Erland was almost incapable of words. His “apartment” was a six-room complex set off in the “wing” of the palace set aside for them, which itself was nearly as large as his father’s palace in Krondor. The Imperial palace was indeed a city unto itself. And the guest apartments were opulent beyond imagining. The stone walls had all been faced with marble, polished to a brilliance that reflected back torchlight like the sparkle of a thousand jewels. Rather than the Kingdom fashion of many small rooms, all the rooms in the apartment were large, but able to be partitioned by hanging curtains of varying opacity. Right now, the only curtains were to his right and left, and both were transparent gauze, allowing him to see that divans and chairs were arrayed in anticipation of his need for holding conferences. And at his left, a large terrace permitted a stunning view of the Overn Deep, the gigantic freshwater lake that was the heart of this Empire. The sleeping chamber lay just beyond a pair of doors in this, the audience chamber, where he could meet with his advisors if needed.
Erland signaled one of his two guards, detailed to act as servants, to open the large door. Before they could react, a young woman appeared at his side. “M’lord,” she said, clapping her hands loudly, once.
The doors swung open and Erland nodded absently as he stepped through to what was his sleeping chamber. The Prince halted at the sight that greeted him. Everywhere he glanced, he saw gold. It was used on the tables and divans, stools and chairs that were arrayed around the room, for whatever needs he might have while dressing, composing messages, or eating a solitary meal. High upon the wall, the marble ceased and was replaced by sandstone, upon which murals of bright color had been painted against the muted ocher of the sandstone. In the stylized Keshian fashion, they showed warriors, kings, and gods, many depicted with animal heads, as the Keshians gave aspects to the gods that differed markedly from how they were perceived in the Kingdom.
Erland stood silently taking in the splendor of the room. A giant bed dominated the chamber, surrounded on three sides by gauzy silk curtains, hanging from a ceiling twenty feet above his head. The bed was twice the size of his own large bed at home, which had seemed immense when he and Borric had returned from their service with Lord Highcastle, given the narrow cots of Highcastle’s barracks they had been used to sleeping on.
Thinking about Borric made Erland wistful for a moment, as he wished he could share his astonishment with his brother. For a countless time again since the attack, Erland could not admit to his brother’s death. Somehow it just didn’t feel within as if Borric was dead. He was out there somewhere, Erland was certain. Then the young woman who had entered with them clapped again, and suddenly the room was filled with activity.
The Prince’s guards stood in mute amazement at the seemingly endless parade of Keshian servants who filed through the suite, first for their quick efficiency in unpacking the Prince’s baggage and laying out formal clothing upon an armoire nearby, but mostly for the fact they were women, all beautiful and all clad in the same scanty fashion as the welcoming committee. The only difference was the lack of jewelry. The plain kilt was bound about the waist with a linen belt. Other than that, the women were naked.
Crossing to where the two guards stood, Erland said, “Go get something to eat. If I need you, I’ll send word.”
The two saluted and turned, obviously uncertain of where to go, but as if reading the Prince’s mind, a young woman said, “This way,” and led them off.
Another young woman, with eyes mahogany-brown, came to stand before Erland. “If it pleases m’lord, your bath is ready.” Erland noticed her belt was red, with a gold clasp, instead of the common white one, and assumed her to be the one in charge of this host of young women.
Feeling suddenly both overdressed in the motionless hot air in the palace, and dirty from two days’ ride, Erland nodded and followed the woman into the next chamber. There a pool at least thirty feet long awaited. At the far end a gold statue of some sort of water spirit held a vase pouring water into the pool. Erland glanced around, for at least five women waited for him in the pool, all without clothing.
Two others stepped to his sides, while the one who led him turned and began unfastening his tunic. “Er …” began Erland, reflexively stepping away.
“Is there something amiss, m’lord?” asked the young woman with the mahogany eyes. Erland was suddenly aware that her dark skin was several hues: a reddish warmth of suntan over the naturally dark olive-tinged duskiness. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and Erland noticed her very long neck.
Erland started to speak, then stopped, uncertain of what to say. Had Borric been with him, he was sure the two of them would both be splashing about in the pool, testing the limits of their prerogatives with the lovely servingwomen. But alone … he felt awkward. “What is your name?”
“Miya, m’lord.”
“Ah, Miya …” He glanced at all the lovely ladies waiting for him to make his requirements known. “In my land it is not the custom for so many servants to … so many are not needed.”
The young woman’s eyes searched his for an instant. Softly she answered, “If m’lord would indicate which servants he finds pleasing, I will send the rest away.” She hesitated a second, then added, “Or should you wish but one, I would be most honored to … care for your needs, m’lord.” The last was said with clear meaning.
Erland shook his head. “No, I mean …” He sighed in resignation. “Just get on with it.”
Deft hands stripped him of his clothing, and when he was nude he stepped quickly into the pool, feeling awkward and self-conscious. The water was hot, he was surprised to discover, when he descended the steps into the shallow pool. Feeling foolish, he sat upon the bottom step, the water coming to his chest. Then Miya unclasped her own belt and her small kilt fell to the floor. Unselfconsciously she entered the water and sat upon the step just behind Erland. Clapping once, another bath attendant signaled those outside of the pool to begin bringing oils, soaps, and unguents.
With gentle pressure on his shoulders, Miya drew him back until his head was resting upon her soft breasts. Then he felt her fingers working on his scalp as she rubbed scented oils into his hair. Two other servants were now at his side, rubbing his chest with soaps that smelled faintly of flowers. Another two then began to clean and trim his fingernails, while two more were busy kneading the tired muscles in his legs.
After the first moment of tension at being handled so intimately by seven strange women, Erland took a deep breath, willing himself to relax. This was not much different from having one of the servingmen scrub his back at home, he told himself. Then he glanced around at the dozen beautiful women standing on the side of the pool, and the seven in the water with him, and chuckled. Sure it was just like home.
“M’lord?” asked Miya.
Erland let out a long breath. “This takes some getting used to.”
The woman ceased washing his hair, rinsing his head with water from a golden bowl, then she began to knead the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Despite his self-consciousness at being in the pool with the nude servants, he found that the persistent massage was causing his eyelids to feel heavy. Smelling the lovely sun-touched fragrance of Miya’s damp skin along with the soft aromas of the oils, he closed his eyes and felt fatigue and worry begin to slip away.
He sighed deeply, and Miya spoke softly. “Does m’lord desire anything?”
Erland smiled for the first time since the bandits’ attack and said, “No, I think I could get used to this.”
“Then rest, my handsome young lord with the fire hair,” she whispered in his ear. “Rest and refresh yourself, for tonight She Who Is Kesh will receive you.”
Erland settled back against the soft body of the servant and let the warmth of the pool and the kneading fingers of the women, as they probed tense and tired muscles, overtake him. Soon he felt himself drifting off into a hazy, sensuous doze, and as he relaxed, he felt himself responding to the gentle caresses of the women. Through
lowered lashes he saw smiling faces looking at him with expectation, as two of the servants exchanged whispers and stifled a giggle. Yes, he thought, I could get used to this.
One of the servants shook his foot, as she whispered, “M’lord!”
Erland elbowed himself up to see what was occurring and blinked through sleepy eyes. Rousing himself fully, Erland said, “What?”
“The Lord James sends word he will be here within the half-hour, m’lord. He advises you to be ready for your presentation to the Empress. You must get dressed.”
Erland looked first right, then left, and found himself hemmed in on both sides by two motionless bodies; on his right, the sleeping Miya made soft breathing sounds, while on the left, another servant—the one with the startling green eyes, he remembered, but he couldn’t recall her name—watched him through half-closed eyelids. Slapping Miya playfully on her bare buttocks, he said, “Time to get ready, my darlings!”
Miya responded by coming fully awake and out of the huge bed in one fluid motion. She signaled by clapping her hands once and instantly a half dozen more slaves appeared with Erland’s wardrobe, cleaned and ready to wear. Erland jumped out of bed and motioned for them to wait and hurried into the room with the pool. Motioning the servants to stay out of his way, he walked down the three steps, dunked himself under, and rinsed off. To Miya, who had followed him, he remarked, “I was drenched. And I needed this.”
The woman smiled slightly. “You were … very active for a time, m’lord.”
Erland returned the slight smile. “Is it always so hot?”
The girl said, “This is the summer season, so it is like this. Fans are used to cool those who wish them. In the winter, it is really very cold at night and many furs are needed upon the beds to keep warm.”
Erland found that hard to imagine as he left the pool. Three women dried him quickly, and he returned to the bedchamber.
Being helped to get dressed turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. He kept trying to do things for himself and that interfered with the women attempting to fasten laces or buckle clasps. But he was fully dressed when Earl James was announced. Erland nodded permission for him to enter.
James appeared and said, “Well, you look better. Have a nice nap?”
Erland glanced about at the abundant female flesh on display and said, “Quite nice, actually.”
James laughed. “Gamina was not pleased to see so many beautiful young women in our suite, so they sent some handsome young men. She became very distressed when they offered to help her bathe.” He glanced about. “I would call them a wanton people, but to them this is normal. To them, we must appear … I don’t know how we must appear.”
Motioning Erland to come with him, the Earl led the young man into a large hallway, where Locklear and Gamina were speaking. As they entered the hall, Gamina mind-spoke to Erland: Erland, James has already marked two listening posts in our chambers. Be wary of what you say aloud.
I would be willing to bet that at least one of my “servants” is a Keshian intelligence officer, he thought back at her.
There was a silence as a Keshian court officer, in the same dress they had seen everywhere—the white kilt and sandals—came for them. But he also wore an ornate torque of gold and turquoise and carried a staff of office. “This way, Your Highness, m’lords, m’ lady.”
He led them down a long hall, where the entrances to vast chambers and apartments were alternated with open breezeways. Through the breezeways, fountains and small gardens would be illuminated by standards with torches placed atop them. As they passed many such gardens, James said, “You might as well get used to those naps, Highness. It’s the custom here. Court business in the morning, the Empress and her privy officers, an afternoon meal, nap from after lunch to evening, court business from sundown to about the ninth hour, then supper.”
Erland glanced at several servingwomen passing by, again wearing nothing but the small kilt. “I’ll manage,” he said.
A thought came from Gamina, not a vocalized word, but an attitude, and it was wholly disapproving.
Trying to imagine a playful tone, Erland thought back, Lady, please, I’m merely trying to accommodate customs foreign to ours. We must appear very self-conscious and anxious to them.
Gamina’s expression needed no accompanying thought. Erland tried hard not to laugh.
At the end of the hallway, they intersected and entered an even larger hallway. Columns of stone were all faced with marble and rose to a height of three stories overhead. The walls on both sides of the hallway were painted with stylized renderings of great events and mythical battles between gods and demons. Down the center of the hall they walked, their feet treading on a carpet of fabulous design and weave, impossibly long, yet without apparent flaw.
Every twenty feet or so, a Keshian guard stood at the ready. Erland noticed how little these men looked like the famous Dog Soldiers who manned the frontier with the Kingdom. These soldiers seemed to have been chosen for their appearance more than their experience, Erland thought. Each wore only the short kilt, though of different design, cut away in front so that the legs might move more freely. Each man wore a breechcloth of the same white linen as the kilt, and an ornate belt fashioned of many colors, closed in front by a silver clasp. Each soldier wore the plain cross-gartered sandals, as well. Upon their heads were helms of fascinating design: barbaric, primitive-looking. One wore a leopard skull atop his head, with the skin of the animal allowed to fall around his shoulders. A few others wore elk heads and bear heads in a similar fashion. Many wore hawk or eagle feathers attached to ivory rings set upon their heads, or helms fashioned from brightly colored parrot plumes, and a few high, conical helms made of reeds dyed bright colors, that looked far from functional for battle.
James spoke aloud, “A grand display, isn’t it?”
Erland nodded. Nothing he had seen so far in the upper city of Kesh spoke of anything less than excess. In contrast with what they had seen in the lower city, it was even more overwhelming. In even the most minor detail, richness and opulence was the order of the day. Where something base could suffice, it was replaced by something noble: gold in place of common iron, gems in place of glass, silk where cotton would be expected. And after passing through more chambers and halls, he knew the same held true for the servants. If a man was needed, he not only must be fit and able, he had to be handsome. If a woman were to be seen walking through the halls, even by chance, then she must be lovely and young—already Erland was convinced he had seen as many truly beautiful women in this one day as he had his entire life before. A few more days of this, thought Erland, and I’ll welcome the sight of a plain face.
Reaching a massive pair of doors, gold leafed over all, the officer who led them brought the metal butt of the staff down on the floor, announcing, “The Prince Erland, the Earl James, the Countess Gamina, and the Baron Locklear!”
The doors swung open wide, and through them Erland could see a vast hall, at least a hundred yards from where they stood to the opposite wall, and against that distant wall, a high dais rose, upon which sat a golden throne.
Out of the side of his mouth, Erland said, “You didn’t tell me it was a formal reception.”
James said, “It isn’t. This is a casual, intimate dinner.”
“I can hardly wait for formal court.” Taking a deep breath, Erland said, “Well, then, let us take a bite with Her Majesty.” Stepping forward, Prince Erland led his advisors into the hall of the Empress of Great Kesh.
Erland marched purposefully and directly down the center of the hall. The sound of bootheels cracking against the stone floor seemed alien—a loud and brash intrusion in this hall where the soft leather of sandals and slippers was the norm. Worse, no one in the hall now spoke; all eyes were upon the retinue from the Kingdom of the Isles. He focused his mind on the task at hand. As James had instructed, he had mourned Borric’s loss on the road, and while the hurt was still there, it was now a constant dull ache in th
e background of his daily existence rather than the searing hot pain it had been at first. He was Heir to the Throne of Isles and he must not for an instant forget his duty.
Upon the dais, before a golden throne, a pile of cushions had been placed. Lying upon this was an old woman. Erland tried to look directly at her, yet not stare, and found the task impossible. Here, reclining upon cushions before the mightiest throne in the known world, was the single most powerful ruler in the known world. And she was a tiny, withered woman of unremarkable appearance. Her costume was similar to the customary short white kilt, though hers was long, reaching past the knees. Also her belt was studded with magnificent gems that caught the torchlight and sent sparkles dancing upon the walls and ceiling. She wore a loose vest of white fabric, clasped in front by a golden brooch set with a stunning pigeon’s-blood ruby. Upon her head rested a diadem of gold, set with sapphires and rubies equal to any the Prince had ever seen before. The ransom of a nation rested upon the body of this old woman.
Her dusky skin couldn’t hide the pallor of age. And her movements were those of a woman ten years more than her seventy-five, but it was her eyes that made Erland sense greatness, for they still had fire.
Dark eyes, with lights as brilliant as those in the sapphires and rubies upon her brow dancing in them, regarded the Prince as he walked along the aisle between the diners who shared the evening with the Empress. Around the base of the dais a dozen low tables had been placed in a semicircle, and around each round table, reclining upon cushions, were those whom the Empress deemed worthy of such honor.
Erland came to stand before the Empress and bowed his head, no more than he would do to his own uncle, the King. James, Gamina, and Locklear bent their knee, as they had been instructed by the protocol officer, waiting the signal to rise.
“How fares our young Prince of the Isles?”
The woman’s voice was lightning cutting through a languid summer’s afternoon, and Erland almost jumped at the tone of it. That simple question contained nuances and meanings beyond the young man’s ability to articulate. Overcoming an unexpected attack of panic, Erland forced himself to answer as calmly as possible, “I am well, Your Majesty; my uncle, the King of the Isles, sends his wishes for your continued good health and well-being.”
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