowered to the floor, then to the glass which he grabbed. He stepped back and took a sip of the cool water. “Gorlen wishes to speak with you.”
Veranor looked up at the Witch Queen in surprise. She continued to look down on the city and did not meet his eyes. “I’ve news,” she said.
“Oh,” Veranor said, holding the water at his side. His eyes held dark bags underneath, giving hints to his restless night to the queen. “What news? If you don’t mind my inquiry.”
“The one you failed to acquire,” Gorlen said, “she’s no longer alone. And I don’t speak of her ‘Order.’ No, another has entered into the fray. One we did not expect to meet again— an enemy that has slid under the cracks and hidden beneath our lands far too long.” She turned back around, and her piercing blue eyes stared into his. “A sword of white is wielded in the Arr once again.”
