The Bastard’s Pearl

by Connie Bailey

  “The Gate?” Moksha blurted out.

  “Yes, the Gate,” Chanesh said impatiently and paused to catch his breath. “I saw a vision of the Threshold of Worlds. I saw Him reach across the barrier, and I saw the one who will be the channel. He is just as the Ophidian Prophecies describe.”

  “I haven’t read them, Reverend Lord.”

  “Of course you haven’t. You’re an acolyte.”

  “What does he look like, Reverend Lord, so that I may record it?” Moksha asked with quill poised.

  “He is young, his skin as pale as a statue carved from ivory, and his hair is white.” Chanesh paused. “And he is a daaksi, of course.”

  Moksha bit his lip. He was curious but afraid of the high priest. Reminding himself he needed all the facts to make a faithful record, he worked up his nerve. “Reverend Lord?”

  “Yes?” Chanesh looked over at the acolyte and noted the anxious look in the lad’s eyes. “If you need the privy, go use it. If you have something to say, out with it.”

  “Why does the Temple need daaksim?”

  Tongue loosened by the herbs in the wine, Chanesh answered candidly. “Because the sacrifice of an ordinary person wouldn’t be enough to call a demon.”

  Once again, Moksha hid his shock. He’d heard rumors that Taankh’s Children were being summoned again after two hundred years under ban, but he hadn’t believed them. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “To call up a minion of Taankh, what must you do first?”

  “I’m an acolyte, Reverend Lord. I haven’t read the—”

  “First you need a strong body to act as your Gate. The gate will need stamina to stay alive for the entire ritual. If the Gate dies before the ritual ends, the demon cannot cross over the Threshold. There must be a certain amount of suffering to attract such a creature and lure it to the Threshold. The longer the sacrifice suffers, the more powerful the demon that responds. A daaksi’s connection with the Lost Goddess, curse Her name, gives them the power to heal quickly. A daaksi can be tortured almost forever.”

  Moksha shuddered. “Would you like more to drink?” he asked.

  “Yes, pour me another cup. And put that parchment in the drawer. No need for anyone to see that until I decide how to present the news.”

  “Will it help our cause, Reverend Lord?” the boy asked as he filled the high priest’s cup.

  “When Taankh crosses the Threshold, there will be none who can stand against him. The world will be His… and ours. Does that answer your question?”

  “Aye, Reverend Lord. That will make High King Kezlath happy.”

  “I daresay it will. Those who shunned our king as a pretender and put the crown of high king on the head of Djulyan of the Misty Vales will soon bow to Kezlath of Muergath.” Chanesh lay back on his pillow. “Go, boy, I need to think.”

  After the acolyte left, Chanesh let his mind drift as he pondered the implications of his dream. In the vision, he had looked down from above as a green-robed man turned his back on a new-made daaksi. He could feel the tendrils of fate that uncoiled around the pale figure of the Gate. And he could sense the boiling cauldron of rage that simmered under the daaksi’s icy exterior.

  His vision told him many things, but the knowledge that struck him hardest was that someone knew how to create a daaksi outside the Shrine at Djenaes. Even in the Shrine, it was almost unheard of for the ritual to be performed these days. Chanesh suspected that the priests couldn’t produce daaksim any longer and concentrated on the healing arts. It was certain that they’d turned down every extravagant offer from the Servants of Taankh. Perhaps Taankh’s old adversary Anaali had turned Her back on this world completely.

  Chanesh grew ever more drowsy until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. As he fell asleep, his last thought was that the Temple could make good use of a man who could create daaksim.

  A DRAFT slave carried Sheyn to Harkot’s compound and left him in the hands of Harkot’s slavemaster. Slavemaster Raun tied the unconscious young man’s wrists and ankles to rings on the corner posts of a cot designed for such a purpose. The cords he used were woven silk, strong but less abrasive to valuable skin than chains or leather. He was making a visual inspection of his new charge’s physical attributes when Harkot arrived.

  “He still sleeps,” Harkot said, his voice sharp with disappointment.

  “Give me a moment, master.” Raun unstoppered a small bottle and held it under Sheyn’s nose. “This herb never fails no matter what they’ve been dosed with.”

  Harkot smiled as Sheyn stirred. Anticipation fluttered in Harkot’s belly as Sheyn opened his eyes. Never had Harkot beheld anything so exquisite that he considered keeping it for himself, but this boy tempted him. Harkot shook his head; this foreigner was worth too much to keep as a personal indulgence, and Harkot preferred women anyway. Why had he even entertained the notion? Harkot turned away from the daaksi.

  “Treat him carefully, Raun,” Harkot said. “He’s not like the others. He’s special.”

  “As you command.” Raun bowed, puzzled that Harkot wasn’t staying for the first training session. The master’s policy was to take each slave once, and Raun had never questioned the practice. The slaves belonged to Harkot to do with as he wished. Raun would have found it odd if Harkot hadn’t taken advantage of the endless supply of young flesh.

  Raun’s thoughts were disturbed when Sheyn lifted his head. “Easy there, beauty,” Raun said.

  Sheyn tried to sit up and found he was bound to a bed. “Where am I?” he asked and was horrified by the croaking sound of his voice.

  “You are in the slave quarters of Master Harkot.”

  “Slave quarters? Let me go at once!”

  “Slaves don’t give orders,” Raun said. “That’s your first lesson.”

  “Obviously, you’ve no idea who I am. My parents are very powerful and wealthy. If you let me go now, you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t—”

  Sheyn’s words were cut off when Raun’s hand covered his mouth.

  “Listen to me, Your Highness. You’re a slave now. No one knows where you are, and your Mam and Pap can’t help you. I’m Raun and I’m here to break you in. If you’re wise, you’ll do as you’re told and avoid a lot of pain.”

  Sheyn glared at the slavemaster.

  “All right, then,” Raun said as he reached for a leather strap. “We’ll do it your way.”

  HARKOT VISITED the slave quarters the next day right after his morning meal. The bright-haired daaksi was bound as he’d expected, but he was surprised to see the young man muzzled. “Is the gag necessary?” Harkot asked.

  Raun held up a bandaged finger. “He nearly bit it off,” he said. “And he won’t be silent.”

  “What sorts of things does he say?”

  “Threats mostly. He says he’s from an important family that will pay to have him back. I tell him he’s worth more as a pleasure slave, but he won’t listen. Stubborn as stone.”

  “He’s strong-willed, eh?”

  Raun nodded. “Granite between the ears. Fights every step of the way. I pity his new master.”

  Harkot met Sheyn’s gaze. “Look how he glares,” he said. “His eyes are so dark, so… deep.” Harkot’s voice slowed as a smile spread over his face. “Dawnglories!” He took a deep breath through his nose. “They smell so sweet.”

  “Master?”

  Harkot turned toward the sound of Raun’s voice. He blinked and focused on the slavemaster. “What a strange feeling,” he said, glancing at Sheyn. “It was as though I was sixteen again and waiting under the dawnglory vines to meet my darling Tareza. I felt young and eager to see what the next moment would bring.” Harkot stopped speaking and cleared his throat.

  “May I speak freely, master?” Raun asked.

  Harkot nodded.

  “Forget about training this slave. I could break him, but he’d be too broken for use. Send him off to Sumadin and collect your payment. That Eastron king is going to pass him off on someone else, so no
harm done.”

  “Are you getting lazy?” Harkot teased.

  “I’m getting old, and I tell you that slave is not worth the trouble. He’s a disaster in the making.”

  “Very well, then. Prepare him for travel and I’ll send a message to the Sumadi court. I’ll be going now.”

  “Will you be visiting the slave quarters later?”

  “What?” Harkot turned from the door.

  “Forgive my boldness, but I thought you might enjoy a bit of time alone with this one before he leaves. I’ll make sure he’s drugged and tied down good and tight.”

  Harkot shook his head. “No. I think you’re right about this one, and besides, that scowl of his would wilt my sprout.”

  “I’ll say good-bye, then, master.”

  “One moment. Which handler are you sending with the daaksi?”

  “I’ll be doing that duty. I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I get too old.”

  “A good journey to you, then.” Hartok took a pouch from his belt. “Draw funds from my quartermaster and take this gold for yourself.”

  “Thank you, master.” Raun bowed. “Until my return,” he said as he left.

  Chapter 5

  SHEYN WOKE and peered into the gloom. He sat up and banged his head. After a moment, he realized he was in an enclosed sedan chair and that it was moving. A knocking against the side made him jump.

  “Are you all right in there?” Raun called out from the back.

  “Let me out!” Sheyn shouted.

  “No. But if you stay quiet, I’ll open the panels.”

  After several moments of silence, Raun bade the draft slaves halt. While the burly slaves balanced the sedan chair on their shoulders, he unhooked the wooden panels and removed them from the screened openings. After placing the panels in a rack under the conveyance, Raun gave the order to walk on. Once they were over the mountains, Harkot’s emissary knew an inn where they could hire a wagon, but for now, walking was the only way to follow this narrow, rocky path.

  “It’s cold,” Sheyn said.

  “Yes. We’re high in the mountains.”

  “I’m freezing.”

  “You have furs in there. Use them.”

  Sheyn picked up a cape made of supple pelts and put it around his shoulders. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the court of the King of Sumadin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he bought you from my master.”

  “A king you say?” This sounded promising. Surely, one prince would recognize another and Sheyn would be set free.

  “That’s what I said. Sumadin is the westernmost nation of Kandaar.”

  “Yes, I know. And the easternmost is Weijan. The ones in the middle are debated, but the one along the—”

  “Quiet! Unless you want another dose.”

  Sheyn sat back and brooded. The limited view showed him nothing but snow, rocks, and more snow. He huddled in the fur blankets and tried to stay warm until Raun called a halt to give the slaves a rest. Sheyn was allowed out of the box to relieve himself and promptly ran. After he was caught, Raun drugged him again.

  SUMADIN’S KING was not in his palace when Raun delivered Sheyn, but instructions had been left with the master of the royal slave quarters. Harkot’s emissary left messages for the king and received messages for Harkot in return. The small caravan returned to Harkot laden with gifts, and Sheyn was carried to King Yevdjen’s hunting lodge in the lowland forest. The only bright spot for Sheyn was the warmer temperature.

  Yevdjen was enjoying one of his jaunts pretending he was a warrior on a hunting trip with his best-loved comrade. Aside from Lord Ognyan, Yevdjen’s chief general and royal champion, the only other occupants of the lodge were a few servants and Yevdjen’s daaksi, Luks. They did a bit of hunting early in the mornings but spent the greater part of their days lounging on the breezy porch while cat-footed servants kept their plates and cups filled.

  Ognyan watched over the rim of his carved, amber goblet as the lithe daaksi leaned against the king and offered his ripe, red mouth for a kiss. Rank envy rose in the general, threatening to choke him. Luks, whose name meant velvet, was physical perfection. His limbs were long and graceful with well-formed muscles covered in smooth skin that glowed like a sun-warmed peach. He had eyes like a deer, large and soft, and his dark, silky curls had a warm touch of red. He also had a sweet and compliant nature that drew Ognyan like a staked lamb draws the hungry wolf. But of course, the daaksi belonged to Ognyan’s king and closest friend, and by law, Ognyan would have to be a king to claim such a treasure.

  Yevdjen noticed his warlord’s envious glance and chuckled. “You look like a bear with a bee-stung snout who didn’t get any honey.”

  “The honey is all reserved for you.”

  Yevdjen grinned. “What shall we do about this grumpy man?” he asked Luks.

  Luks didn’t look at Ognyan. The burly warlord felt like a thundercloud that could wreak devastation at any given moment. It made Luks as nervous as a one-eyed cat to be in the same room with the massively muscled, bushy-bearded mountain of a man. Nor did the daaksi answer the king’s question; he knew it was rhetorical. His master was not the sort to share his playthings, so Luks had no fears on that score, though it sometimes made him shiver to imagine being forced to serve Ognyan.

  Yevdjen chuckled again. “While you were tramping about frightening the game this morning, I received a delivery. Would you like to see my gift?”

  “A distraction is always welcome. Where is it?”

  “I can have it brought here.”

  “Then I’m guessing it’s not a horse.”

  Yevdjen rose from the divan and pulled Luks to his feet. “Come,” he said to Ognyan. “Come and see this jewel in a proper setting.”

  Curious, Ognyan followed his liege from the open-air sitting room into the rambling stone-and-timber lodge. One of the four honor guards on staff bowed as Yevdjen stopped in front of a door in the west wing. The guard opened the door, and the king and the warlord walked through into the royal sleeping quarters. Ognyan stopped in his tracks and stared over Yevdjen’s shoulder.

  Luks hid his shock when he saw the occupant of the royal bed. How had Yevdjen managed this without his knowing anything about it? Why hadn’t Yevdjen asked for his daaksi’s help in this matter? And why did Yevdjen need another daaksi?

  “Well? What do you think?” Yevdjen said.

  Ognyan cleared his throat. The young man tethered to the bed with chains of gilded silver was unlike anyone the warlord had ever seen. To someone else, this pale beauty would be a prize beyond price, but Ognyan didn’t like things that were different. To him, the slave was colorless, except for his eyes, which were a cold, fathomless, unwelcoming black. The pleasure slave looked as warm as snow, and that beak of a nose was—

  “My gift doesn’t please you?” the king prompted.

  “I don’t know what to say. It’s too great a gift.”

  Yevdjen slapped Ognyan on the back. “Not too great a gift for the man who saved my son’s life.”

  “It was battle. I’d have done the same for any Sumadi soldier.”

  “But somehow, you always manage to stay at Djenosh’s side.”

  “I don’t tell you how to rule your kingdom, so don’t tell me how to fight a battle.”

  “You have a bargain.” Yevdjen gestured toward the bed. “And you have your own daaksi. I’ve seen the way you look at Velvet, and I see no reason you should not have what you so greatly desire. I’ve been searching for over a year, but finally, I can present you with a proper reward.”

  Ognyan bowed to his king. “It’s too much, but I thank you.”

  “Would you like to be alone with him?”

  Ognyan shrugged. “As you wish. I’ve topped both lads and wenches in your presence.”

  “Sometimes side by side.” Yevdjen shook his head. “Remember when we were the prince’s age? Battle today is not the same as it was then.”

  “That�
�s the sad truth. When we were pups, we took what we wanted and held it by the strength of our arms. These days, there’s more apt to be a battle of words than swords between two clans.”

  “I thank Father Suma and all the other Gods that I was born Sumadi.”

  Ognyan knocked his fist against Yevdjen’s before he walked across the room. He looked down at Sheyn, running his eyes over the contours of smooth flesh draped in a red robe as light as a whisper. “He’s not soft,” he said approvingly. “Why is he gagged?”

  “He bites.”

  “Does he now?” Ognyan showed Sheyn his teeth in a carnivorous grin. “That’s a bad habit we’ll have to break him of.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then.” Yevdjen clapped Ognyan on the shoulder. Putting an arm around Luks’s lithe waist, the king left the room.

  Sheyn stared apprehensively at Ognyan. This man could not possibly be the king the slavemaster had spoken of. This man was clearly a brute, probably a brigand who robbed travelers. From what Sheyn had heard when he’d woken in this bed, he had been given to this barbarian as a reward. How could this be happening to a scion of the House of Merisolle?

  “Do I see fear in those black eyes?” Ognyan said as he leaned over the bed.

  Sheyn composed his face into the expressionless mask favored by his fencing instructor. His features gave away no clue as to what he was thinking and gave no advantage to his enemy. And this brute was his enemy, of that Sheyn had no doubt. This barbarian meant him nothing but harm. There was barely repressed violence in every line of the man’s body and in the pitch of his voice. He awaited the slightest spark to flare into a storm of destruction.

  For a moment, Sheyn was back behind the tapestry, crushed against the wall, frozen in terror and pain, and then abruptly, he snapped out of the trance. His mind had seized on a few remarkable facts. It had struck him that these savages weren’t speaking his language as he’d supposed. Somehow, he understood theirs. And not only could he understand and speak their tongue, he knew what they were feeling. It was a disorienting sensation, and Sheyn’s curiosity at that moment outweighed his fear.