by Kate Elliott
“I see,” said Anji’s mother. “You understand perfectly well that it is not an unreasonable demand. But let us imagine that my son is too proud and stubborn to see you relegated to the status and rank of concubine, even if that is what you are in the eyes of any person born of noble blood and to high rank. Such distinctions often mean a great deal to the common people. Let us say that for a merchant’s daughter, status as a concubine would be seen as lowering, shameful, even dishonorable. Would you therefore object to a position as his second wife, for certainly an emperor’s sister must be designated his chief wife? There is no shame or disgrace in standing as the second wife to a prince.”
Once she could have borne it in silence, let words wash over her and away. She had long ago determined to live life in her own way and on her own terms by holding a part of herself aside as a garden in which she could nurture a seedbed of personal, private happiness. In those days, she had been careful to hide her true feelings in order to never anger others, because if they were angry they might disturb the tranquil sanctuary she had so carefully constructed.
But now, it seemed, she no longer feared making other people angry. The girl she had been had passed through the Spirit Gate and become a woman whose voice she scarcely recognized as her lips opened and she spoke.
“You forget, verea, that in the Hundred Anji is not a prince. He is not an emperor’s son, or an emperor’s brother, or a var’s nephew. Such titles mean nothing here. He is a militia captain, a man who works for coin just like everyone else. He is no greater or lesser than I am. If I walk first in his heart, why should I then agree to step back and become second?”
“To save his life. And the life of your handsome son.”
Priya gasped. O’eki gave an inarticulate exclamation.
The ground lurched beneath Mai, or perhaps that was only her hammering heart and dizzied head as she stumbled to the cot and placed her body between the baby and his grandmother.
Who smiled, not unkindly. “Perhaps you now understand me. There is no abyss as fathomless as a mother’s fear for her child. There is no beast who will fight more fiercely than a mother defending her child. So understand me in this. Anjihosh’s son is as precious to me as Anjihosh himself. I am not the one you need fear in the matter of the boy.”
“Then why do you threaten Atani?”
“I do not threaten Atanihosh. I am endeavoring to make you understand that with my aid and cooperation you can ensure the baby’s survival.”
“If I relinquish my place as Anji’s wife.”
“If you give way, as is proper, to a woman whose rank and birth lie far above your own. It would be best for you to leave the household entirely.”
“Taking my son with me?”
The woman had the audacity to look startled. “Only Anjihosh and I can protect him!”
“Is this your argument? To abandon my son into the arms of a woman who speaks of his death?”
“Mistress,” said Priya warningly.
“I will never leave him with you!”
She expected anger in response, but in her fury and fear she had forgotten the way the Qin veiled their faces with a bland expression that concealed any and every emotion.
“Do not cross me, pretty girl, because you will discover I have survived far worse in the palace than you can possibly imagine. I offer you two choices: I pay you handsomely to depart, and you may walk free to establish yourself as you wish and where you wish as long as it is not beside my son. Or you accept a place in his household as second wife, accepting the primacy of the princess and my authority to rule over any disputes such as may arise within the household.”
“Mistress,” said Priya urgently.
“No,” said Mai.
Her breathing caught in her chest as she fought to expel the fury that rose like a haze. All she could feel was the pressure of the carpet’s dense weave pressing up against her bare soles, and the faintly oily taste of air flavored by flames that consumed the reservoirs of lamps.
Voices rose angrily outside. The curtain was swept aside, and Anji strode into the room.
“Hu! Hot in here.”
His voice pretended at evenness, but he was furious: his boots were still on, his gloves were still on. He never came into their intimate chamber dressed for riding; he had far better manners than that. He was tapping his riding whip against his thigh as though better that than a vicious slash across the face. . . .
“I received a message, Honored Mother, saying you had urgent trouble that warranted my immediate attention. Yet when I went up to the house, I was told to cool my heels while you were roused. Time passed as I waited with obedient patience. At length, I realized I had been outflanked. Now I am here.”
Mai wanted desperately to call him over, to flaunt him standing beside her, supporting her, protecting the baby, but she did not move or speak. To call so obviously for his aid in front of his mother would betray weakness, and that of all things she refused to show.
“I am ready to depart,” said his mother without the slightest hint of discomfort. “Yet if you will, might an attendant guide me to a private corner for I have some necessary business I must urgently complete before the walk back up to the house. If you will be so kind, Son.”
Besides Mai, there were only two other females in the chamber, Priya with her disapproving frown and Sheyshi in the corner.
“You,” said Anji’s mother, pointing at Sheyshi.
Priya said, “Mistress, I will go—”
“I am not useless!” cried Sheyshi indignantly. “This way, verea.”
“To a slave such as you,” snapped Anji’s mother, “I am addressed as ‘Most High.’ ”
“Sheyshi is not a slave,” said Mai.
But Sheyshi picked up a lamp and scuttled outside. Once both women were outside on the porch, Sheyshi shut the doors behind them.
Mai heard her speak in her clumsy way, “Here is the waste bucket, Most High.”
“Not here, you stupid girl! A place with some privacy!”
Off they clattered into the depths of the inner courtyard.
“Out,” said Anji to his mother’s slaves, and they retreated so quickly Mai would have laughed, if she could have laughed. Chief Tuvi came in, looking as disheveled as if he’d been sleeping. Anji marked Priya and O’eki. “Tomorrow I depart by eagle for Olossi. The ships with the oil of naya and the new cohort of Qin soldiers will follow. As for you, plum blossom, my heart, my own, you will go to Merciful Valley. It is the only place I can know you will be safe from the dagger, or from poison. These are the preferred methods of the women’s palace in Sirniaka. It’s like a sport for these women. They have nothing else to do.”
“She said that she would never harm Atani—”
“Of course my mother would never harm my son. You’ll take Miravia.”
“Keshad should go with O’eki back to Olossi to see to the business.”
“That’s fine. You only need your personal attendants. Chief Tuvi and your usual guards. Reeve Miyara and Siras—a few others—can fly in supplies. I’ll assign a specific group, and the chief will have standing orders to kill anyone else who attempts to land. You will see no one until I have returned.”
“But, Anji—”
“I can only fight one war at a time.”
“Will you marry the emperor’s sister?”
“You are my wife.”
“Are you only saying that because you’re angry at your mother?”
“No.”
Chief Tuvi snorted, raising his gaze to the ceiling.
Anji shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Wouldn’t it be prudent to seal a contract with your cousins?” Mai said. “To marry their sister?”
“I must fight this war in the north. And since I must fight, I must know you are safe. The rest can be discussed afterward.”
Footsteps stamped outside. The distinctive sound of a slap, hand meeting cheek, cracked. One of the doors was wrenched sideways to slam against the frame. Sheys
hi stood sniveling on the steps, a hand on her reddening cheek where the old bitch had struck her.
“What a stupid girl!” said Anji’s mother as she swept in. “What useless doors!” She did not look at Mai. “You will escort me to my dwelling place, Son.”
“I will let you make your own way within the considerable security of your impressive entourage to my wife’s house in which you are temporarily lodged. If you must entertain yourself, I suggest you set yourself to discovering the extent and competence of the spies set in this town by the Hieros who sits in authority over the temple of the Merciless One. Surely you can outwit an elderly priestess from a land as provincial as you must believe this place to be.”
He pushed the curtain aside with the riding whip and gestured. Head held high, his mother departed from the chamber; he followed her out.
Mai’s face was burning, as if the scorching heat of Anji’s tone had scalded her as well. It was better to move than to think. “Sheyshi, come inside. Here’s some water to wash your face. Was she quite rude to you?” She wrung out a linen cloth and offered it to Sheyshi, even dabbed her cheeks as she sniffled.
“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble, Mistress.”
“Do not cry, Sheyshi. There is kama juice in the kitchens.”
The curtain stirred. Anji had returned, this time without boots.
“Sheyshi,” said Priya. “Let’s go to the kitchens. Come along.”
The chamber cleared, leaving Mai with Anji.
He had the ability to stand still, not restless at all; his self-control was impressive and a bit disconcerting. Had he ever worshiped at Ushara’s temple? Somehow she could not see him relaxing in a garden that belonged to someone else. Probably she was just being naive.
“What are you thinking, Mai?” he asked in a low voice. “There is a piece of you that you always hold apart.”
She licked dry lips, thinking of his mother’s words.
Sheh! She would not let that woman’s poison do harm!
“Tomorrow you will ride to war because you must, and I will hide, because you say I must.”
“Mai—”
“I do not object to your concern. Atani and I will go, as you wish, to keep you easy in your heart so you can think only of the battle you must win.” She approached him, and it was odd to note how he reacted with each step bringing her closer: his breathing quickened, his body tensed, he began to cant toward her. But he let her come to him. “Because you must win this battle. So.”
She rested her palms against his chest and gazed into his eyes, which were measuring her, as always.
“Mai—”
She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him.
He might die. So might anyone die. No one could draw breath as they woke in the morning knowing for sure they would still be alive at day’s end.
You could only know you were alive now, in this moment.
40
USHARA’S TEMPLE HAD not even a proper entrance court, just a high wall of rocks. The outer gates were canvas, and a youth sat cross-legged on a rough approximation of a rock bench illuminated by a lamp hanging from a tripod.
“Haven’t seen you before,” the youth said to Keshad in the rude way kalos and hierodules often had, as if the goddess chose them for their impertinent speaking. “We don’t have a proper Heart Garden yet. Just so you know, the Hieros has come to detest you folk complaining about how things aren’t so very nice out here.”
“You’re grumpy this evening. Did I offend you somehow?”
The youth grinned. “The Hieros has only been here for one month. You can’t believe the things we’ve heard. Folk should be grateful we’ve been able to set up at all.”
“Why is that?”
“Eh, the captain didn’t want the the temple here at all when the verea was in residence. There was a rumor he’s afraid the mistress will come find some pleasure while he’s out fighting, but that can’t be true. What man would begrudge his wife a little sex if he’s off traveling all the time?”
“He’s an outlander. They have different customs.”
“Aui! Hard to believe. Anyway, the new Astafero council voted to establish a temple, so the Hieros in Olossi sent a kalos to stand as hieros.”
“Can I go in?”
“The devouring urge is eating you badly, isn’t it? Anyway, I know who you are.”
“How can you know who I am?”
The youth grinned maddeningly and waved him inside as several Qin soldiers strolled up. Kesh pushed past the canvas entrance to avoid speaking to them. An elderly woman sat on one of a chain of rocks set up as benches in a square of ground that would perhaps one day harbor a garden with flowering shrubs and troughs of blooming yellow-bells or stardrops. Torches bound to iron posts flared.
“Don’t you have pretty eyes?” she said wickedly. “If only I were younger.”
Instead of gates, they had hung canvas to either side, these painted with the proper colors although in such dim illumination it was impossible to distinguish gold from silver except by the pattern: a round disk to mark the gold and a crescent to mark the silver.
At the entrance, the Qin soldiers were laughing at something the obnoxious gatekeeper had said, as jovial as you please in that calm way they had of never finding offense. He suddenly recalled the chief who had offered to take the Sirniakin palace concubine as a wife rather than see her killed. Would he have made the woman a good husband? Would he, like Anji, have threatened to kill a young man who had no designs on his wife purely for the unfortunate accident of having been made an offer for that wife he had no intention of accepting?
“No one will bite you,” the elderly woman said with a laugh. “Unless that’s how you like it.”
He hurried to the men’s side and rang the bell. The Qin soldiers came into the Heart Garden, but the old woman engaged them in conversation and like all the Qin they had very polite manners and therefore listened and responded dutifully as Kesh shifted, wondering how the hells long it was going to take and what if Miravia was already here waiting for him?
Away in town, the sixth bell rang its pattern, closing the day.
A young man twitched the curtain aside and looked Kesh up and down. He grinned in a friendly way, whistled sharply, then beckoned. They had done their best with the dusty environs. There was a cistern and a bathing tub, and several screens set back in the shadows for more private ablutions. Where normally a garden would sprawl with winding paths and hidden glades and ornamented private alcoves leading through the grounds to buildings set up in the back for those who preferred more traditional comforts, they’d thrown up a maze of canvas hanging from ropes strung between posts. It had a certain rustic charm.
Four women strolled out to look him over, one with a very sexy smile who was too old for him, one with a playful grin who seemed too young, and a pair more or less his own age, one thin and one plump.
The kalos draped an arm companionably over the shoulders of the youngest. “Good eyes,” he said to the young one, who was perhaps seventeen, “but he won’t be interested in you, dearest. Nor in you, grandmother,” he added, with a grin at the older woman.
She said, sardonically, “Nor in you, peaches.”
“I’m here to meet someone,” interrupted Kesh.
They all laughed, but it was the kalos who replied. “You want to meet a lover, go find some dusty ravine for your assignation, like that idiot debt slave who got accused of stealing sheep when they were just trying to keep out of sight of her husband. The temple does not facilitate secret meetings.”
“But she said to meet me here . . .” He trailed off, hearing how ridiculous he sounded.
The plump one looked bored by his evident idiocy and wandered off to twitch aside the curtain and peer through to look at the Qin laughing in the Heart Garden at the elderly woman’s jokes.
“Which means she was telling you that she’s not interested.”
“But—”
“Aren’t we always sure, when we�
�re infatuated, that our interest is returned?” Was that pity in his gaze? Were these cursed people feeling sorry for him?
He grasped as at rice straw. “Maybe she doesn’t know the laws. She’s an outlander—not an outlander, precisely, a Silv—that is, she was but not now—” He stumbled to a halt, wondering if it was too late to save himself from utter humiliation.
Their expressions changed. Even the plump woman hurried back, having caught the end of this staggering speech.
“Oh!”
“Well!”
“You didn’t say you were talking about Miravia!”
The hells! They looked sidelong at each other, sharing smiles. The plump one brushed a finger over her rosy lips. The kalos waggled his eyebrows as he shared a meaningful glance with the thin one. The older woman flashed that startlingly sexy smile again.
“You know her?” demanded Kesh.
“She comes to worship just like anyone,” said the kalos appreciatively, “not that it’s any business of yours. And not that it changes the law.”
“It’s possible she doesn’t know,” said the plump one, as if it mattered to her to help Miravia in any way she could. “He might be the one she was talking about. Those beautiful eyes. Not that it makes any difference.”
“You’ll have to go, ver,” said the kalos sadly.
Kesh sure as the hells wasn’t going to walk out of here without seeing Miravia unless it happened she had deliberately sent him on a fireling chase—the kind where you could not hope to catch what you were after—and he was cursed sure that a woman who stared at him the way she had stared at him was not pretending.
“Here, now,” he said, the words flooding out as a scheme took shape in his mind. Zubaidit had nagged him months ago, and he had ignored her then. “I was sold into slavery at the age of twelve. My master never allowed me to serve my apprenticeship year even though it goes against the law to deny any youth that year. I want to serve as a kalos. Starting tonight.”
A bell rang at the entrance.
The kalos grabbed Kesh by the elbow. “The Qin won’t be wanting me. You and I are going to see the Hieros.” As the hierodules admitted the Qin soldiers, the kalos tugged Kesh back into the Heart Garden.
