by Tony Roberts
Argan thought for a moment. “Oh. So, even though it will actually do nothing, by doing that you show you are in control.”
“Indeed, Young Prince. A valuable lesson for any ruler. Be visible in any time of danger – show the people you are there, a high profile.”
“So – why am I here now? I am supposed to be having a lesson this morning with Kontas Bosua.”
“Because you are to help me with an important task. Metila has asked that you are present.” Thetos looked at Kerrin. “I’m sorry, young Kerrin, but this is a matter of provincial importance and only the Prince and I are to be present.”
Kerrin nodded and stood. “Then I shall go to the lesson. I shall see you later, sire?” he asked Argan.
“Yes, ‘Rin, I shall be with you later.”
Thetos took Argan to his room and pointed to the open door into Metila’s chamber. “In there, sire, Metila awaits us.” He shut the door to the corridor after telling the guards nobody was to enter, and led the apprehensive fourteen - almost fifteen – year old to the doorway of Metila’s chamber. “You have already experienced her powers, sire, haven’t you? So do not be surprised at what she is about to do.”
They entered the cluttered room, with its usual collection of herbs, plants, containers, beakers, glasses and dead creatures. At the far end was the bed that Metila had saved Argan’s life on. She was standing by it now, dressed in a long black cloak, her hair smoothed close to her skull with some unknown lotion, for it glistened as if it were wet. Her eyes were heavily made up in black and lines ran from her eyes and mouth across her cheeks. It made her look somewhat frightening.
“Why am I here?” Argan asked.
Thetos dragged a stool against the inner door after shutting it and sat, blocking the way. Metila held out a hand to Argan. “I shall speak my language, Thetos. You sit and watch.”
Thetos nodded and leaved against the door.
Metila bowed to Argan. “Lakhani, I have asked for you because you speak my tongue and what I have to explain to you needs no misunderstanding. My Kastanian is not complete as you know. I also have asked for you because you and I are linked. When I saved your life some of my essence passed into your body, which is why you can speak Bragalese.”
Argan looked alarmed but Metila smiled and put a long, polished black nail to his lips gently. “No, Lakhani, there is no cause for concern. It was a necessity if your life was to be saved. My mind touched yours and freed you from death. Since that time we have been linked, if only in a small way. It is this which will be of great use now. I am to free my spirit to seek these people who wish harm to you and Thetos there. So – I must impress upon you whatever you see or feel or hear, you must not change what I ask of you now.”
“I – I understand, Metila. I am scared, though.”
Metila nodded. “Magic does scare people which is why they seek to destroy it and people like me, Okloka. This magic is dangerous, but not to you. It is to me. If you let go I shall die. I am putting my life in your hands, Lakhani.”
“What?”
Metila eyed Thetos briefly. “He does not know. He would not allow this if he did. So, please, I ask you, do not let go of me, can you do that?”
“Yes, of course!”
Metila smiled and unfastened the clasp of her cloak. The garment fell to reveal her naked body – totally naked. Argan gaped. Metila raised an eyebrow. “Never seen a naked woman before, Lakhani?”
“Uhh – no!” His eyes roved over her lithe, slight form. He hastily looked away as he caught sight of her pubic region.
Metila turned so to present her back to him. “Now, Lakhani, do not resist. Feel relaxed with my body.”
“But – but…”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “You must be able to touch a woman without fear, Lakhani. Be at ease. Feel my body, go on.”
Argan looked at Thetos, red-faced, his eyes almost like wheels. Thetos, even though he hadn’t understood the dialogue, shrugged. Metila was the ultimate in unorthodoxy and he had long given up trying to work out how her mind worked. All he knew was she was hugely addictive to him and he’d do anything for her, a dangerous state of mind he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. Whatever she had said to Argan, he wouldn’t ask.
Metila took the prince’s hands and placed them on her side. “Feel, touch, run your hands over me.” She closed her eyes as he took his first hesitant touches, and when she pressed into his chest, felt him become a little more confident. “Good – see, your hands do not burn, you do not feel pain. What do you feel, Lakhani?”
“Uhh…. Good things, Metila.”
“As it should be. But beware – females are very dangerous. Treat them with respect – do not abuse them, or underestimate them. Yes?”
“I won’t – I promise.”
“I believe you. Now, run your hands along my arms, then take my wrists firmly and whatever happens do not release them, until I tell you to.”
Argan nodded, awed by the power of her voice. He took hold of her wrists and clamped his fingers round them. He felt Metila mould herself into the contours of his body, aware of the hardness down below where there hadn’t been one a short while before.
Metila smiled and looked at him. “Not a time or place for that, Lakhani, but you will one day with Amal. I will become outside myself, so keep hold of me – my life is in your hands now.”
Argan wasn’t sure what she meant. Thetos got up and picked up a container, with a small number of brown dried leaves in the bottom. Metila nodded and he poured some liquid into it that smelt odd to Argan. The container began to smoke and Thetos placed it on a stand just under her nose. He retreated to the stool and sat down once more. Metila looked round at Argan. “Do not breathe this smoke in – it would not be good for you.”
“What if it accidentally comes my way?” the prince asked, watching the lazy wisps rise.
“My hair – I have coated it in a substance that will help. Do not be afraid to breathe in my scent – you will enjoy it, but do not let go of my wrists whatever happens.”
Argan gulped and pressed his face into her slick-backed hair. It was plastered to her back and he inhaled. As she had promised, it was quite pleasant, a mixture of whatever it was coating her hair and her natural odours.
Metila leaned forward and breathed in the container smoke. Argan felt a shudder go through her and she stiffened. She pressed into him, her head tilting back, mouth open, eyes shut. The young prince concentrated on his fingers, keeping them firmly locked over the woman’s wrists. He was aware that Metila was gasping and shaking, and the motion was pressing and rubbing against his loins. He felt a rising excitement within him. He drew in a deep breath, full of Metila’s scent, and he gritted his teeth. What was all this happening to him?
Metila bent forward again and inhaled fully of the wispy smoke from the container. She stiffened again and leaned back into Argan. Her mind seemed to split and flow apart and she felt herself rise up out of her body. Part of her mind knew she was still there being held firmly by the struggling prince, but for the most part she was now floating above them, looking down. She swept out through the ceiling and into the bright Turslenkan day, swooping and diving, flowing into alleyways and through walls, looking, seeking, searching.
Argan held on fast, his every fibre straining to keep hold of the woman’s wrists. She was swaying in every direction, left, right, forward, and back. Forward was the hardest as she threatened to pull him forward too, and his feet shifted desperately. Just when he was on the point of falling she would push back into him and he had to hold her there as she pushed hard. Her hair covered his face and he could not shake himself away from it – whatever coated the follicles stuck to his skin. He could breathe, most of the time, and he actually quite enjoyed it when she was still for those moments, as if pausing.
Another alleyway and Metila plunged into it, sweeping past figures in a blur, looking, watching, sensing. Nothing.
The townsfolk went about their daily lives a
s usual, trading, buying, building, selling, waiting. Those who lived in the alleyways conducted themselves as they always had, not caring for the rule of law. Two men watched for victims to pass, eager to find a suitable victim to rob. Anyone foolish enough to walk past them alone was game. A breeze pushed past them and they looked up, puzzled, then at each other.
“You feel that?” one asked.
“Ah,” the other nodded. “A foul wind I’m a-thinkin’. Not’in good’ll cam of it.”
The other agreed, shivering. Whatever it had been, it was gone, but for a fleeting moment he felt as if something was looking into his very soul.
Metila crossed roads, swooped into houses, flew through rooms, taking in dozens of scenes in a heartbeat. Her chest began hurting and it was time to return. She turned around a wide corner and blazed through another housing estate, climbing through the roofs and heading for the governor’s residence. Her vision was beginning to blur. She had almost left it too late.
Metila sucked in a deep breath and shuddered mightily, falling into Argan. Her chest rose and fell and her eyes flickered open. “Thetos,” she gasped.
The governor sprang up and was with her in an instance.
She glanced briefly at Argan. “It is safe to release me, Lakhani.”
Argan complied and Thetos swooped her up in his arms and placed her on the bed. She was soaked in sweat and Argan wiped the damp patch on his tunic, grimacing. The odour of the woman coated him, smothered him. It didn’t displease him.
“Sire – the cloak,” Thetos pointed to the crumpled garment in the middle of the floor. Argan picked it up and passed it to the governor who covered his woman, stroking her hair, speaking softly to her. Argan looked on awkwardly; it was as if he were looking in on a scene he shouldn’t. He took a step sideways.
“Lakhani, stay,” Metila breathed, staring at him intensely. “Come, kneel.”
Argan did so, not really understanding anything. He was prince and this was a commoner, a foreign commoner, yet he was readily prepared to follow her wishes. He looked at her in wonder. The sweat had made the black liner to run, making her face a mottled pattern of black and her deep tanned flesh colouring. “Are you alright, Metila?”
She smiled briefly. “Thank you, yes. I tired.” She spoke Kastanian, for Thetos’ benefit. “I sleep soon. You good, hold on well. Thank you.”
Argan smiled, not sure what he should say, if there was anything he should, indeed, say. Her hand came out to him and he took it. Her fingers squeezed once, then she turned to look at Thetos and the way she did so made Argan’s heart swell. He hoped one day some woman would look at him the same way. It was so – beautiful.
“You rest, Metila,” Thetos said gruffly, “and tell me later what you saw.”
She nodded and sighed, slipping into sleep. Thetos rose and indicated to Argan to follow him out. In his day room the governor showed Argan a chair and sat in his own heavily. “Tell me, sire, what did you think of that?”
“Well, it was very interesting, Governor, and not something I will probably experience again.”
Thetos grunted and reached for a bottle. It was a thick green bottle with a hefty stopper and he hauled it off and poured himself a glass of an amber liquid. He looked up. “Not something for you, sire, it’s very strong stuff, and you’re not of the age to handle or appreciate this. You might be able to handle a lighter drink – that slim bottle over there on the shelf, with the stopper. Yes that one. Pull the stopper and pour yourself a quarter glass and top it up with water.”
Argan did so, noting his liquid was a light red. “Vinefruit?”
“Aye, Pelponian. Not the best but its reasonably local and cheap. Needs cutting with water, tastes like the inside of a carrion avian’s nest.”
Argan giggled, and followed Thetos in raising his glass. “To Metila,” he echoed Thetos’ toast.
He sipped it, as he’d been told to do many times. Getting used to alcohol meant caution. Taking in huge swallows was not wise. He may be fifteen in ten days’ time, but taking up a life of dedicated drinking now was not for him. The taste was sharp, but the water made it palatable. He smacked his lips.
Thetos pointed at the glass. “In time you’ll savour some pretty good vinefruit, and you’ll spit that rubbish out. But start with the shit and so you’ll appreciate the classy stuff.”
“I’ll remember that, Governor, when I’m in my palace full of Bragalese slave girls being waited on to my heart’s content.”
Thetos slapped his leg and roared in appreciation. “That’s what I like about you, young prince, you’ve got a damned great sense of humour, unlike some of these up-their-own-arses noblemen I am foisted with. Metila speaks highly of you too, and believe me, that’s a huge compliment. She normally detests Kastanians.”
“So why does she serve you, Governor, and look at you as if you are the best man she’s ever seen?”
Thetos grinned. “That’s love, sire. One day you’ll have your Sasia – sorry, Amal – look at you like that, and you’ll worship her like I worship that sensual, wicked woman in there.”
“How can you be sure, Governor? Amal is a friend, a servant.”
“Ah, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, and take it from me, when a Bragalese woman looks at any man like that, he’s in serious trouble. She’s not of the age yet, but when she does, by the gods she’ll have you every night. Mark my words.”
Argan shook his head slowly, trying to work it all out. “But – I’m betrothed to Velka Varaz – I’m to marry her!”
“And so you will, sire, and it’ll be a wonderful marriage.” Thetos sipped some more of his drink. It burned into his stomach, a wonderful feeling. “But once you experience the physical love of a Bragalese woman, and not one of their – contracts –“ he grimaced in distaste, “then you’ll know nothing will ever live up to that. I don’t know how you’ll resolve that thorny issue with the Lady Varaz but you’ll do it somehow. You won’t wish to be apart from Amal once you taste her love.”
“You make it sound like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had, Governor.”
Thetos nodded emphatically. “Being in love with a woman who equally loves you is so special, Prince Argan. When she looks at you that special way, when you can see it in her eyes, shining at you…” he shook his head in wonder. “Love is like nothing else. It’s the most wonderful feeling ever, and it can also be the most painful.”
“Painful?”
“Not having a woman you love, or having it taken away from you – it’s so hurtful you could cry. You probably will. Metila, now there’s a special woman, and you won’t likely find anyone ever like her. She can wrap me round her little finger, and may the gods help me but I’d kill for her.”
“Really? You would actually kill for Metila?”
Thetos shifted his position. His buttocks hurt if he sat too long in one position. “You felt that woman against you, and don’t tell me you didn’t like it. Tell me, what do you think of her?”
“Metila? Oh, um, nice. Very interesting.”
“No, no, no, no. I mean, sire, as a woman. From a male viewpoint. Don’t be afraid to tell me – I’m interested in what you, as a growing young man, actually thinks of her as a woman, not as a person.”
Argan put his glass down and thought deeply. He recalled how he had felt with her pressed against him. “Exciting. Pleasurable. Desirable? Yes, desirable.”
Thetos nodded. “And yet you’re an adolescent and not aware of just how pleasurable and exciting a woman can really be. But honestly, sire, if anyone threatened Metila, what would you do?”
“Stop them.” He said it immediately.
“And if they were going to kill her? You with a sword in your hand?”
Argan nodded slowly. “I would kill them. I would protect her, Governor.”
Thetos put his glass down, too. “Thank you. I needed to hear that from you. I care not for the emperor, oh I know, he’s the emperor and I will obey him, believe me. But he – had her and that I
cannot forget.”
“So why did it happen?” Argan burst out, throwing his arms wide. “It caused so much trouble!”
Thetos thumped his table hard. “She did it to secure my position here, to put me in great favour with him. She thought it was the best way to go about it – sometimes a Bragalese woman does not fully understand how other cultures work.”
“Oh. So she did it just for you?”
“Yes! That’s love, Prince Argan, that’s what someone will do to help their beloved. That’s why I would readily kill anyone who tries to hurt her. But I don’t care for your father or for Prince Jorqel. I don’t know him. I do, however, care for you. I like you. Yes, once you attain sixteen years you can order me about as you see fit. But the difference is I will readily obey you, and I know Metila approves of you, too. I would willingly follow you into battle.”
Argan regarded Thetos in surprise. “Governor, I would not wish to ‘order you about’, as you put it. I would ask you, perhaps…”
“Ah but you may be put into a position where you have no choice. I like you – and pledge my support for you should you have need of me.” He stood and pushed his good arm forward, hand outstretched.
Argan stood and grasped his forearm and felt Thetos’ do likewise. As two warriors, they held one another and exchanged knowing looks. “Governor, I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say.”
Thetos chuckled and broke the grip. “Let’s say we’ll accompany one another into battle if we corner this shit Slavis? You’ll need battle experience anyway.”
“Agreed – and Kerrin must come too.”
Thetos grunted. “Naturally. No good having a bodyguard who has no battle experience. Now, you’d be best away on your duties or I’ll have your tutors jumping up and down on my head.”
Argan left and went to his room. His tunic was damp and smelt overwhelmingly of Metila. He discarded it and pondered over what to wear in its place. He was still trying to make his mind up when Amal arrived. She was surprised to see him but was pleased nonetheless. Argan looked at her critically. Would he feel the same way towards her that Thetos did to Metila one day? How? “Amal,” he said, “come here.”
